Each night from 8:00 to 9:30 I live a silent and lonely life in my bed. For this is the time of night in which the hubby and Spicy Girl enter into the daily game of “bedtime”.
Mommy has no role in bedtime, mind you, because mommy throws off the entire charade. Not with any antics, but for the simple fact of being “Mommy.” Because when Mommy’s around, Spicy Girl wants to cuddle (which, admittedly, is much more enticing than being left alone in a dark room).
So when bedtime is on the horizon, mommy must be out of sight and therefore out of mind. Which puts me here. In my bed. With my laptop. Watching “Glee” on HULU for the fifth time. (Read more…)
The few times I’ve attempted yoga, it’s been kind of a disaster. First, I don’t balance. Not on one foot anyway. My “tree pose” is a tree that’s being blown around by Hurricane Hugo. Second, I sweat easily. Which makes balancing on one foot hazardous. I might as well be wearing a pair of banana peels.
But, I’ve always felt like I should do yoga. As much as I feel like a fool doing yoga.
So, during my first pregnancy, I had the brilliant idea to try prenatal yoga.
Why?
Because I had long since ditched exercise, and my 51 extra pounds (all baby) were wondering whether I could maybe move for a change. (Read more…)
Both my kids have this weird habit: they stockpile stuff.
I’m hoping beyond hope that their proclivity for creating squirrel-like caches around the house is simply a normal thing young children do. That Milo and Belle are just flexing their ownership muscle.
But I fear all this stashing is nothing short of odd. An OCD trait that will stick with them for life.
If I bring something new home, say a box of Fruit Leathers or a pad of stickers, they circle it like seagulls ogling a stray cheese puff.
Giving me a sidelong glance, Milo asks, “Can I have that?”
I say, “Maybe later. For now we’re going to keep the Fruit Leathers in a jar and the stickers can go in your art basket.”
“No. I mean for my stash,” he clarifies.
Milo’s stash is a paper grocery bag that resides behind our sofa. All things remotely special to him go there, to sit, mostly forgotten, among stray papers, party favors, fuse bead creations and whatever else strikes his fancy as too precious to mingle with the detritus that is the rest of the household. (Read more…)
