I Should Be Used To This By Now

Oh, look, there’s Becca on the monkey bars.

Oh, look, she’s hanging upside down with her knees and her hands.

Oh, look, she’s hanging upside down with her hands.

Oh, look, she’s hanging upside down with one hand.

Oh, look, she’s not hanging upside down any more.

She stood up, brushed the leaves out of her hair, and grinned sheepishly at me through the kitchen window.


A perfect October day. Not a cloud in the sky, a brisk breeze, an almost-empty park, and a trailer full of bicycles. We rode around the loop twice with the baby in her trailer; afterwards, the kids raced around an empty parking lot tracing lazy figure-eights and swerving between curbs. But then Marcus had to up the ante and instead of following the gradual path down the hill, he rode straight down the side screaming with glee.

And where Marcus goes, Becca must follow, only faster. As she stood at the top of the hill–out of earshot and unwilling to listen to common sense, regardless–I remarked to Matthew, “This is going to be spectacular.”

I hate being right.

She skinned her elbow and her bike helmet is a write-off. It bounced off the asphalt at the tail end of her fall, so we’ll destroy it and throw it out and get a new one. It saved her noggin, that much is certain. She made it most of the way down and only flew off the bike at the end of the run where her path crossed the concrete. A shower, some peroxide, and a cup of tea later and she’s recovered enough to wish she could go back in time and undo her actions.

Maybe she learned something this time, but I’m not really counting on it. Her ballet teacher was already impressed with Becca’s black eye and scraped up face from the incident involving the rope swing, the tree root, and Marcus, where blame is evenly distributed between the two of them.

That said… it was pretty darn spectacular.

P.S. Bike helmets save lives. Right now, she’s drinking her tea in the kitchen while teasing her brother.


Lately, I’ve taken to having a Stonyfield Farm Vanilla Truffle yogurt for breakfast with a piece of fruit. However, I am particularly possessive of my yogurt, as I’m not really big on breakfast and finding something acceptable is difficult. If the kids ever tasted it, I would no longer have any breakfasts left in the fridge.

“Mom, why is your yogurt brown? Is it chocolate?”

“No, it is truffle-flavored.”

“Like on _Iron Chef_? The mushrooms?”

“Yes, exactly.”

I am a horrible mother.

Angry Farts

After a very long day full of annoyances and disappointments, Marcus was rather cranky. He and Becca got into a row over toys, and I sent them both downstairs to undress for their bath–only by then, Marcus was so grumpy that he didn’t want a bath.

“No! I do not want a bath! I want to go to bed dirty,” he screamed as I carried him down the stairs. Not taking a bath was out of the question, as in the course of the afternoon he had played in the muddy backyard until it began raining again.

“No! I hate getting wet! I want my clothes on! You are a bad mother!,” he cried as I undressed him and lifted him (not a mean feat when he’s throwing a tantrum) into the tub where Becca was already arranging shampoo bottles.

“No! No! No! No! _No!_,” he fussed as I turned on the water.

“It is too hot! It is too cold! It is wet! I have soap in my eyes! I want a new mother!,” he complained vociferously as I bathed him. Becca had no complaints.

“I want cavities! I hate clean teeth! Mmph mmmph mmph!,” he screamed, even as he opened his mouth to let me brush his molars.

It was quite a tantrum, and it just kept getting sillier and more ridiculous as he went through his paces.

Continue reading “Angry Farts”


Marcus and Becca and I ate lunch at Panera Bakery while William and Maryanne did their thing at Borders. Maryanne and I bought coffee to drink once we got back to the house; it was grey and overcast outside, with a slight drizzle, so the hot coffee would be welcome after our short walk back to the house. I zipped and Velcro-ed and snapped the children into their raincoats, donned my own, and started herding them towards the door.

Continue reading “Drenched”