“You need a hobby.”
A simple sentence from a simple man.
This phrase, along with “How much does it cost?,” “When’s dinner?,” and “What’s your plan for the day?,” have me questioning my mental stability and Brian’s chances of survival.
Apparently, chasing a toddler, nursing an infant, clearing a path through the laundry room...
What the hell am I doing? The thought runs through my head at least once a day as my toddler slaps me in the face or forgoes her “big girl potty” for a fully loaded underpant.
Like so many, I believed just having the kid would automatically qualify me to be a great parent, in turn creating the most perfect child. Why would I need to do...
Tonight, forgo dining at your clean dinner table and enjoy your linguine on the pot.
If you really want an authentic meal, try breaking bread while balancing one cheek on, one cheek off, on a McDonald’s throne while a stench hangs heavily in the air, baby jumping each time a toilet flushes, sounding like a jet engine.
This is how...
The battle of the bulge continues (no, this is not some double entendre for avoiding Brian’s man parts). It is now six weeks post-Benson, so I have no excuse to not go back to the gym. Thirty-six weeks ago, when I finally made it to my doctor’s office (Margit Lister, I highly recommend), I weighed in at a voluptuous 164. ...
The first wail of your newborn brings indescribable relief, tricking your brain into thinking everything is going to be OK.
Elation blanketed me when my doctor laid Benson on my chest, and my husband’s warm breath tickled my cheek, both of us watching our little baby, covered in goop, squirm and scream. That’s a vivid memory I hope to...
