Tag: moving

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Territorial

We were sitting at lunch the other day when SK found out that her Uncle Paul will not be moving back to Pennsylvania, but instead will either be settling with his new wife Sarah in Indiana, where she already had a house (and where they live 


It has been, frankly, a craptastic couple of months, in a whiny, bratty, world’s-tiniest-violin sort of way. I haven’t wanted to write this post, because, well, blahblahblahfart, who wants to read it (or write it, for that matter) but I can’t seem to write anything 

A Letter to Her Kindergarten Teacher

Dear Mrs. L.,

We admit, going through this process of house buying has been much more intense than we would have liked. Yes, we are under a lot of stress, and worry constantly about the decisions we are making, and the ones that others are making that affect us. There is much talk around our house about expenses, and location, and flooring. Saoirse and her siblings have spent a LOT of time in carpet stores, in model homes, in “resell” homes. She has been witness to many of our strained conversations, a couple of which may possibly-just, you know, maybe–have been a bit, uh, louder, than you, as an expert early educator, probably would recommend. But really, it hasn’t been that bad for her. Her homework is still finished for class every day. She is still (relatively) tidy, and clothed. We still tuck her in at night, and feed her when we’re supposed to feed her, and get her to school on time. Most days, anyway.

So you know, we hope–but we write this letter just in case, because, you know, you never really know–we hope that when Saoirse came into school today, so, SO excited to tell you that after she moves into her new house, she gets to do her homework at the bar, you know she means the breakfast bar on the kitchen countertop.  THE COUNTERTOP.  So please don’t report us to Children & Youth.

3.5.14. A Letter to Her Kindergarten Teacher. Pencil and Cup

It’s been bad, but not that bad. 


Leah and David

With Apologies to Clement C. Moore

‘Twas the night before the inspection, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring–that better not be a mouse. The linens were folded, tucked in closets with care, In desperation because the buyer soon would be there. The children were nestled all snug 

What We Wanted

We spiffied up the split-level and put it on the market last Tuesday.  We had five hectic days of showings, which went a little something like this: “Cian, get that air freshener OUT OF YOUR MOUTH!” “Quinn, get off the couch. That one, too. I 

Mucking the Stalls

On a fun note, David dropped Saoirse off at school today super early. We were feeling fairly proud of ourselves–we’ve been cutting it too close lately, leaving too late, hitting traffic on the way to school, and it wasn’t fair to her or her sister. So, early, they left.

And then Dave was halfway to work when he got a call telling him that there wasn’t any school for kindergarten today, so could he please come back and pick up his daughter?


1.17.14.Mucking the Stalls.Piglets

We have squeezed two years of house prep into a week. So much paint. So much throwing out of stuff. So much stuff in bags to donate. So much STUFF. A photographer was sent today to take pictures of the rooms, and I had to ask her not to take photos of the laundry room, because that’s where I’d shoved the leftover paint cans and random pictures and the basket of laundry I hadn’t had a chance to fold because the dear Cian got up at five-dear-Lord-why-forty-five this morning.

(On another note? Nothing, absolutely nothing gives me anxiety more than someone inspecting my house. She might as well have gone snooping in my lingerie drawer [ALL OF THOSE NURSING BRAS]. It’s just so…personal. And awkward. Kind of like that time after Saoirse’s first mommy-and-me swim lesson [she was, what, eight months old?], and my new friend Inga had to pick my underwear off the floor and hand it to me because it’d gone flinging from my bag across the locker room like a wayward spitball and landed on top of her diaper bag.

I know. It doesn’t get any less mortifying in the retelling.)

1.17.14. Mucking the Stalls. Pond

So, house is as ready as it’s going to get with three children, two animals, and one husband drooling everywhere (whoops. Sorry, Dave. Didn’t mean to lump you in with that group, there). I have a bunch of loose ends to finish, but you know, that’s always. We took the kids to our state farm show last weekend for milkshakes and baby chicks and a carousel ride, trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy (if you can call watching a cowboy trot a horse by you on his way in to a rodeo while you stuff fried mozzarella in your face normal.). And, AND, I get to meet my agent and the wonderful writer MM Finck tomorrow night at a launch party (book nerd! book nerd!) for the great Kathryn Craft’s debut novel, so that’s kind of neat–a little reminder of, in all this craziness, the other world I have a foot in. Sort of. If you don’t mind that foot being covered with spilled apple juice.

And Saoirse most definitely doesn’t have school on Monday. I remembered that, so I’d say we’re heading in the right direction.

1.17.14.Mucking the Stalls.Cow

Here we go.

I Mean It This Time

So, we’re putting the house on the market again, this time for good. David’s had to resort to using either the girls’ room or ours as his office, depending on which has fewer people in it at any given moment, so it’s time. We like 

My Christmas Spirit is Around Here Somewhere

I’ve fallen into the trap,  you guys. And it wasn’t even like I was pushed. I jumped, both feet in, eyes open and not even holding my nose. There’s no name for this trap, really. Because if I tried to describe it to you it’d