this is a page for

Browsing Tag: full-time mom

I Like the Sound of That

YOU GUYS. As I write this, Cian is sitting on the puppy, the puppy is drooling on the carpet, and the carpet has grooves clawed into it by the puppy’s last crazywackyhyper sprint around the house. (Wait. Did I tell you we got a dog? How did I leave that out?). I am in my pajamas, and it’s almost lunchtime. (Pray for the UPS driver who might come to the door and see THIS unholy mess when I answer it). I am resenting the crap out of my unsuspecting husband because he got to get a haircut this morning during work hours because he knew–could assume, even–that childcare was taken care of because, duh, I’m here. Because being here is my job. Which is really awesome all days but makes me want to poke out my brains on some.  (Yikes. If I didn’t like it so much–the staying-home part, not the brain-poking part–what I just wrote would sound really depressing. I’m not depressed. But I would like to take a shower) I spent all morning yesterday doing laundry and tidying…

And Yet I’ve Never Been Diagnosed With Anxiety

The night before last, Quinlan, still recovering from allergies or a cold or something, appeared beside our bed (always my side) and said she could’t sleep because she’d had a bad dream. So she spent the night (again) with us (on my side. Of course). It’s become a pattern that, frankly, I’m too tired to break. Judge not unless you’ve heard a weeping child say that the shadows in her room give her nightmares. Last night, Quinlan slept through the night, in her own bed (well, not her own bed. She was in the bottom bunk in Saoirse’s room. Because this child has some issues with being alone that we should probably work on, if we weren’t so tired to do so). Cian, though, was up at 3:17, fussing because of a wet diaper and a chilly room. David went in to get him. Fastest one out of bed wins. Or loses. Whichever. My alarm went off at 5:30. I was going to get up and work on Book #2 (a new project is finally, finally, starting to bloom), but when your eyelids don…

A Minute in the Life

It’s 4:51 p.m. My oldest daughter is screaming at her sister to clean up the playroom because I told them I was throwing out whatever hasn’t been put away.  That includes the cute little chairs for their table that have somehow ended up WWE-style across the room. I won’t do it, but you won’t tell them that. The second-born is declaring that she’s tired, and from what I hear, has lay down in the middle of the floor and is sucking her thumb.  She ain’t budging. There was a loud smack, and now they’re both crying.  Apparently somebody did budge. Maybe I will be throwing some stuff away. Cian is beside me, chewing on a Motor Trend insert, whining because he pooped his pants during his nap, wouldn’t go back to sleep, and has just realized that naps are awesome and it’s pretty crappy (ha) that he declined to take one. I am sitting in the middle of the living room floor, laptop on my knees because I have a crapload of work–I mean, a to…