Spring time here in the northwest means pollen of many stripes, plus molds and mildews and a million other things. I suppose this is no different than other places in the world. However, the other day when I had to use the windshield wipers to clear a path on my windshield, I was thinking it must stink to live here if you have allergies. For, example, like my dear Middlest. All I can say is thank all the gods for generic antihistamines.
Every morning in the spring and early summer she is a sniffling, wheezing mess. And then, one allergy pill later, she’s perked up and breathing normally by the time she heads off to school.
Better living through chemicals, right? Continue reading
Hi folks. How have you been? I hope well. In fact, I hope your dial has gone far enough past well to put you into the fantastic land. Because who doesn’t want to be fantastic? Me, I’ve been fine. Could have been finer, but could have also been lots worse, so I’m not complaining. I have, however, been more scratchy than usual.
In case you are wondering, it isn’t uncommon for me to be scratchy. Continue reading
This weekend something funny happened. And by funny I mean “ha ha ha” but also not so much. I’m sure you understand.
As a family we decided to have a spontaneous outing and drove to the Waffle Window for waffles. I’m not known for my spontaneity so my kiddos and husband were probably pleasantly surprised to hear me grab my keys and head out to the car without any cajoling from them. On the way back I was chatting with them and I said something to the extent of “I’m sorry for being such a basket case lately. This querying my novel thing is pretty stressful.” To which 2 of my kids basically said “Really, we hadn’t noticed a difference.”
And by not noticing a difference, they didn’t mean “you’ve been your normal sweet-natured self, Mom.” Nope, they meant that I’m always a bit of a basket case. And they probably weren’t too far from the truth. Continue reading
When I was about six I sat at the kitchen table, my small finger tracing the fruit design repeatedly marching across the faded vinyl tablecloth. My voice belied my tears as I begged my mother to tell me what I should do. I needed guidance. I needed reassurance. I needed to know what to do. My mother couldn’t tell me the answers I searched for.
My question? “Mom, what should I do when I grow up?”
As I was leaving the pediatrician’s office yesterday with my 6.5 year old daughter having a stomach issue, I watched a mom leave ahead of us. She was carrying her baby in the ubiquitous baby car seat carrier that most of we moms have used – the kind that clips into a base in the car and has a handle so you can carry the dang thing around with you. Don’t get me wrong, all three of my kids lived in their car seats as babies since for two of them, it was one of the only places they would sleep. But I’ve come to hate those things. With a passion. Because there is no way to carry one without either putting your back out of joint, or delivering a series of bruises to your leg. And that’s what this mom was doing: carrying the car seat in her left hand, right hand raised as a kind of ballast, with a diaper bag the size of Tammy Faye Baker’s make-up case and trying to make it all cooperate so she could open the door.
Bump. Bump. Bump. Every time that damn car seat wacked her the side of her leg, I thought one thing over and over: I hate babies. Which is probably a pretty strange thing to hear from someone who brought three of them into this world, but it is the truth never-the-less. Continue reading