Until just a couple months ago, our daughter was still in a crib.
Oh…um, is there a question in the back? Yes, you, with the impeccably pulled-together outfit.
How OLD is she, you ask?
*looks away, mumbles into back of hand* She’s thrmmhmm.
What? Louder? You can’t hear me?
She’s…she’s three and a half.
She’s almost four, okay?! She was THREE AND A HALF YEARS OLD AND STILL IN A CRIB. There you go.
I know. It’s a miracle we’re still allowed to keep her. Please don’t turn us in. Continue reading
In our house, something is always, always making noise.
Sometimes it’s the drone of whichever football game is forever playing in the background (until I beg my husband to please, just for one second, mute that thing). Sometimes it’s the beeping and blooping of those mechanical toys we totally regret buying, so incessant that we almost don’t hear them until they start playing in our dreams. Sometimes it’s the hysterical bark of our dog, who is absolutely beside herself with joy because the UPS guy just rang the doorbell and that must mean COMPANY, Y’ALL!
And after that, the noise generally includes some combination of sobbing mixed with irrational demands, because two children have just been ripped out of a (rare) sound sleep and they are super unhappy about it. #ThanksBeaker.
In our house, you will hear the baby pounding his fork against the high chair tray because he wants his honeydew NOW but doesn’t know how to ask yet. You will hear plates and sippy cups clatter to the floor the second he decides he is finished — and no one will clean it up for several minutes, because on the other side of the kitchen, his sister is yelling, “Mommy, may I have some milk please? Mommy, may I have some milk please? MOMMY! MAY I HAVE SOME MILK PLEASE?!” seventy-five times in a row without taking a breath, and someone must sprint to the fridge to reward her for actually using the word please (and also to pour the milk so that the noise might FINALLY stop). Continue reading
This is a post about irony.
Well, mostly. The last couple weeks have demonstrated that an alarming number of people are super confused when it comes to identifying the underlying theme of something (which makes the English teacher in me curl up in a ball and sob a little bit). So this time, I feel like maybe it’s important to be literal up front, to just come out and SAY what this post is about.
And since this is a post about irony, here’s your first ironic snacklet: my husband begged me not to write this follow-up. BEGGED. Continue reading
My marriage is not as perfect as yours.
Seven years and two kids later, Facebook has absolutely convinced me of this. Written declarations of true love are forever cascading down my feed: You are my soul mate, baby boo-boo sugar lips. My one true love. I would never want to spend this life with anyone else by my side. Our marriage gets better and better and better AND BETTER every single day. Love you. Love you SO MUCH. You are THE BEST. Smooches.
Sometimes I wistfully “Like” these statuses. Sometimes I cock my head and think, “Hold up. Didn’t she just tell people she’s secretly researching divorce lawyers?” And sometimes I cringe a little to myself, because yikes, there are several days when I’m not sure I could shout such things from the rooftops…and many when my husband might not shout such things about me. Continue reading
Well, I thought we missed it.
I thought The Why Stage would happen right around two-ish, when kids are SUPPOSED to drive you crazy, when language is shiny and new and words that are monosyllabic get preferential treatment. After P turned three a few months ago and it still hadn’t happened, I kicked back in my imaginary chair with an imaginary, umbrella-d Mai Tai and laughed and pointed at alllll the imaginary people.
WE MISSED IT, SUCKERS! You had to answer all those unanswerable questions, and look at me over here sipping my beverage! FLAWLESS. VICTORY.
And then along came almost-three-and-a-half. She woke up one morning, asked “Why?” when I told her to put on her pants, and it hasn’t stopped since.
Continue reading