At Seven, A Name That Fits

She turned seven a couple of weeks ago, our Mighty, and I’ve been thinking about what I’d say about her ever since. Her interests haven’t changed all that much since last year. She still loves butterflies, and horses, and riding her bike. There’s some stuff that’s new: she started playing soccer this spring and was awesome to watch. She learned how to really read this year, and you know as well as I do there’s no better sight than seeing your own child curled up in a chair with a book. She isn’t as afraid anymore, and that’s the thing, I think. That’s what I’ve been thinking about. Here’s what I find funny: Quinlan said earlier this year that she didn’t like her name, which isn’t funny at all, really, especially when you know that I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying that if she’d just stuck with Quinn like we’d wanted to call her, maybe she wouldn’t be complaining. Don’t worry. I…

It’s Summer Break. Let’s Dive In, Shall We?

It’s halfway through the first week of summer break. We’ve gone hiking (during which I was entirely convinced a tick had found its way into my hair, only to discover that one actually landed on David’s shorts. Who’s paranoid now, right?), and to the pool (for a freezing two hours, which ended in two children shivering so hard their teeth chattered even though it was perfectly warm enough to be swimming, they swear). They’ve had shaved ice for dinner, and played in the sprinkler, and eaten dinner al fresco on the deck while rain suddenly sprinkled down. We’ve had one child with a 103-degree fever (yes, it was unrelated to the frigid swimming. Why do you ask?), and washed beach towels that are most definitely the neighbors’ and not ours. We’ve gone to Hersheypark and then to Troegs. I’ve broken up approximately 35 fights (a day) and ignored as many others. I have not yet cleaned out the girls’ backpacks, but Quinlan just did the job for me, and now the kitchen table is piled high with an assortment of broken…

Don’t Ask Me If I Shouted “Opa!”

I set the kitchen on fire two nights ago. David was in Atlanta for work, and the kids and I had stopped off at the grocery store after school to pick up some fresh food to cook for dinner. It’d been a week of scraping together leftovers and take-out, so I was actually excited to get back to a routine. I’d found a recipe for zucchini noodles in an avocado pesto sauce (Don’t laugh. I like that kind of stuff, okay? STOP LAUGHING), and picked up some burgers to make for the kids, because I’m not a monster who only feeds my kids zoodles.  It was seriously the perfect afternoon. The kids played outside (Quinlan just learned how to ride a bike, which means that she pulled her old, too-small bike out of the garage, got on it, and started pedaling–because that’s just how the Mighty rolls) while I put the groceries away and started dinner. They’d gotten their homework finished, and we had a wide-open evening ahead of us, and I’d promised them a cozy dinner and then some time…