A Toast and a Sippy Cup

Went to dinner last night.  David, me, Daughters Elder and Younger, that is, along with my mom and brother.  We wanted to do something to remember David’s dad, who passed away two years ago at the age of way-too-young.  In my family, remembering means eating, so eating we did (quite honestly, it also involves drinking–a toast, as it were–but not nearly as much as the eating). I kind of have to chuckle at how we’re still adamant about trying to–at least occasionally–combine our old, young-people-about-the-town personae with our present family.  Like last night, for instance, we went to a Belgian restaurant because David’s dad was of French descent, and Belgium was about as close as we could get.  We were surrounded by tables filled with couples, girlfriends, work buddies–all adults–and, of course, drawing attention with our two small–albeit awesomely well-behaved–girls.  David and I barely exchanged two words with each other, what with all the cutting of food, ordering of milk, wiping of spills.  But, by golly, we did it.  Just like…

Hypothermia as Bonding Time

It’s with a small amount of motivation and a big ol’ dose of sheer guilt that I drag myself and the mighty Quinn to her swim class every week.  It’s painful (for me, not Quinn, of course.  What kind of mother do you think I am?).  All the swimsuit-ing and flip-flopping and toweling just to splash around for 30 minutes in water with a temperature I’d imagine is comparable to the insides of the ice cubes in our home freezer.  In each class, we do the Hokey Pokey.  We pretend to drop the babies off the ledges into the water (what does Quinn think the whole time I’m doing that, by the way?  Whee!  I get to play in the bubbles! or Holy crap, what’s my mother trying to do to me?!).  We walk up and down the length of the pool a few times while our babies chew away at mildew-filled rubber duckies.  And then we turn ourselves around. Now, I realize that there are better swim lessons out there.  But the lassie’s only 10 months old, you know.  And really, the only…

Something to Love

Someone new has taken up permanent–however temporary, really–residence in our home. He follows us from room to room. He sits silently in a chair at the dinner table while we eat. He is fawned over, caressed, talked about incessantly, tucked into bed at night. And quite honestly, I’m starting to get a little irritated with him. Reader, meet Blanket: Nope, it’s not Michael Jackson’s son. I know, I’m disappointed, too, because that would make for such a better story. Our Blanket (capitalized as a proper noun to give him his due) is the softest, sweetest rectangle of synthetic pastel fabric I’ve ever touched. Our kind retired neighbors (they travel in a group, and we call them the “ladies.” Not of the night, no. That’s gross. Just “ladies.”) gave it to Saoirse when she was born, and after it spent the better part of two years in a drawer, I resurrected it when Quinn was born because it’s just the best. blanket. ever (or have I mentioned that already?). Saoirse never paid any mind to it, though: I tucked…