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Browsing Tag: embarrassment

Long Eyes: On Seeing the Big Picture (and Not Embarrassing the Kids)

It’s Thursday, and the weather has finally cooled enough here that you can walk outside without the humidity slobbering all over you like a drunk date. David drove the girls to school this morning, so Cian and I took the dog for a walk around the neighborhood before I got ready for work (more on that in another post–I’m still writing from home, but my approach to it has changed). As we rounded the block, Cian was looking for our house–he really wanted to know what the back of it looked like from down the hill. Finally, he spotted it: “There it is! That’s our house, right?” Now, I’ve needed glasses since I was five. “You can see that far?” I asked, totally impressed–and maybe a little jealous–by this kid of mine with perfect vision.”Yup!” he said. He was skipping. “I have long eyes.” Long eyes. Oh, to have long eyes. For the past few months, whenever I’ve sat down to write something here, I’ve stalled. I write half-finished drafts…

Because They’re Gonna Do It to Their Kids, Too

If there’s one thing to be said for having children–and I know, there are more than just one, even on the bad days–it’s that small children with your DNA are an instant captive audience for any sort of impromptu one-(wo)man concerts you want to hold. Why, you ask? BECAUSE THEY LIVE WITH YOU. And they’re too young to drive away. They are stuck with you, while you’re cooking dinner and dancing around the living room and driving them to and from school each day. So, when a good song comes on the radio in the car? When that CD you forgot you had in the stereo clicks on? When a song gets stuck in our head and the only way to get it out is to get it OUT? Sing it, sister. Because who cares if the girls beg you to stop please it’s hurting their ears, they’re the reason you’re driving to gymnastics class at 6 p.m. on a freezing cold winter’s evening, anyway. It is your DUE. I regularly employ this right myself, by the…

There’s Cole Slaw in My Bra

I texted my mom this morning, just after a very early trip to the grocery store: “I have cabbage in my bra,” I wrote. Two seconds later, my Irish mother responded: “Now all you need is the corned beef!” She’s a funny one, isn’t she, my mom? She’s also the same one who saw me recently and stopped in her tracks at the sight of my, um, well, chest.  “Oh, my, Leah,” she said, looking vaguely horrified. “You’re looking rather…buxom.” Buxom, indeed. Yeah, she about hit that hideously engorged, painful nail right smack on its miserable head. See, I’ve recently stumbled upon the horrible truth that sometimes weaning a baby from the boob juice is not an easy, simple process, as it was with SK. Nosirree. Sometimes–and whhhyyy did no one tell me this?!–you can end up afterward with biddies that are so inflated you could downright swear–nay, hope–that they’ll burst from all the pressure. It ain’t pretty. David was so horrified by the sight of them he…