May 20 2009
Happy anniversary
A few years ago, I remember receiving a package from my
mother-in-law. Wondering why she was sending us a gift, I
suddenly realized it was our wedding anniversary -- the day before. I
called Paul at work to wish him a happy anniversary. We both laughed,
blaming our absentmindedness on having a not-sleeping-through-the-night
infant.
But really it was us. Paul and I have a mental block about our
marriage date. We know the month, but the date and year continue to
baffle us. I have no explanation, but am glad we both have anniversary amnesia instead of just one of us.
Before I started writing this, I wrote my guess at our wedding date
on a scrap piece of paper. Pulling out the marriage certificate, I see
I was a day and a year off. After almost 12 years of marriage, seems
I'm getting better at remembering it. Not.
May 8 2009
Chinese fortune cookies
If I owned a Chinese fortune cookie factory, I'd have a special line of fortune cookies just for parents. Here are a few sample cookie verses:
Skills learned when pregnant quickly forgotten.
Teething is temporary.
Expensive toys are easily broken.
Grape Pedialyte? Better have a purple carpet.
Apr 21 2009
Stop touching, start counting
It's an occupational hazard for us work-at-home parents. Family members use your workspace like it's another part of the house. They dump their stuff on your desk, knock over your papers, and goof around with your computer.
Every time Lucie and Nathan come up to my desk, they start touching my things. If there's a book on my desk -- and there's always a book, calendar or notebook on my desk -- they start to flip through it. Or they go into my filing trays and start rifling through the cards and little pieces of paper. If the top drawer is open, they grab a calculator or pen to play with.
I'm not surprised. After all, these are the two kids who are compelled to touch every vending machine in the store. If it has a button, Nathan and Lucie will press it. I've even seen them try to pry open newspaper dispensing machines by pulling on the door over and over again.
I hate it when the kids start messing around with my desk. Then again, a little messing is nothing compared to the psycho bosses and long commutes I used to have. Instead of freaking out every time they touch my stuff, maybe I should count my blessings instead.
