OK, potty-training. I’m doing it wrong, for sure. Because here’s how potty-training was explained to me:
“It’s totally no big deal. You just hunker down for three days, OK? Do it in the summer so your kid doesn’t need to wear any pants, then set the timer for every ten minutes. Give them a Skittle every time they go successfully. Done! They’ll be potty-trained in no time.”
And then. Here’s how it worked for me:
So, I don’t watch the Bachelorette, but I’d totally give July a rose, absolutely. The weather has been spectacularly moody, vacillating between angsty teenage thunderstorms and polite 70-degree afternoons and hey, as a minor coffee addict, mood swings are something I can get behind. The rain makes the sun brighter, is that how the saying goes?
Bee and I went to the library yesterday, the big one downtown where I have to parallel park the minivan (my gosh, what an adult-sounding sentence). I picked the spot with the broken meter, but it was OK because then I realized I don’t keep any spare change for the meter anyway. When Ken and I lived in L.A., I kept a coin purse in the glove compartment and it would clink-clink-clink when I hit the speed bump in the grocery store.
It’s funny, the things you remember.
You and I, we struggle with balance. (Here’s a secret: everyone does.) You hoard pool noodles and stuffed animals and plastic bowls, begging to be filled with your latest finds from around the house. You want to wear both headbands, use every sticker, eat the whole bag of pistachios. You want your sippy cup filled all the way – overflowing – “just in case” you say.
And I’m much the same. I hoard memories and moments in a futile attempt to seize the day before it passes too quickly. I want to wear both hats, use every gift, eat the whole bag of pistachios. I want my cup to overflow, too.
Ever since we returned home from Singapore, Ken and I have been seeking out more local activities to carry on the spirit of travel in our own backyard. We’ve been trying new restaurants, hitting more farmer’s markets – anything to keep the adventurous momentum alive and well in our wee family of three…
I remember the first time I saw a kid in my 4th grade class blow a bubble within a bubble while they were chewing gum. It was fascinating to me, like how could something so flexible and thin – weak, I thought – possibly become a home for something else? How could there still be room in there? It just… defied logic. And now, here you are. Doing the same for me, 20-something years later.
The temperature hit 70, so we grabbed a picnic blanket and our sunnies and jetted out to the backyard. The thing about spring in the Midwest is that it waffles often between extremes: 55 one day, 85 the next. A sunny-and-70-degree day is a rarity, and it’s one worth celebrating.
Here’s what your mother is really, really bad at: (1) Operating chopsticks, (2) Negotiating in person, (3) Singing on key, and (4) Living in the moment. It’s not that I’m living in the future, because truly, I’m not. I’m as far from Type A as you can get in this department as I have very little future plans solidified other than to do my best to not be an a-hole to the people I come in contact with on a daily basis.
It’s a running joke that bloggers rarely change out of their pajamas, and in my case – on the weekends at least – it’s only partly true. Because I do change out of my pajamas, but often into a different set of pajamas, so really I’m kind of reinforcing the preconceived notion times two, yes?
Naturally, when Belabumbum asked that I share scenes from my weekend as part of their #BackToMyBelabumbum campaign, it wasn’t a stretch for me to spend the day in loungewear. (Sidenote: I wore Belabumbum all throughout my pregnancy and am still rocking those same threads, two-ish years later!) So this past weekend, Ken documented a few snapshots of our day together – from early morning coffee breaks to couch wrestling to my go-to “me time” move:
We’re entering the part of the log ride where the waters get kind of choppy and I can’t decide which way to lean: left or right or not at all? Should I close my eyes and hold my breath, clutching the handlebar, preparing for the descent that awaits? Or do I power through, swallow hard and raise my hands overhead to release control entirely? It’s discipline time and suddenly, I feel like we’re back in the newborn days of guess-and-check. I’ve found myself trying on different hats to find a technique that works for both of us, one after another after another, until we find one that fits for a day, but then, no, our head must have grown two sizes since then so fling goes the hat, across the room and we dig, dig, dig for a different one.