24/7

I was thirteen when she was born; she is fifteen now. My little sister's birth inspired feelings in me that contrasted at every level with my naturally pessimistic personality. I had high hopes for this newborn. I saw possibility in every crease of her hairy, bent-up frame. When I visited the hospital after school got out that day, I sat down wearing a purple paisley shirt, a suede skirt, and blue and white LA Gear sneakers, and I held her. I wrote her a letter almost a year later. "Dear -----------, The day you were brought into the world little sister, was cold and gray, typical January fare. When I woke up that morning--it was the twenty-first, the day I knew you'd be born--I knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that that was to be the day. Maybe it was the hushed voices I heard from behind the confines of our parents' bedroom that clued me in to your impending arrival. But I personally think it was more than that. Call it sisterly intuition, call it a psychic premon...

Do not wait until after you've put a contract on a home and had the inspection before you go to the town Web site and discover that a property seemingly adjacent to yours has been zoned INDUSTRIAL . Kudos to The Partner for even thinking to look at the zoning map, despite the late date. If it was up to me, we'd be moved in, cavorting in the swimming pool, only to notice the crevass of a waste facility or the spires of a power plant manifesting itself next door. So, we wait to get through the voice mail jungle of the town office in order to find out who owns this wooded property and what the plans are for it. As if I needed more of an excuse to procrastinate packing.

One of my grandmothers--The Partner's father's mother--was a German who immigrated to the United States just before Hitler came to power. She told the story of her arrival often, but more often than that, she talked of the ship that took her back to her homeland a few years later on a short trip with her young American daugher, Evelyn. Imagine a yearning for home and for family. Imagine the soil of your youth beneath newly calloused feet; imagine your father's voice. Imagine leaving, again. I put her words into mine and let it unfold like this: "The ship ride back to America was fun, but I still wish we hadn’t taken it. There were parties every night, filled with rich, drunk ladies and handsome men. Life for those few weeks was all rollicking card games and booze. The ship was Evelyn’s playground. I wouldn't know she was near till she’d sneak up behind me, low and wiggling, and peek out from between my knees. Sometimes, when I retell that trip, it is as if Evelyn w...

The home inspection I referenced last week is history. Luckily, the sale of our home is not. Though the buyers asked for $20k in credits (yes, 20 thousand smackers), The Partner did not waver in his belief that they were not entitled to a penny more than $5k. After several rounds of negotiations, the buyers came around. Toward the end of the process, right before consensus was reached, I was convinced that the deal would fall through. It turned into one big gamble and I was completely out of my element at the high stakes craps table. But the dice rolled in our favor. The Partner still has his pride and now we have our house. Nevermind that there were times during the stress of it all that I would've preferred my own apartment far away from him. I'm sure he felt the same way about me. At least with the new home, we have more square footage and a couple more acres in which to hide from each other next time life, and our inability to communicate about it, rears its wicked head. S...

I am not sure why The Boss decides she is done eating, mid-bite. I am staring at tight lips that keep those last morsels hidden between teeth and tongue. I am waiting it out. I am getting antsy because she cannot be put down for a nap with a gluey mound of mastication hanging out in her maw. I am telling her to chew, or spit, or do something. I am seeing the stubborn set of her father's jaw in her face. I am thinking about the day before yesterday, when two hours elapsed, but a spoonful of peas and carrots remained. I am watching the line of her lips, which sometimes creases into a v of pink baby flesh, but never parts. I am finally squeezing her cheeks. I am covered in dinner vegetable broken down by saliva into a runny cream of corn. I am sopping it off her body and mine. I am holding her hysterical head. I am singing Old MacDonald Had a Farm. I am moo-ing and cluck-ing and wondering why she must horde food like that. I am asking myself what she's waiting for. Today's pos...

For two weeks, The Boss and I painted the town red in a 2007 Saturn Vue Green Line . We sat pretty at mid-sized-crossover height as I navigated the "mild hybrid"--meaning the gas engine does most of the dirty work, with the electric motor kicking in only when the car is coasting, braking, or stopped--across the rural landscape of northeastern Connecticut. I don't know where "rural" falls in the city vs. highway miles per gallon assessment, but I imagine it's somewhere between the 27-32 MPG range outlined in the neat, white folder of vital statistics left on the passenger seat when the gentleman from NYC dropped off the car for me to review as part of the Parent Bloggers Network . The first order of business was for The Partner to correct The Boss when she referred to the shiny, forest-green vehicle as a truck. "That is a car," he said. "Car," she repeated. "Good." Lacking in 4 wd , significant ground clearance or anything with...

When I was still in my formative years, skipping with glee through the age before reason, my mother bought me a baseball cap that was bright yellow. The words on the front were "I Look Just Like My Daddy." She purchased it at a tourist gift shop. Because everything was connected in those days, in my mind, I associated that hat with joy. Yellow hats and yellow sun over the ripples of Lake George. Bats screeching through my bedroom at our cottage on the Sacandaga. Terrycloth rompers with zippers, and no shoes. One year nana died back at home while I cannonballed off the dock upstate in New York. In my mind, the water around me is glitter as it arcs toward the shiny azure above, while my scraggly limbs hold tight in a crouch that is sucked into the muddy base of a deeper blue. I looked just like my daddy on those summer vacations and I was so proud. Twenty-five years have passed and so have those genes--those genes that swallow up fathers and regurgitate them in the form of the ...

Today a certified professional is going somewhere no man has gone before (at least not during this home selling process ): the land of the home inspection. That's right. We have a contract. We have co-signers. They have a 3 o'clock appointment with the inspector. The Boss, the dog, and I are getting ready to make like trees and leave. When we return to the finished inspection, it won't be long till we find out if we have a reason to start packing. My pessimism is starting to fade to the point that I need to fight to get it back into clearer focus. I do not embrace positivity. I abhor disappointment. So when I look around my house now and see it as something that is on the verge of becoming someone else's, I must banish the picture. I have to remind myself that it is still very much ours. And that's okay, because that's just fine. For the past three years and for now, it's home. It is a wonderful place to be. If only until June 15. Edited to add: I just dis...

I'll admit it. The Boss is obsessed with, as she calls it, the "TB." That's television, for those of you not familiar with Boss-speak. She can sit there with her face in front of the boob tube (I guess that would be the " boobie-tube " to The Boss) for hours if I let her. Another admission: sometimes I do let her, like when I'm scrubbing down the bathroom for a house showing or mopping the kitchen floor or blogging. Generally, she gets a half hour of TV time a day. I've read this is an acceptable amount for the two-and-under set. In case anyone has a problem with that, I'd like to present Exhibit A: The Boss, at 21 months of age, spouting off the phonetics of each and every letter of the alphabet whenever prompted either verbally or with pictures of the letters. Come to think of it, maybe if she saw the abbreviation "TV" in print, she'd realize it's pronounced "tee-vee" and not "tee-bee." But this is not abo...

The opinions expressed herein do not necessarily reflect those of the blog owner. Women are bad with money My first thought when approached to write this column was, “Great, how do I address the investments I believe most pertinent to women without appearing sexist?” The answer is I cannot, so I'll do my best and hope I do not get flamed too heavily. In truth, I'll be discussing the most important investment you can make as a man or a woman: your own financial willpower . Sound too tree-hugger pot-smoking hippy liberal chakra-aligning for you? A little too "motivational speaker" for you? It's not, read on. If you take away nothing else from this article, take away this: your attitude towards spending and the execution thereupon will determine your financial success and stability throughout your life . Saving is actually pretty easy, you just need to stop spending. If you stop spending then you're automatically saving. Simple. In many cases, however, this can r...

I have a friend who reads this blog and is, understandably, surprised by the community of commenters that many mutha bloggas elicit. "You've got some enthusiastic supporters out there, huh?" Boz mentioned over lunch this past weekend. "Um, yeah, I guess you could say that. That's how we mommybloggers are. Supportive. Enthusiastic. Yup." And so I got to thinking, not just about my own blog, but about this momosphere in general; and how sunshine, in the form of bright rays of light being continuously blown up people's asses, can get to be cloying. You must know what I mean. Those long rows of comments all praising the hilarity, or the eloquence, or the heart-wrenchinging-ness, or the yes-yes-that's-exactly-the-way-I-feelingness of a given post in a given blog. I've written my fair share of those comments, don't get me wrong. In those cases, that's the only way I can convey how powerfully someone else's words affected me. With some blog...

The Boss is meticulous. Could we be any more different? I brush my teeth for a minute and a half, she brushes hers for five. I leave the toilet lid up, she puts it down. I forget to shut a door, she closes it. I wipe my palms on the leg of my jeans, while she insists on a soapy cloth for her "hands, hands, hands!" Her play space is as neat when she leaves it as it was when she first sat down with her books, her pull toys, or her Magna Doodle. Her happy mantra, melodious in its chirring chime, is "put back! Put back!" I think it's a little early for her opposition to be a conscious reaction to me. And I hope that we're too far along for it to be a phase. I relish the idea of having a neat little person in the house to help compensate for my shortcomings. I am not training her to be my maid, but far be it from me to deny her the opportunity to run a Swiffer duster over all furniture under 36 inches tall. When my brother was The Boss's age, the day could no...

Outside enjoying sun STOP No time to blog STOP Regularly scheduled postings will resume Monday STOP