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Unless you count the blaring cartoons, and I SO TOTALLY don’t.

TV, you are the BEST. The BEST.


I need eight hours of sleep to feel rested. Nine, and I’m flying high.

I love sleep. I love dreaming. I have the best dreams — I do a lot of flying. Sometimes, my dreams are my favorite part of the day.

I’m not ashamed or embarrassed. I don’t feel lazy or slothful. I hate when overachievers brag about how they only need a few hours of sleep.

And now, research proves me right! People who don’t get enough sleep get sick. Really sick. And suffer from depression.

The problem is, my schedule does not allow me to get the sleep I need. And it’s slowly driving me insane. I’m dreaming of a time when I can go to bed at 10 p.m. and read a novel until I drift off.

Someday. And all you people who can go to bed at a reasonable hour — don’t take it for granted! Get your sleep. Your body will thank you.

My wedding ring is lost. Correction, my grandmother‘s wedding ring, which I have been wearing in lieu of having my own wedding ring for the past 8½ years, is lost.

I was slow to get out of bed this morning. Ed was getting ready for work, and I could hear the kids making a ruckus, but I was tired. I’ve been suffering from a little insomnia lately.

I was distracted last night before bed and left my rings on the bathroom counter, something I’m usually careful not to do because of Simon.

This morning, as I was wrestling with him to get his shoes on, Clare said, “Mommy! Here’s your ring!” My heart instantly sank. I remembered where I had left them.

It wasn’t the wedding ring. It was another ring I was wearing yesterday, and it was all covered in suspiciously Simon-like goo.

I have searched everywhere I can think of. No sign of the ring.

I wouldn’t be surprised if he ate it. I guess I’ll poke around in his diapers, just in case. Do I have to tell the nanny to dig through his poo?



It received only an honorable mention, but what is better than Peeps getting their boxing on? If you want to see all the entries in the Pioneer Press Peeps Diorama contest, go here.

But I have the best kids in the world. A few hours after I wrote that, Myles gave me this:


I am tired of yelling at my kids.

I am tired of cleaning the clutter, only for it to reappear minutes later.

I am tired of eating my dinner in front of a computer.

I am tired of this stupid swishing sound in my ears.

I am tired of my list of things to do, which never get done, partly because I am so tired.

I am tired of being tired. So tired. All the time.

This is Simon after lunch. He ran away before I could wash his face.


This is what he did to the floor. It’s pretty tame compared with most days.


We took him out of the high chair recently, thinking he’d behave better if he could feel like he was in on the action. I am now thinking this was a huge mistake.

This is how mealtime goes:

I start preparing a meal. Simon pushes a chair over, or just rams his head into the back of my legs repeatedly. He reaches for whatever I’m doing the entire time. He’s usually screaming, “EAT!” or “SNACK!” No matter what I try, I can’t seem to distract him.

By the time I get him to the table, he usually has worked himself into a complete tizzy. I strap him in, give him his plate of food, hold my breath and sit down. He goes at his own plate voraciously for about two minutes, both of which I spend frantically stuffing food in my mouth, because I know what’s coming.

After those few blessed moments, he starts looking around at what else is on the table. Usually, that’s other people’s food and some newspapers. He goes for the food first. Clare actually eats with her arms around her plate, crying most of the time, fearing the long arm of Simon.

He whips his appendages around, flipping whatever he can reach into his path. He grabs pickles, chips, pieces of fruit, whatever he can reach. Most of the time he doesn’t even eat it. He either chews it up and spits the pieces back on the table or throws the food (and entire plates if he can get them) onto the floor. When there is no more food, the newspapers go.

I’m at a complete loss. I have no idea how to fix this. He’s two. I can’t reason with him. I’ve tried putting him back in the high chair, and he screams the entire time and refuses to eat. Which means he spends the rest of the day milling around the kitchen, pushing chairs up to the counter and trying to get at food. And screaming, “EAT!”

I’m biding my time until he passes this stage, but it seems like it’s been like this since the day he came shooting out of my body. I’m always waiting for him to pass through one horrendous stage or the other — colic, teething, biting while breastfeeding, biting his sister (wait — he still does that), hitting, tantrums (Probably 10 a day. When will that end?). 

It’s like everything he does has the intesity of a grease fire. And anything I do to try and put it out is like throwing water on it.

I just beat the shit out of some guy for three rounds, and I’m still breathing heavy.

At this rate, I might just be able to give up my Y membership!

I hadn’t really gone through my past posts until tonight. I’ve written way more than I suppose I thought I would when I started this. Honestly, I had no idea what I would write about or what shape this thing would take. And I still don’t, really.

I do know that I’m happier than I have been in a while. And I’m realizing I hardly ever write about the guy who loved me through what has been a pretty dark period*. Without even a single complaint.

I can see the sun on the horizon. Hang in there, honey!

* I think I’m having an early (though maybe not if you average the life spans of my grandparents) mid-life crisis.


That innocent, sing-songy call from Clare always means trouble.

I was downstairs, switching laundry. I dropped what I was doing, ran upstairs and found a bare vine from grapes, which I had stupidly left on the counter after lunch, on the piano bench. No grapes were left except a few that Simon had chewed and apparently rejected. He ate the whole bunch.

While I was cleaning up the grape mess, Clare headed to the toilet. Simon followed, as he often does. He likes to watch (and smack my bare thighs with his always freezing paws). Clare MUST! HAVE! DOOR! CLOSED! to pee. So I closed the door on the two of them. Simon was sitting on the training potty, fully clothed, when I shut the door.

A few moments later, Clare yelled, “Mooommmmm!!! Simon peed on the potty!”

I immediately started cheering, ready to scoop up my big boy and congratulate him.

Until I opened the door.

He did pee on the potty! But before that, he’d stripped off his pants and diaper, into which he’d exploded with the force of 100 grapes. And it landed business-side down.