The Home Improvement Project That Never Ends

The Home Improvement Project That Never Ends

When we moved into our house six years ago, I had an office.  It was lovely and looked out over the hillside in our backyard.  I could see the sunset from my desk.  The sunset! You see, it was right there where the red star is.  Plain as day.  My lovely, beautiful, real, adult office.  For me to do work and type and store office supplies like tiny little Post-it notes and highlighters. But then something wonderful happened:  I got pregnant.  And before I could find a fancy little organizer case for my Post-its, my lovely office turned into a nursery.  And now it’s full of Legos and Monster Trucks and little boy T-shirts. And I work in my room.  My bedroom.  And the little post-its end up all over the bedroom floor and the laundry ends up all over my desk. One day last summer when I was working and not watching the sunset out of my bedroom window, I had an idea: I could build an office.  You see, right next to that snazzy star that was once my office is a long, skinny room entitled “attic.”  Attic and office are one and the same to me.  Just slap some sheet rock on the walls, some carpet on the floor and boom!  A new office.  This one where I can see the sunrise, which is just as cool as the sunset. So I had a really nice talk with my husband.  I explained how badly I needed the desk and the office supplies and the window with the sunrise and then I very kindly reminded him that...
Failing at Life

Failing at Life

I’m totally and completely failing at life right now. And not just a little bit. Take today, for example.  I didn’t pay close attention to my two-year-old at the park and he took off his shoes and stepped in something prickly.  When we got home, I spent 45 minutes with tweezers picking splinters out of the poor guy’s toes.  This put me behind at work, so I frantically spent the afternoon trying to catch up while Will slept and Joey and Kate played Legos.  I had promised Kate 4:15 Zumba so I woke Will up at 3:30 only to have him take one step on his foot and find more splinters.  More tweezers.  More crying.  More frantic rushing.  I left at 3:55.  I forgot my wallet. I got to the gym and they let me in (without my card) but realized that I had to go straight from Zumba to basketball and get the kids dinner in-between.  I begged $20 off of my friend Rebecca (thanks!) and headed to Chick-Fil-A, where I told my kids to eat fast in the back seat.  They did.  I brought the kids to basketball and sat Will on my lap where he promptly… threw up.  All over me and himself and the gym floor and my kind friends who happened to be sitting next to me chatting. My friend Monica saved me by running for paper towels but I was still a total disaster. I sulked out to the car and wiped us both off the best I could and proceeded to sit in the dark car with a squirmy two-year-old who suddenly...

Confession: I Wear Mismatched Socks

I wear mismatched socks.  Every day. And I’m not talking about a white sock that’s a little bit dingier than my other white sock, but I mix stripes and stars, hot pink and red, athletic and ruffled. Oh, and my kids do, too. It wasn’t always this way.  I’m pretty sure up until about five years ago, my socks always matched.  And the mere thought of dressing my son in one blue sock and one hot pink ruffled sock felt downright horrifying.  But that was before I quit sorting socks.  I just couldn’t take it.  I couldn’t take the searching, the organizing, the matching, the digging in the bottom of the dryer to see if maybe just maybe one of the socks got lost in that tiny crack in the back.  And don’t even get me started on the “missing sock” pile that slowly overtook an entire laundry basket and eventually started falling out onto the floor. I gave up. Now, when I pull a load out of the dryer, I just load every sock I see into a heap into the dresser drawer.  And when it comes time to get dressed, my kids have been instructed to grab two socks, without looking at color, shape or size. One red, one brown?  Go for it. One of Will’s, one of Joey’s?  If you can get it on, it’s shoe-worthy. Daddy’s dressy black socks used over your shin guards at soccer practice?  Sure!  Just put them back before daddy notices. Now, I know that the obvious solution would be to buy boring old jumbo-sized packs of plain white socks for...
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