Irish Daisy

I pulled my back, I mean really pulled it, while helping clean my grandmother’s house last Friday. We were working hard to get things sorted and get it cleaned before the memorial on Saturday, and somewhere in frenzy of weeding, tossing, dusting, wiping and hauling, I wrenched my back the wrong way. Then, on Saturday I did a lot of sitting – in cars, on floors, plastic chairs, lumpy ottomans, more cars. And on Sunday I could not get up. Literally, back was not working, so neither were the legs. Laughing really hurts when you have a knot the size of a softball in the long muscles of your back. I mean really hurts – stabbing pain from my mid back down to my right ankle. But it was so ridiculous, my husband trying to haul my petrified, mummy self off the bed, I couldn't stop laughing between gasps, curses, and yelps. He finally had to leave so that I could gradually roll my groaning self to the edge of the bed and off the side. Luckily our bed is high, so I landed more o...

My grandma was a gardener – that is how I think of her and how I will remember her. Gardeners are gritty people, at home in the dirt. They are often at war with the elements; battling pests and weather and nature to coax, or wrest, bounty from the earth. Not that she didn't dress up; Nana was elegant when the occasion called, with swirly skirts, high, high-heels, special jewelry and fabulous lipstick. She was classy and so gorgeous. But I remember her best in a jacket and sturdy trousers, padding carefully in slippers through the morning dew to her garden to harvest beans, tomatoes or cucumbers. She used to grow cucumbers for me, and would send pictures so that I could see how my cucumber, carefully arranged on a re-purposed Styrofoam tray, was growing. Her garden was lush and bountiful, and huge – with beans strung so tall she would disappear in the rows. Not that that was hard. Nana wasn't very tall, but she was mighty in spite of her stature – a pocket-sized dic...

My baby turned 10. My first baby – the very first tiny human that made me a mama for real is a whole decade old. This birthday was a much more earthshaking event than any “milestone” birthday I've ever celebrated for myself. When that baby was born, we were living in a second-floor condo with two dogs that needed to be walked on a leash several times a day and we only had one car with a back seat. Our other car was a pickup truck with sideways-facing jump seats – not really something you can strap a baby into. So we sold it and traded up to Big Bertha. Big Bertha was a behemoth of a truck – V8 with a crew cab that could comfortably seat five adult men and a full-length bed. The baby fit just fine in the backseat, and we could still use Bertha to have adventures camping, hauling mountain bikes, and four-wheeling through ice to snowboard. Bertha was wonderful, but really, really big. A year ago, the cost of driving and maintaining Bertha motivated us to buy a small commuter car...

I mean, I do garden, I like growing things. And the plants around my house are reasonably attractive, but that's it. I recently started planting seeds, instead of buying nursery plants, to save money. I am ridiculously excited whenever they sprout. When volunteers sprout from self-seeding flowers planted the year before…hoo-boy, the glee. Sometimes, they don’t sprout at all. Sometimes, they sprout and die before developing. And sometimes they achieve plant stasis: they sprout, they grow and then they stop somewhere between seedling and actual plant and never change at all until winter comes and they finally curl up and die. I really have no idea why any of this happens. No, stop it. Don’t give me advice. I mean it, really. Bubble flowers! Come back every year if I remember not to dig them up... I like to be good at things, really good at them. I like to succeed and I am frequently accused of being an over achiever, or type A, or a perfectionist…you get the picture. I...

I haven’t been writing much lately because I've been busy killing myself instead.  No, not really, but the 5.5 hours of sleep a night I've been clocking lately will surely do me in sooner or later. Fortunately, coffee! The massive sleep deprivation is the result of trying to fit the work of 2.5 people into a single life. How does one do this you may ask? By not sleeping, for one thing. For another, you do it by rushing from one thing to the next, doing – or pretending to do – several things at once, and by never, ever sitting down for more than 20 minutes.  Unless you're at the office, then you never get up until you're pretty sure you've developed a blood clot in your leg. Why might one do this? Well, I'm a full-time, management-level employee for a Fortune 1000 company – which takes some time if you want to do your job well, and I do. And I'm a mom of three kids – which takes some time if you want to do it well, and I really, really do. And then w...

Dear Preschool, I am writing to ask for a policy change. Though I know state licensing technically requires that all preschool children take a nap, I am imploring, pleading, begging you to exempt Badger from that requirement. You see, Badger does not nap anymore on the weekends, despite much activity and shenanigans. Badger gets up at 7:00 a.m. and goes all out until 8:30 or 9:00 pm, sometimes even later if there’s a party on, and never naps at all. The furry inch-worm emerges The two-hour nap at daycare is just extending her waking hours in the evening. Which is why it is now 11:30 at night, I've put Badger back in bed five times, and in the time-out spot twice, but instead of sleeping she is currently rockin’ the casbah in my dining room. On weekends, a bed time story, cuddle and song are enough to settle her down, and then she’s snoozing with her stuffies. Week nights, oh the week nights, when I am most desperate to finish everything and get to bed, I have a fluf...

Three kids is only one more than two. I know, it's simple math.  It's amazing how hard that one extra kid can make parenting sometimes, especially now that we're outnumbered and none of our kids are what you'd call sedate, but it's just one more kid. Yet, the real difference between two and three is how people react to seeing me out and about with my three girls. I was mom to two girls for four years before number three joined the troop, so I've noticed the difference in commentary and reaction from the judging public (and it's amazing how many people feel compelled to say something). With just the two girls, I got a lot of compliments on the cute and how great sisters are. With three, I get a lot of, “whoa, three girls!!!” And then one of two follow-ups; either, “Wow, that’s going to be really rough when they’re teenagers,” or, “Well, you're lucky, at least girls are more cautious and quiet, three boys would be so much tougher.” I want to smack the...

So, Open House was on Tuesday – the same day we held primary elections here, which was a pain in the ass for other voters but worked out pretty well for us since our polling place is the elementary school. I always take the kids with me to vote and the poll workers always cheer me on and give everyone an “I Voted” sticker for participating in our democracy (we all push the “Cast Ballot” button together). Open House is  a great opportunity to see what the kids have been doing and learning in context – which is very different from the disembodied assignments that come home. (Pro-tip to teachers, teacher appreciation should happen after open house, not before – gotta leverage all of that good will).  I was very excited to see Athena’s class and work.  Her teacher is so enthusiastic about Athena’s performance and presence in her class. Her work has shown such growth over the year, and she’s a thoughtful and conscientious student, for all that she’s only in second grade. ...

I used to love three-day weekends until kids. Blissful days partying with friends, extra nights to hang out without having to get up early, the short work week that follows – three-day weekends were all around great with no downside at all. Now…I still love three-day weekends, but with a toddler in the house I really, really hate the Tuesday morning that follows – one where our entire toddler schedule of predictable events breaks down and her little world is crushed by variation (cue ominous music and weeping). Yesterday morning it resulted in wailing, hiding in my robe (while I was wearing it), three outfit changes, two sock changes, more wailing, grumpy cat impressions, refusals to let go of my leg, my arm, my hand…it was a trial for all of us. And we had to grit our teeth and stay really calm and patient lest we incite the Honey Badger into all-out rebellion – which they’re prone to anyway. Grumpy Badger Ah, Tuesday morning after a three-day weekend, there’s no day like it...

I’m eating a stale granola bar. Not because I want to but because someone opened it, ate a single bite and left it sitting open in the fridge for a week. It’s pretty apparent at this point that no one else is going to eat it. I can’t just throw it out, it’s perfectly good food – or so my mom always told me. And though my mom always told me that as she forced me to eat icky things, I don't have the energy to hunt down the offender and force them to consume this stale granola bar for their snack. So, I’m eating it and it’s kind of chewy instead of crunchy, and weirdly sweeter than they taste when they’re fresh, and I’m not really enjoying my snack, but someone’s got to eat it. I don’t know why, but today this stale granola bar I’m eating sums up the reality of being mom.