this is a page for

Browsing Tag: guilt

Not Exactly What They Mean by ‘Mic Drop’

The kids are making Easter cards for their grandmothers right now while I clean (and by clean, I mean excavate the house from the inches of dust and dirt and clutter that accumulated while I was avoiding cleaning). Quinlan saw me mopping the floor and asked to help. I, being the good, patient mother that I am, told her that she’d have to help me another time, because I needed to get the chore done quickly (aaaaaand today will mark the day when Quinlan’s love of helping and mastering tasks dies like a spurned grape on the vine of independence. Win one for her future therapist). She grumbled when I told her this, her pout sticking out, her hands dropping the crayons she’d been holding so she could cradle her head in them. “I’m having the worst day ever,” she said, and stared at the construction paper in front of her. I huffed over my mop, trying to scrub out a stain that might have been there since last Easter. “Actually,” I said–and hereby marks the day that Quinlan also lost her trust in faith, in…

Sliding Around On Our Bottoms is More Fun, Anyway

You may have heard me talk about this son of ours. His name, as you know, is Cian. Cian is two and a half. Cian lives a much different life than his sisters did when they were his age. He doesn’t go to Music Together class. He hasn’t been signed up for MyGym. We hardly ever, ever go to the library, but that’s mainly because I never remember to take back the books on time and we keep racking up overdue fees (role model up in HERE!). His last playdate was two months ago. Want to know what Cian does? Cian plays while Mommy flails about on her computer in the mornings. I type a little of this, a little of that, then erase it all to wail and gnash my teeth and go write a blog post like this instead. So, Cian plays. And maybe watches Little Einsteins. And poops, then asks for a snack (every. single. day, just like that. Happy to share). We eat lunch together, then tidy up (sometimes), then traipse off to pick his sisters up from school. Every day. It has to be so boring for him. I…

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…