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Browsing Tag: Quinn

The Oven Wasn’t Cool, Sylvia, but I Feel You

Saoirse has been in a bit of a temper tantrum phase, if you will (I wish you wouldn’t.  Maybe they’d stop, then).  The slightest blips in the radar of her world will set her off, and there’s no predicting them.  She’ll be happy as a seal on a seashore one moment, and the next acting like the mean ol’ angry shark that just came in to eat the seal for dinner. The best option for us right now seems to be to remove her from the situation until she calms down, because there is absolutely no talking to her/reasoning with her/begging to stop the crying already until she tires out.  It’s like a person who drinks too much out at the bar one night, and it’s only when he’s hanging over a toilet with a pounding head the next morning that he first feels those awful pangs of remorse.  SK, after the tantrum, has a period where she tries to figure herself out. This morning, I put her in a room after she pitched a fit because Quinn was playing with a bib…

Because It Flies, Time Does

In my ongoing effort to reclaim my house from the clutter that has been awake at night, sneaking onto tabletops and into closets, giggling as it stuffs itself into my diaper bag and laundry room, I have finally–finally!–begun the attack on the very last pile of Crap With Which I Don’t Know What to Do. This stack of messiness includes everything from recipes I want to load onto my computer, thank you notes that were written but never sent, a list of songs I want to download (because, honey, I have gift cards to burn), and, yes, a check or two from Quinn’s birthday that I have yet to put into the bank (sorry, Aunt Mary. I’m on it tomorrow, I swear).  It is the final frontier, people, my last hurdle to jump. And I will, I tell you, I will get to the other side.  Even if that means finally scanning the ultrasounds I got to keep from the baby’s first photo op.  And by baby, I mean, Saoirse, you know.  I told you, this pile of papers can tell some stories. So this afternoon, while Saoirse…

Who You Calling a Nerd?

I keep trying to read books with Quinn. Sometimes she listens, rubbing her fingers over the characters on the pages–especially if those pages have built-in mirrors that allow her to grin at her too-adorable, two-toothed self–but mostly, to my English teacher’s chagrin, when we sit down to read together she writhes around in my lap, tries to chew on my arm, or slaps the pages close because dammit, she doesn’t want to read any stinking books right now. She’s only 12 months old, I keep telling myself. She’s still a baby. So what if she doesn’t like to read now? It’s okay, there’s still time. There’s still time (kindly imagine the high-pitched voice wailing into the abyss, please). Then there’s Saoirse, who will wake early in the morning and read books for an hour quietly in her bed before we even realize she’s been awake. At night, I’ll walk by her room, and even if it’s a half hour past her bedtime, there she is, in bed, with…