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Browsing Tag: Mother’s Day

Quarantine, Deviled Eggs, and Me: Mother’s Day 2020

Well, that Mother’s Day kind of sucked, didn’t it? My sweet family tried so hard this year. They made me stay in bed an hour and a half after I’d already been awake so they could bring me breakfast. The kids made “fancy juice.” David prepared stuffed French toast and bacon cooked outside on the grill (remember that time I burnt out the microwave when I set the stove on fire? We still haven’t decided on a hood range to replace it because compromise is hard when the other person doesn’t go along with you). There were handmade cards and big mugs of coffee. The kids bought me an incredible t-shirt, and if you’ve seen The Mandalorian, you know what I mean by that. And then I cried making some deviled eggs. Let me back up. We had plans to take an early dinner over to my mom’s. We were keeping it simple: hot dogs, salad, corn on the cob. I made mini cheesecakes, and we figured the kids could play outside, or we could watch a movie with her. It would be…

Suzie the Spontaneous

My mom got her ears pierced last week. She’d been talking for years about wanting to get a second set of holes, but was always too afraid of the needle to do it. I get it, of course–if aliens were to observe our planet and witness us voluntarily stabbing ourselves in the body, all because we think it looks cute, they’d probably pick another planet to invade, like, pronto. Humans are nuts. But as someone who has gotten stabbed multiple times in the ear herself, and in the belly, and really thinks that a sharp stick to the nostril could be kind of neat, too, I guess I’m on board with the rest of the wackos. So stab away, oh strange man in a mall kiosk. I want to be pretty.  Anyway, back to my mom. She’s 69. For my entire life, she has been someone who is a perfectionist, particular. She’s someone who likes to know where her life is going to go and to have her bed made every morning. When I was growing up, the house was cleaned top to bottom every week, and then…

I Wish I Were Exaggerating

Cian has developed a lovely new trait: If he wants me, for whatever reason, most likely for a reason I can’t ascertain, he stands at my knees and shouts, “MOM. MOM. MOM. MOM. MOMMOM,” patting my leg with his open palm with each bout of hollering. This is how it usually goes, and it makes no sense: “MOM.” “Yes, Cian. What do you need?” “MOM.” “Yes, Cian?” “MOM.” “Cian, what do you need? Use your words.” “MOM.” “CIAN.” “MOM!!!!!” And so it goes, until I finally drive a pencil into my eardrums to make it stop. I don’t get why he does it. I mean, I know toddlers get frustrated if you don’t understand them. I also see that he hates when my attention is on something else (laundry, the phone, the computer, anythingbuthim), but this is getting out of hand. “MOM.” “MOM.” “MOM. EE. MOM.” It’s so funny how, when I was pregnant with each baby, I would dream of the day when my own…