Bring on the vaccine or a flood…

Happy New Year! Thank you Georgia; thank you Stacey Abrams. Thank you to my child’s preschool. I feel grateful for every day that BB is in school.

When we started in September, we thought three days a week was good. I cannot express how wrong we were. I shot out an SOS email and we switched to four days. If her school had space, she’d be going for five.

They say Americans have been drinking more. All I know is that RB’s 4th word is “cheers.”

And in the morning she drinks straight from her pretend coffee pot, which is what I’d do if it weren’t for Captain.

Christmas was good. Only problem was that Santa brought presents for RB too.

BB’s survival instincts are unstoppable. Faced with plenty of food, love, shelter, clothing, attention, toys, she will not relent until RB is screaming because she ripped whatever it was out of her hands.

And RB has perfected the 30 second tantrum. She throws herself face down on the ground, screams, pops up and moves on.

Santa stuffed BB’s stocking full of Frozen underwear. BB asks,

“Have these been washed?”

They have been, but now I see the error of my ways. I ask,

“Do they smell like they’ve been washed?”

“They do!”

“Maybe Mrs. Claus washed them?”

I instantly regret that. Who am I to force stereotypical gender roles on characters I feel very ambivalent about? Neither of whom are doing any laundry.

I’ve had enough of this Santa guy for awhile. Everytime BB misbehaved, not only did I have to tend to that, but then I had to deal with her anxiety over whether or not Santa would still bring her presents. I reassure her for the millionth time,

“You’re going to get Christmas presents no matter what.”

“That’s not what M at school says.”

M is a fellow four-year-old. “I understand she thinks that, but no matter how you behave, there will be presents.”

The next day it happens again: BB screaming, then screaming and crying because of the aforementioned screaming and now worry over presents. Again,

“You will be getting presents.”

“I told M that and she said you’re wrong.”

I have fallen hard and fast. Not only am I no longer seen as all-knowing, I am somewhere below BB’s pre-school peers.

By the last day of school vacation, we’re about to self-destruct.

Despite our living room being overrun with every type of plaything imaginable, Santa did bring presents after all, BB decided to drag the lifejackets out of the basement.

RB was happy to take the lifejacket that BB wasn’t using, but then BB wasn’t going to be happy until she took it away from RB.

With both children screaming, Captain emerges from his “office,” otherwise known as the room next to the screaming. He facilitates the donning and doffing of lifejackets until everyone is happy and there’s no risk of drowning.

BB sighs,

“I can’t wait for the vaccine.”

And you know she’s not talking about the flu. She continues,

“I’m excited to go somewhere.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Anywhere!”

“Anywhere? No place in particular?”

“Everywhere!”

I’m with you girlfriend.

2021? Our underwear is washed, our lifejackets are on, we’re ready for you.

When your new car has a perfectly good door, but you can’t be bothered.
We take water safety very seriously around here.

JoJo Siwa, Santa and the magic of COVID Christmas

This is the most relaxing Christmas season I’ve had in the entire 7 years I’ve been celebrating. There’s the undercurrent of COVID anxiety and missing friends desperately, but a little death threat in the air reminds me that what I have is so much and so precious.

Run Run Rudolph is blasting in the living room. BB starts dance jumping screaming out of her mind,

“This is JoJo Siwa! This is JoJo Siwa!”

“Who?”

“JoJo Siwa. I didn’t know this was her song!”

“It’s not. She’s covering it.”

“It is. She’s singing it.”

I let it go. Not my hill to die on. I ask Captain,

“Do you know who JoJo Siwa is?”

“No.”

This is the beauty of him working next to the kitchen. I can ask him any number of important questions at anytime.

I head to the internet. I now know that I’m super out of touch and it’s amazing we’ve gone this long without knowing about her. Kinda like the year I avoided ever hearing the Baby Shark song.

JoJo Siwa seems to be responsible for all unicorns, rainbows and glitter. She’s also the creator of 7,000 different bows. BIG bows. But you probably already know this.

Turns out the Hanukkah bow I bought for BB, super big and sparkly BTW, is a JoJo Siwa bow. Which according to BB is a good thing.

Google informed me that she’s huge with the toddler set. I could’ve told you that considering all BB’s knowledge about her was from other 4-year-olds at school.

I don’t know where we go from here. Is it too late to pretend I still have no idea who she is? I did learn she has a nacho machine in her kitchen. Something I could aspire to.

We’re ready for Santa. BB continues to ask a gazillion questions. I don’t know how long this tale can hold up to the interrogations.

“Do the reindeer come down the chimney?”

“No way. Just Santa.”

“Then how do they eat the carrots?”

SHOOT.

“Maybe they do come down the chimney? Ask Dad. He’s the expert.”

Captain offers,

“Santa goes around to the front door and lets them in.”

The front door and lets them in?!? I confront him later. I have an excuse, but shouldn’t he have this Santa story sorted out?

Now Santa just needs to decide if the presents go inside or outside the baby gate. Maybe both sides? It could keep the little people from killing each other. RB is happy to open all presents. BB will lose her mind if RB breathes on anything belonging to BB. And BB will be desperate to play with a baby stacking toy if it means taking it away from RB.

Let the magic begin.

Stage 5 ornament grabber

Who knows what else we’d own if the pandemic didn’t hamper my Home Goods outings

Pandemic Hanukkah was a success or so say my Hanukkah gnomes. Yes, we’ve jumped the shark.

A week ago, with an extra 15 minutes before BB’s school pick up, I pop into Home Goods. My thought was that I was going to grab Hanukkah wrapping paper and get out of there.

I was in a month ago and had already scoured their Hanukkah section. This time I couldn’t find it. I ask an employee,

“Is there still a Hanukkah section?”

She points behind me to a shelf surrounded by Christmas gnomes. I wander over. HANUKKAH GNOMES! WHAT?! I didn’t even know they existed and I don’t even have a shopping cart. I hold a couple in my arms and contemplate the check out line.

I don’t think I’m going to make it. I need to go get BB and these gnomes are ridiculous, unnecessary and the very definition of an impulse purchase. I put them down. I say goodbye to them. I linger. I stroke one of their beards.

I pick BB up from school. The beauty of school is that she always comes home ready to play independently. Off she goes. I put RB down for her afternoon nap.

Now I’m in a panic. I NEED those gnomes. What if someone bought them already? I throw on my coat about to rush out the door. BB exclaims,

“Where are you going? Please take me!”

A symptom of this pandemic is that she’s desperate to get out of the house for any reason. I sigh. Unprompted she says,

“I won’t ask for anything. I won’t touch anything. I’ll do what you say. I’ll stay right with you. I’ll wear my mask. I won’t talk.”

That last one sounds like a stretch, but I hear her desperation. I take her along.

We select several gnomes, a couple Hanukkah throws, a sign and some hand towels. So much for just the gnomes.

BB and I arrange them on the newly wrapped plywood air-conditioner cover. Looks meant to be.

BB runs to Captain excited to show him. The gnomes still have their tags on, as if I’d return them.

Captain studies the display. Half resigned, half smiling, because who can’t resist those adorable nose beard faces? He says,

“We’re in uncharted territory now.”

From left to right: Harry, Gimel and Snow
Can’t go wrong with these, one size fits most!

Pandemic Hanukkah and Christmas = anything goes?

Being a Jew with two Jewish parents, there were no Christmas decorations in our home when I was growing up, but that didn’t stop me from having opinions about them.

It seemed to me colored lights were the only way to go. Why go to the trouble of decorating if it’s just going to be boring white lights?

At some point things changed, maybe when I was however old you are when you eat vegetables.

By the time I met Captain I favored white lights and a “classic” take on Christmas decorations.

Three years ago when we moved to the land of suburbia, Captain and I couldn’t have agreed more about the direction of our holiday decorating.

One year later I ask Captain,

“What do you think about a snowman by the back door?”

“Eh. I think it’s tacky.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

The next year I mention,

“I’m still thinking about a light-up snowman.”

“I don’t know…”

And considering I had a newborn baby, places to go, people to see, I didn’t give the snowman another thought.

Now here we are. Pandemic meets holiday times. Our decorations came out weeks ago. We’ve been home, home, home and there are only so many times I can listen to,

“Mom is it time to decorate now?”

So everything came out. It was a week before Thanksgiving, but Hanukkah is early this year, so maybe that makes it ok?

I tell Captain,

“I’m going to Home Depot and thinking about getting a light-up snowman.”

“Really? I don’t know.”

“Let me rephrase that. I’m going to Home Depot to buy a light-up snowman.”

I also went down the Hanukkah internet rabbit hole. How have I managed to celebrate for 38 years without a light-up, menorah, throw pillow for the couch?

Back from Home Depot and with no back door, our only choice is to have our light-up snowman out front. BB and I set it up. She is over the moon. She talks to him. Hugs and kisses him. Worries about him when the weather turns. I tell Captain,

“The only thing we need now are some of those light-up presents for the other side of the front door.”

“What?!”

But I’ve worn him down. Because you know there are presents out there.

I run the whole thing by a Christian neighbor. Which is probably all of them. I relay to her Captain’s concerns about being “that” house with the tacky decorations. She offers,

“A snowman is within the realm of normal for this neighborhood.”

Next year it may be time for one of those giant inflatable menorahs, which is NOT in the realm of “normal,” but is anything anymore?

No more election weighing me down, just a small person on my head

My Vice-President Kamala Harris action figure doll just arrived. Technically it’s a Hanukkah present for BB.

Don’t underestimate the little kiddos. After weeks of hearing about Dump and Biden, BB heard us mention Harris. She said,

“A woman? I only heard you talking about two guys.”

“Yes, a woman vice-president!”

“A woman!” Her face lighting up.

It can’t come too soon. Dump in the white house is like my children playing in their rooms unattended. I don’t know what they’re up to, but I know it’s no good.

RB continues on her path of showing me how different two sisters can be. Seems like a combo of genetics and birth order.

BB made me work for my sleep until I gave up and started bed sharing. Then magically at 11 months she didn’t need me anymore and then unmagically at 18 months decided she did need someone. At which point she had night weaned herself and Captain was in the bedsharing, mat-on-the-floor rotation.

RB shows zero signs of not needing me for sleep. And is nowhere close to night weaning. A couple months ago she was in the mode of a snack every hour or so. I broke her of that.

When I did that with BB, she ended up rolling away from me and going to sleep without touching me.

Which in retrospect is very much like BB, she’s not a big hugger or into physical contact, even pre-pandemic.

RB is the opposite. When faced with no boob to suckle herself back to sleep with, she does not roll away. She rolls on top of me. If I let her, she will fall asleep with her cheek pressed against mine.

This is impossibly adorable, sweet, loving, the best, a little bit of heaven on a good day at 7pm. At 4am, ANY day, it is another story.

When she’s zonked and I start to slip away, her arm flies out and clamps down on my shirt like someone rising from the dead.

The king-size, floor mat means nothing to RB. We might as well just have a twin. And if I was feeling the slightest bit nostalgic: like someday my kiddos won’t even live with me nevermind sleep on my head, BB has other ideas.

We get off the phone with my mom. BB places her hand on my arm, looks me in the eye and says,

“I’m sorry your mom left you.”

“Thank you, but it’s kinda the other way around.”

“What do you mean?”

“When kids grow up, they want to move out.”

“Not me! I want to live with you forever, can I live with you forever?”

“Sure. RB too?”

“No, she’ll move out.”

Of course she will.

BB informs me that her future children, who will be living with me as well, will be named: Taylor Swift, Laurie Berkner and Buttercup.

Sounds like I’ll have two grandchildren destined to become musicians and one will be a pony.

My life.
Note all are 3+ except AOC is 14+. Is that a joke?

Where should we live if the commuter rail means nothing anymore?

I voted. Crossed all my fingers and toes. Said a prayer. Internally swore at some Drump flags. Put on some hand sanitizer. Said another prayer. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE don’t make me google how to get Canadian citizenship again.

The pandemic has me feeling unmoored. Why do we live here? Why this town? If Captain may never return to his office. We could live anywhere.

Our lives used to revolve around the commuter rail to Boston. It dictated wake-up time, meal times and pick ups and drop offs. Now wake up time is determined by two little people’s internal clocks and meals are dictated by me yelling from the kitchen or BB having a complete meltdown and yelling from wherever. Whichever one comes first.

After another day of Captain feeling grumbly about our living situation, I press the moving question. Are we sure we want to be here?

He gestures to the deck under construction,

“And leave this?”

Yes, it would be hard to leave the part of the deck that is finished. But the plywood part? I’m sure that can be recreated.

Or Captain could just move his home office. Right now it’s adjacent to the kitchen. I can imagine a few other places in the house that would be quieter. Really anywhere else.

He turns the question around to me. Big picture, I’m happy here. We’re close to Boston, the Y and Target. I may go to those places again someday.

I love our yard and our neighborhood. Even if the next-door neighbors now have COVID and Captain may never let BB play with anyone ever again.

Faced with no vastly superior options, we could be here another 17 years. Either that or Canada.

Curtis Construction Company: count on perfection, pray for completion

2020 I’m waving a white flag over here. You took Justice Ginsburg. That’s enough now. And on Rosh Hashanah no less, as fitting as that may be.

BB tells me,

“We’re not Jews.”

“Why do you say that?”

“We don’t look like Jews.”

“What do Jews look like?”

“They wear grass skirts.”

I have NO idea where this information is coming from. She goes to a Jewish preschool with Jewish kids who look all sorts of ways: mainly small and 2 to 5 years old. I have not seen anyone in grass skirts.

Jews aside, Captain is building a deck.

Not just any deck. A dry deck with a third garage bay and more square footage than the condo we used to live in.

We’re in year 2 of construction. I was never tempted to blog about it before, but dire times call for home improvement blogs. Or really whatever material I can scrounge up around the house.

I was under no delusions that it would be finished last year. And this year doesn’t seem to be its year either. Maybe next year.

We’ve been home since March, but the pandemic induced inertia is real around here. There are so many little projects I could’ve, should’ve done by now, but I keep thinking,

“Maybe tomorrow. Or maybe next month. Or maybe when we have a new president.”

We’ve been hanging out on the part of the deck that’s finished. It’s 5 feet off the ground with no railings.

Captain is as sick of it as I am, so it’s nice to have someone to commiserate with about it. As we snuggled on the couch and complained, I sighed and said,

“The good news is RB won’t even remember this.”

On second thought, I turn to him and say in my most serious voice,

“This better not go on long enough for her to remember it.”

Captain starts daydreaming about the changes we want to make to the kitchen. I used to enjoy planning this too. Now I tell him,

“Nope. I will die in this 1980’s kitchen before we remodel it for 3 years.”

2021 I hope to see you soon, feel free to bring some good news: a new president, 13 Supreme Court justices and a deck with railings and stairs.

Shanah Tovah.

Our overburdened dishwasher just quit

We’re home and our dishwasher is broken. This may be what sends me back to therapy.

Like many of us, I’m totally fine and about to lose it. I just didn’t know the dishwasher would be the tipping point.

The Cape doesn’t even have a dishwasher. Maybe that’s in its favor. It makes no pretense of anything washing the dishes besides a person.

As the dishwasher-detergent subscriptions pile up, Captain is on the case. He’s fixed the fridge, the washing machine and the clothes dryer so I have faith even if we did call some repair people.

They’re backed up. Everyone’s dishwashers are breaking. Should’ve know. It’s another symptom of this pandemic, just like the backorder on exercise bikes, puppies and sweatpants.

I made that up. They better never run out of sweatpants.

We’re headed back to the Cape as soon as possible, but being there without Captain has brought BB’s lingering jealousy into relief.

At 6 am I’m jolted awake. BB’s little face is peering at me over the side of the bed. She whispers,

“I’m your first baby.”

“Yes! Of course!”

GOOD GRIEF and with that RB startles awake and starts wailing.

Never thought I’d get to the beach by 8am, but this is my year.

With Captain around to play Barbies and otherwise dote on BB, she couldn’t care less that RB is in bed with me. Without him around, she’s inclined to snatch every single toy away from her sister regardless of whether the toy is something she truly wants to play with.

She grabs a pot and pan lid from RB. RB screams. I mention,

“RB was playing with that.”

“But I NEED it.”

“You need it?”

“I don’t have any cymbals.”

And for many reasons this is about when we leave for the beach.

BB asks,

“Who do you love more?”

I have answered this question several ways. This time I try a new tactic,

“You love Frozen right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you love Frozen I or Frozen II?”

“Can I watch Frozen II?”

Sigh.

I pop into my obgyn office to get a mysterious spot checked out. No kids allowed. Yes I really had a spot. All is well. The doctor asks,

“Any postpartum depression?”

“No.” But can I tell you about my dishwasher?

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Anyone else’s almost 4-year-old very good at issuing orders?

Are we still counting the weeks? Seems like right around that time with a newborn baby, when you start saying their age in months.

Staying home, month 3. Pretty sure we’ll be talking about this in years. Or however long it is until there’s a vaccine.

How crazy can we get until there’s a vaccine? Hugging everyone all day long? That’s what I used to do. Oh hi, let me give you a hug. Bye, how about another hug? Someone’s left over food? I’ll eat that and hug them too if they want.

Mother’s Day, whenever that was, started with hugs from the people I’m still allowed to touch. And a baby handover because as huggable as she is, I’ll have my bed to myself for Mother’s Day morning thank you very much.

Yes I started this Mother’s Day post a week ago. I’m not sure what’s going on around here, but it isn’t quiet alone-time conducive for blogging.

BB took the obligatory breakfast-in-bed to new levels. She ordered,

“Do NOT come out of your room.” And slammed the door.

Who am I to argue with that? Although I did try to come out for more coffee and was rebuffed.

Every morning I eat a chocolate with my coffee. I mention this to BB. She tells me,

“After you eat your breakfast.”

Being confined to my room has its limitations.

Can’t remember exactly when normal life resumed. It was still morning, but BB had one more trick up her sleeve. Again she told me to make myself scarce, but only after supplying her with a box, wrapping paper and a bow.

I gave her all the aforementioned plus some tissue paper. She rebukes me,

“I don’t know why you’re giving me tissue paper.”

I don’t know.

I was made to wait until dinner to open it, but it was worth it: a Mother’s Day crown made from dandelions, creeping vinca, crayons and emoji stickers.

BB led Captain in a rendition of “Happy Mother’s Day to you,” to the tune of the birthday song.

I didn’t know I needed a crown, but once I had it on, the day felt complete.

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No thanks pants! But maybe some clean underwear

Week 7. I’m turning into a pair of sweatpants.

I’ve been getting dressed. Not always sweatpants, often leggings. NEVER jeans. Usually a bra. I’m still leaking milk. If it weren’t for that, it would be no bra.

The rest of my family may also be turning into lounge wear.

On average I do the laundry once a week. RB gets a pass. Her clothing is labeled “sleep ‘n play.”

I’ve seen Captain in jeans. I haven’t washed any, so maybe they’ve been worn twice?

And now BB. As I sorted her laundry, it became clear the parenting around here is really slipping.

For all of last week, there was one pair of pants. No dresses. There were several pairs of jammies, but not enough to make up for the missing pants and 3 pairs of underwear. Three pairs of underwear for the entire week.

I’m not sure what happened. But every week is a fresh start. And we’re doing about the same this week. Maybe upping the underwear count.

We have never had more family time. And if I thought I was irritable. BB is fed up.

The other day the bathroom hand towel was on the floor where BB usually leaves it. I step over it on my way to the toilet.

Week three I stopped and hung it back up. Week five I tried to stop caring. Week seven I really don’t care.

I’m sitting on the toilet, being as quiet as possible, hoping no one will find me. BB shouts,

“Can you hang that back up?”

I say nothing. She storms in,

“Fine. If you’re not going to do it, I’ll do it myself.”

And she really does hang the hand towel back up, so that’s nice.

RB starts fussing. BB exclaims,

“Hold your horses, I’ll tend to you in a minute.”

I mention her pre-school zoom meeting is about to start. BB plops in her chair,

“I’m going to tell them to make this quick.”

Good.

We’re here. We’re holding our horses. And occasionally changing our underwear.

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Grocery delivery for the win, but who’s hoarding gefilte fish?

Safe at home week 5. Passover and Easter, check.

I had a precious grocery delivery scheduled for a few days before Passover. I was hoping to get things for the seder, including a 3 pound ish beef roast.

I unpacked the groceries. I didn’t disinfect them. We got a lot of what we needed and a few substitutions.

There were no chocolate chips, so they substituted coconut milk. There was no gefilte fish. Who bought all the gefilte fish? And then I pulled half a cow out of one bag.

It was a $60, nine-pound beef roast. Holy shmolies. Of all the years to have enough meat to feed all the Jews in my town.

Yes, there aren’t many Jews here. Which makes me wonder about the gefilte fish.

I called Peapod. It was the last thing I wanted to do. I’ll suck up the $4 for coconut milk that won’t turn into chocolate chip cookies, but $60?

Peapod tells me,

“We’re experiencing high call volumes.” CLICK

They didn’t even let me stay on hold. I finally get through. They give me a $35 refund for 6 pounds of beef I wasn’t expecting and I got to keep it! A Passover miracle.

The day of the seder arrives. The chunk of cow is on the table. BB has so many questions and that’s in addition to her required 4 questions.

I don’t know where the Jewish seder references fall with my readership, but had to go for that one.

We’ve been very open with BB about where meat comes from. She’s always enjoyed it and in the past has said things like,

“More piggy please!”

All of a sudden she’s very concerned about the cow.

“Is the cow not at the farm anymore? How did it die? Where did all the blood come from?   Why do we eat it?”

“Some people don’t eat meat. You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“Why?”

“Many reasons including it’s not nice to the animals.”

“What about plants? Is it not nice to eat plants?”

“I don’t know about that, but we’ve gotta eat something.”

We ate this 9 pound roast for 4 nights and I’m still snacking on it a week later. BB’s questions were unrelenting. She seemed ready to swear off all meat. I mention,

“Just so you know, hot dogs, meatballs and dino chicken nuggets are all made from animals.”

These are three of her five favorite food groups.

As we filled the kiddush cup for Elijah, BB started sobbing. BB is terrified of all these characters: Santa, the Easter Bunny, Elijah, life-size Elsa.

Saturday night she sits down with Captain to make a list for the Easter Bunny. I mention,

“It’s a little late for this, the Easter Bunny finalized orders 2 weeks ago.”

Captain offers,

“Maybe you can guide us in the right direction? Jelly beans?”

“Chocolate.”

Not that jelly beans were sold out, it’s more why would the Easter Bunny bring something that I don’t want to eat?

BB leaves her lists in the living room and goes to bed. Using brown paint, Captain covers her lists with bunny footprints.

Easter morning she’s thrilled, but she has questions, so many questions.

“The bunny had muddy feet? Where did the bunny get muddy? Is it on the carpet?”

Seems like all of this can’t hold up to much more scrutiny.

After a breakfast of chocolate bunnies, chocolate eggs and more chocolate eggs, BB poops in the potty, which is usually rewarded with a treat. I offer one. BB replies,

“Too many treats. Maybe tomorrow.”

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I’ve spotted my first gray hairs

What day is it? I’m delirious. I have everything in the world to be thankful for and I am. There’s even a sign in my kitchen that says,

“Start each day with a grateful heart.”

I do. I am. I’m also on the verge of losing it.

At the beginning of this I thought: ‘Oh good, time at home. I can recover from my postpartum hair loss and I’ll get all that stuff done that I’ve been meaning to do.’

Lies. All lies. My hair is growing in gray and I’m accomplishing less than when I was able to leave the house. It’s time consuming to compulsively check the news and hit “ignore limit” on every restriction I’ve set on my phone.

In an effort to cut ties, I started putting my phone in the kitchen cabinet. Sometimes this works.

In the vacuum void where a color-coded daily schedule would be, there has emerged a routine. Or at least things that usually happen:

Coffee. Non-negotiable.

Solo walks. Even in the rain.

Shower. Every other day. I’ve never been a shower-every-day type of person. No reason to go crazy now.

Preschool zoom meeting and a silent prayer that they don’t mention any more projects I need to do.

Encourage RB to roll over. She’s done it twice and seems to have decided that that’s it. It’s hard having the munchablest thigh rolls I’ve ever munched on.

Snack. When in doubt we all have a snack. Something other than baby legs.

Get BB outside. If it means she rolls down the giant pile of mud in our yard so be it.

Naptime. The ultimate goal of every day is to have both children in their rooms at the same time. Some days it works out better than others. It’s the only hope I have of getting a blog written before fall or whenever kids go back to school.

Now it’s the homestretch. TV. Dinner. Captain emerges from the library/office/toy overflow room. BB is no longer my responsibility.

BED.

Maybe emerge from putting RB to bed.

Back to bed.

Rinse and repeat.

Another sign in my house says: “Every path has its puddles… JUMP IN FEET FIRST.” Yes it’s yelling at me. We’ve definitely hit a puddle and I am doing some jumping. Thanks virtual Zumba.

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