“Ninety-nine bottles of POP on the wall, ninety nine bottles of POP! Take one down, pass it around…”
It’s a moment I’ll never forget: my howling baby girl, who had once again stayed quiet just long enough to hook myself up to the milking machine before starting to cry.
Our 25 Days of Christmas is going to be anything but. No carefully planned daily activities, this is totally a seat-of-the-pants thing. Witness:
Yup, welcome to the weekend. But with everyone cleaned up, and ζach making up the bed in the next room, I’m tucking the girls into bed with a large, floppy elephant.
A couple of weeks ago, ζach suggested we build a rink in the back yard. The stunned silence that greeted this proposal is a post of its own, but since today was the best weather we can expect for a while, a balmy +8°C and rainy, we built the frame.
Heaven help me, I think I’m about to become a scrapbooker. (Because, as my poor, neglected guitar will tell you, I need another hobby.) It started like this:
Top three signs you’re a Bad Mother – kindergarten is about to begin and…
Once upon a time, in the years BC (before children), the idea self-identifying as “someone’s Mom” was not just foreign, but distasteful. To identify oneself as nothing but the appendage of another, to be nothing but “Meena’s mom”, represented an abdication of self. I couldn’t understand why other women would do such a thing.
Did I do the right thing? I don’t know. It seemed to make sense at the time. Meena has started coming home with a rich variety of insults. Some are intended to be funny; references to “poo poo” figure prominently.
Last week I came up with a really great plan. I know people who lay out their workout clothes every night, so that they are ready to go in the morning. I decided to lay out my yoga mat, so it would be the first thing my feet touched when they hit the floor. What, [...]