May the Road Rise to Meet You

St. Patrick's Day is tomorrow. I think. I'd have to go check my calendar to be certain. It's not a holiday that I follow closely. When I was a kid, I usually forgot to wear green and spent the day in a perpetual state of anxiety, worrying that I would be pinched.

Now that I'm grown and able to pinch back, I don't dread St. Patrick's Day as much. In fact, I appreciate the annual reminder to plant seeds in trays and begin thinking about my garden. If I get busy this weekend, I should have some nice starters to transfer into the ground over Memorial Day weekend.

Each year, I tell myself that I should make corned beef and cabbage for St. Patrick's Day. Then I forget, and we end up having pizza or something even less Irish for dinner. Speaking of nutrition, I hope you don't use tomorrow as an excuse to overindulge in the drinking of spirits. Do something healthy—take a yoga class. 

Dinner last night: meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, green peas

Exactly two years ago:

Road Trip

So Much for Spring Break

School is on break this week, and my older daughters are shuffling around the house like zombies, while their younger sisters trail after them like, well, like little zombies. Unggghhh. Arrrrgghh. Mommmmm-eeeeeee. I'm so bored! Really? You're BORED? Why don't you all go outside and play? We have a huge backyard with a trampoline and a playhouse and A SWING SET, for crying out loud!

Oh.

Never mind.

Who's up for some cocoa and a game of Monopoly?

Dinner last night: chicken enchiladas, Spanish rice, corn

Exactly one year ago:

Thinking of Mom

Lupine, Meet Your Grumpy Aunt Daisy

I've been thinking that our dog, Daisy, needs a little companion. I asked my husband what he thought about getting a puppy. I expected a giant snort and overdramatic rolling of the eyes, but the guy surprised me when he shrugged his shoulders and said, "Sure."

An 8-week-old beagle puppy is just about the cutest thing on earth.
Unfortunately, Daisy does not agree with this sentiment and
refuses to acknowledge Lupine's pleas to play with her.

Dog babies are a lot like human babies; they mostly eat, sleep, and poop. Unlike human babies, however, puppies are born with little teeth that they like to sharpen on my earlobes. Our new puppy doesn't nip anybody else's ears—just mine. What's up with that? I am a fragrant flower. Or possibly an aromatic dog biscuit.

So far, Lupine has not had to sleep by herself. The girls are on Spring Break from school, so Little Baby Lupine can nap throughout the day on various family members. She likes to snuggle up against our warm throats, which sounds vaguely menacing, but is actually quite sweet. She fits nicely in the cozy space between our chin and chest, and is lulled to sleep by our heartbeats. My 11-year-old daughter can't bear to hear Lupine whimper in her crate at night and keeps sneaking the little dog into her bed to slumber peacefully next to her.

This puppy is spoiled rotten, is what I'm trying to say.



Dinner last night: Mexican lasagna, garlic bread, corn, green salad

Finally, Swim Lessons

I'm embarrassed to admit this, but my twin daughters have reached the age of 5 without ever taking swim lessons. My first child was a whopping 6 months old when I took her to the YMCA for a Mommy and Me swim class. My second daughter was around 9 months when I enrolled her. (I'm not exaggerating. I read once that infancy provides a tiny window of opportunity when babies instinctively "swim" and it's smart to get them in the pool before they lose their natural ability to hold their breath and use their limbs to propel them through the water, so I had them in the pool before the age of one.) But the twins? The mere thought of trying to wrangle them into swimsuits and usher them through a locker room into the pool area was too exhausting to actually attempt. Forget about trying to get them out of the water and then peeling off wet garments from their skin. I'm too old and frail.

After we spent Christmas break in Hawaii, I realized that I need to teach them how to float properly and to tread water. They've figured out how to hold their breath, dive under, and move like porpoises across the pool. When they come up for air, however, they don't know how to bob in place with their head above water. Time to get some real training.

The twins have completed two lessons now, and they're doing great. More than great. FANTASTIC. They have been waiting so long to learn how to swim correctly that they are listening and obeying and practicing. The problem isn't in the pool . . . it's in the locker room.

My daughters have no sense of personal boundaries, and will walk right up to a lady who is undressing to stare at her turbaned hair. "Cool! How do you do that?"

They'll comment loudly about an elderly woman with a thick middle, "Did you see that lady's tummy?! She's going to have a baby!"

Every naked person is announced to the world with shrieks of "She's NAKED!" Yeah, it's always a good time when my kids run through the ladies' locker room. But I most dread after the girls have showered and dressed and I get to comb their long, wet hair. They cry—no, make that EMIT BLOODCURDLING SCREAMS—as though they're being tortured, begging me to stop. "Please, Mommy! No! NO! NOOOOOOO! It hurts, Mommy! You pull too hard!" These protestations are yelled before I've even begun, so you can imagine the volume of their vocalizations once I actually start pulling a comb through their tresses.

I think the elderly lady who most certainly is not pregnant might secretly enjoy hearing their screams of pain.



Dinner last night: baked chicken, mashed potatoes, corn, green salad

Exactly one year ago:

Tomato, Tomahto

Exactly two years ago:

Just in Time for Spring Break . . . 

Next Time I'm Bringing a Seat Cushion

My 11-year-old daughter started taking ice skating lessons two years ago, and has performed with her class in Christmas shows. After this past December, she decided she would like to try competing. What? Gulp. Despite being a lifelong Alaskan, I've only ever skated a couple times on frozen ponds. All I remember is that my feet hurt. I don't know the foggiest about what's involved in figure skating competitions. This world of ice arenas and sparkly costumes and stone-faced judges sitting all in a row is new and mysterious and scary.

My rear-end fell asleep on the cold, hard bleachers. My stomach hurt as I watched my little girl skate out to the middle of the rink to begin her program. She broke into a big smile as she began performing to a song from one of her favorite musicals, Hairspray.

 She won 2nd place.

Not bad for her first time out.

She's begging us to let her enter a second competition to be held in April. Her teacher wants her to compete on the spiral team, which evidently is different than the spin team (?) A spiral by definition is a circular movement, isn't it? Don't ask me about skating lingo. I'm just the nervous mom with a frozen butt sitting on the sidelines trying not to throw up.

Dinner last night: mac and cheese