There are a lot of purchases that I get excited about. Fall clothes. Rollerball pens. New lipstick. Something techie that I’ve been saving for, for 90 years. Books. Cheesesteaks. Milk. Laundry detergent. Stamps. I really just like buying things. Borderline problemish. But I’m still on the side of the border that doesn’t involve secret credit cards, so we’re straight.
I haven’t pulled the trigger on one purchase in particular, because I’ve been choosey and also because I don’t really have anywhere to put it just yet. Still living in Boxes Hell.
But very soon (so help me gawd these boxes better not be picking out curtains), I am buying a desk.
As you read this, I am hopefully sitting in the passenger seat of my car. Adam is driving. The kids are eating bagels in the backseat because their time spent chewing to talking ratio is the best of all other breakfast options. My trunk is stuffed to the gills, and we are on our way to North Carolina for my sister Lindsay’s wedding. I say hopefully because my hope is that I stayed true to my plan for once and the car was packed last night. My greatest hope is that all we had to do this morning was pee, brush our teeth, and buckle-up. Stay tuned to find out whether or not that was true.
Today is Adam’s and my five-year anniversary. Five years ago, we were sweating balls outside, because who doesn’t love a good outdoor wedding at the end of July? I was wearing a short, white dress, and a spray tan that I spent two days trying to scrub down to human-levels of melanin. Adam was wearing a red tye, a Hello Kitty bandaid, and a vest that I spent many a day crying over the impossibility of finding, because he is a tall man and it is hard to find clothes for tall men. Continue reading →
On the drive home from dropping the kids off at my in-laws for the afternoon, I was talking to my best friend on the phone. We were catching up after not having spoken for a while, like you do when you’ve both had a bunch of babies.
“How’re the kids?”
“What have you guys been doing lately?”
“Are you excited about X/Y/Z?”
I asked about her sister-in-law, who underwent transplant surgery recently. She is thriving, and we both marveled over modern medicine. How crazy it was that she was alive because another person’s organ was hers now. We got talking about the endless possibilities for medical advancements in our lifetime.
So I asked her if she ever remembers that she’s going to die one day and freaks the hell out for a minute.
We are a few days out from a week at the beach with a ton of friends and family for my sister’s destination wedding. There was a time in my life, albeit brief and hungover, when I enjoyed the beach. When I was a teenager, I was crazy self conscious and wouldn’t wear anything more scandalous than jeans. Picture a fully-clothed, sulking sixteen-year-old girl with her headphones on, walking up and down the shoreline until she was allowed to go back inside to air conditioning and snacks without a sand garnish.
Then there was a minute in my early twenties when I could handle it. I felt like a babe. I only really needed to bring a book and a blanket with me. And I was an adult and in charge of my own life, so I could retreat when I felt too sweaty.
With kids, things changed. Kids tend to do that to pretty much everything. Not only was I lugging a shit ton of stuff to keep my children entertained and fed and safe and not sunburnt, I had gone right for the standard black one-piece bathing suit of moms everywhere. It’s basically the white flag of “I am lumpy now.”
That bathing suit is washed and ready to pack in my bag at 3am the night before we leave because I know enough to know I will never learn to plan ahead and pack early. But I also have an alternative ready to go. It’s still black. But it’s a bikini. Continue reading →
I can’t think of what to write about. My brain is frying out. So it’s time for a Currently post to clear out some of the junk.
Doing: Staying afloat. Adam has been away for the last week. In that time, I have had two sick kids, one with a fever that resulted in a trip to the ER, our AC went on the fritz and it is hot as balls here in Maryland, Halligan has been waking up earlier and earlier than the butt crack of dawn every morning, and the cats and dog have managed to eat an entire container of baby formula, covering my kitchen floor in a sticky film, and then puked up that formula all over the living room. Continue reading →
My one-year old started walking less than two months ago. She liked walking for about five minutes, but she grew bored with it fast. She prefers running, arms up, screaming, in a full-on E.T. impersonation. She tears through the world, and I’m constantly having to snatch her up when she gets too close to the road. Last week, she was shrieking with joy down the sidewalk, when she tripped on some uneven pavement. She scraped her knee and had a bump on her forehead. At one year, you know your kid’s cries. There’s the cry when she’s tired. The fake-cry when she wants my attention. And the gut-wrenching cry when she is in pain.
I could have prevented this. I could have kept her on the grass. I could have kept her inside. I could have held her unwilling and independent hand through every step. She wouldn’t be bumped or bruised or bleeding. But she wouldn’t be enjoying the world around her like she should be. Bumps and bruises happen. You get them when you run around like a crate of Pixy Stix in human form. You get them when you’re so overcome with the joy of being a kid that you don’t notice a bump in the ground beneath your unsteady feet.