tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74541392011-07-07T22:02:01.872-05:00one leg at a timecarohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.comBlogger2921100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-22098785979861883122009-08-17T13:24:00.002-05:002009-08-17T13:33:48.518-05:00

A couple of people have told me that the feed over at the new site isn't working (particularly in Bloglines, I think). So if you're somehow still seeing this but haven't gotten any small animals posts through your feed reader for a few weeks, go on over there and check out what beauty has emerged by our kitchen sink.And try resubscribing using the link on the right-hand side...I think that does

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-45409973380810608202009-07-08T21:03:00.001-05:002009-07-08T21:04:41.472-05:00

Go to the new place, really. Things are happening there. Drama. Bravery. Inscrutable metaphors.

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-47824601830526100882009-06-26T16:35:00.006-05:002009-06-26T16:57:41.926-05:00

...Hello, small animals.I'm moving. Wordpress is prettier and easier to use, and what does anything have to do with pants, anyway?I hope to see you over there. And please (pretty please!) update your links if you've been linking to me.

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-91293886985901210882009-06-25T14:09:00.002-05:002009-06-25T14:25:00.477-05:00

Over the past month neither I nor my extended family have experienced any heart attacks, police brutality, terrible prenatal diagnoses, governmental oppression, untimely death, mysterious bacterial infection, bankrupcy, or really anything else awful. (Except for my poor brother and his ruptured appendix, but he's better now.)What we have experienced is the following, in reverse chronological

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-49366444582138928502009-06-19T22:42:00.002-05:002009-06-19T23:02:39.290-05:00

Thanks for the points about the fraught playground discussion. I don't think anyone meant harm, it was just disconcerting, especially the part where I said something innocently and didn't realize until an hour later that it might have sounded snarky. Open exchange of ideas, I keep thinking. Open exchange of ideas.Lots of newsiness here:1. Have launched into full-on M&M bribery with the potty

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-85480615551595825862009-06-15T14:08:00.003-05:002009-06-15T14:34:18.941-05:00

Ok, tell me if you think this conversation was as innocent as it seemed at first, or as fraught as I started to think it was an hour or so later:(K and S are sisters-in-law (of each other, not me) and are both science professors with kids five and under. We went to college together, and we see them about twice a year, including this weekend at the megaplayground.)K: So is Ingrid in preschool now?

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-23515382200880040892009-06-14T21:59:00.004-05:002009-06-14T22:19:33.154-05:00

I've really been itching to write, but I spent Saturday at a twelve-hour wedding that was lovely but wore me the fuck out. Then this morning we drove to the suburbs to meet out-of-town friends at a blazing hot mega-playground where one hundred white children scrambled up and down four stories of ladders and chutes and their mamas sat on park benches under umbrellas reading books like Transforming

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-27653335694405786762009-06-04T14:24:00.011-05:002009-06-06T13:40:22.140-05:00

I spent last Saturday evening on the small-town campus where I went to college, at a retirement party for a professor of mine, Anne. Anne is amazing by pretty much any measure: a brave progressive in a conservative religious tradition, a Roman Catholic nun on a liberal, secular campus, smart as can be, and unrelentingly conscientious. She's had cancer for seven years. She refuses to rush. She

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-13610901816040661872009-05-27T21:48:00.003-05:002009-05-27T22:57:40.910-05:00

Dear Library,Before I get into the hard stuff, Library, I want to tell you that I've always loved you. You were one of my first favorite places. For you I learned to write my full name, small and neatly, at age four, to fit on the signature line of my very own library card. You outfitted me, at age nine, for my first-ever term paper, "Climate Zones of the World," with great patience. You were a

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-57724059219036963252009-05-20T21:10:00.002-05:002009-05-20T21:25:31.456-05:00

Tonight at bathtime, Ingrid stumbled on the concept of infinity, but, like many people staring down the unending, felt more comfortable imposing limits on it:She: ...twenty eight, twenty nine, thirty!Me: All the way to thirty by yourself! Know what comes after thirty?She: Um. Thirty...two?Me: Thirty one.She: And then thirty two! And thirty three!Me: You got it.She: (plays in the water for a while

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-90155837137838522492009-05-09T21:16:00.003-05:002009-05-09T22:42:08.906-05:00

As a kid, I loved to read and couldn't put a good book down until it was done. I'd sneak a flashlight or, later, a night light plugged into an extension cord, under the covers. I stayed awake as late as my eyes would stay open, turning pages. One night when I was six, very late, trying to reach a book on the far side of the bookshelf without leaving my bed, I fell and landed awkwardly on my

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-39174415433036106852009-05-05T21:37:00.004-05:002009-05-05T21:49:28.467-05:00

"Mama," Ingrid stalled as I tried for the third time to leave her room so she could start her nap. "Somebody on Signing Time signs donkey like this." She held her left thumb to her temple and flapped her fingers down toward her chin."Uhh huh," I said. "It's time to sleep, kiddo.""But! Bu-bu-but Rachel does it like this." She put her thumb on her temple and flapped her fingers upward."Well, I bet

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-22109422109300385782009-05-04T13:11:00.005-05:002009-05-04T13:52:35.970-05:00

I know, that wasn't fair. Grumpy list of grumpy things, followed by one of those weird posts that no one knows what to say about.Thank you for saying nice things to me after that grumpy post. Especially girlfiend, who I hadn't even known was reading, who gave me some type of award on her blog, which I'll pass on sometime soon, when I get to it.Mostly I was grumpy because of the reentry thing,

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-82750086236030189942009-04-28T21:11:00.002-05:002009-04-28T21:25:42.889-05:00

The spring we were waiting for Ingrid to be born, the end of April was just the perfect time I’d been envisioning. Whenever I hauled my big pregnant self up the stairs in our house, I could see, through the sky-blue room that would belong to our baby, the whole white-framed window full of the pear tree outside and its plump blossoms against the sky.I’d folded stacks of onesies and assembled a

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-78964671563473349212009-04-15T10:35:00.005-05:002009-04-15T14:29:48.101-05:00

The new $70 USB-powered hard drive I bought for work but didn’t have the heart to ask my struggling employer to reimburse me for wouldn’t work. A fixed it last night after I accused him of making my life less efficient. Glad he could do it, but felt incompetent. And guilty. My iPod wouldn’t work for some reason, then mysteriously started working, but with no clear connection to any of the five

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-85856473356723168522009-04-13T13:10:00.008-05:002009-04-13T13:25:02.062-05:00

A got home Thursday night. I am relieved, tired, and suddenly more prone to complaining than I have been any time in the past two and a half months. Also, catching up on emails, and hoping I can now squeeze in more writing time than I've been able to lately. Phew.

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-10176511182630627432009-04-01T21:09:00.003-05:002009-04-01T21:36:13.536-05:00

Long ago, back when I feared I might never have any children, I wrote a poem. I've written a medium-sized pile of poems in the five—no, wait, six! God!—years since then, but this is still one of my favorites.I'd never published a poem, or even tried to, but late one night when Ingrid was just a little chunky thing, I saw that Shannon had published an essay in an online journal called Literary

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-14814458452668143772009-03-28T13:41:00.004-05:002009-03-28T14:42:58.856-05:00

For a while it made me feel mighty. Packing everybody up on work and school mornings, in charge of every sock and toothbrush and lunch bag and favorite lovey. Or muscling us all back into the house after a trip to the grocery store, a toddler flailing under one arm and a week’s worth of groceries slung over the other. In private, I practiced my barbaric maternal roar. I can do this! By myself!

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-75467883242579076252009-03-26T08:59:00.000-05:002009-03-26T08:59:01.001-05:00

(Melissa nailed it: grapefruit. If I asked you to guess the age, would you say three months? You'd be right. Thanks for playing.)I typed a representative sample of the stuff I say over and over and over into Wordle, and here's what I got. Sheesh. I need to calm down and take off my watch for a week or two. And then I put my blog url in. First reaction: Oh, crap, I spelled fuchsia wrong. Second

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-65631744080015706252009-03-24T15:58:00.000-05:002009-03-24T15:58:00.503-05:00

I know I promised no more compost photos for a while, but I love the texture and weight of this. And besides, I found it—ahem—in my fridge like this. The compost bin is just where it happened to end up.

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-21936654982539671252009-03-23T15:48:00.000-05:002009-03-23T15:48:00.610-05:00

A tiny bit of thumb weirdness aside, the mittens were much, much easier to knit than I thought they'd be. Quick, even.I made the "Small" size, thinking it would work for a smallish adult, but it turned out they really meant small, so I ended up shortening the pattern a bit to make them fit Ingrid. They're pretty long on her, but that's good. It'll keep the snow out of her coat. Unsurprisingly,

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-82783954925361298082009-03-21T21:26:00.003-05:002009-03-21T21:35:42.733-05:00

Spring is a marvelous time for the faithless. You believers know all winter long that one day the snow will melt and we’ll all voluntarily hang around outdoors without our coats. You picture the tulip bulbs hoarding their little lives under the frozen ground, and you’re sure that in a few months you’ll see those first bright leaves push their way up. Me, I picture sunken patches in the soil under

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-25083066996809292412009-03-15T21:15:00.003-05:002009-03-15T21:33:23.129-05:00

I vaguely remember taking this picture a few months ago and deciding not to post it. I don't know what that stuff is. Something caramelized—maybe broth that boiled over? I decided not to use it because I was ashamed of the surrounding mess. You know, that...stuff in the center of the burner, and ew....what is that?But lately I've been coming across a lot of blogs that are just too lovely. You

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-2517079650669404572009-03-10T21:42:00.001-05:002009-03-10T21:52:13.537-05:00

One time I peed my pants. It was December 1994. I was in Kathmandu. I’d spent the past month in the mountains in western Nepal, a long bus ride from the capital to a lowland town, then a short flight to a mountain village, then a three-day hike to the cluster of huts where I hung out for those weeks, chilled, often homesick, usually lost, and mostly unsuccessful in the little research project I’d

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-1709698285652433062009-03-07T14:48:00.003-06:002009-03-07T15:00:27.991-06:00

This will be a gift, probably for my grandma, who loves the whole family of colors from fuschsia to purple and who this week sent me a birthday card with a photo of a cat on a bar stool licking the back of its paw as if preparing to do a tequila shot. You’d think I wouldn’t have time to complete a knitting project, considering how whenever anyone asks for something useful out of me I go on

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-9295777526808731122009-03-05T22:59:00.002-06:002009-03-05T23:05:02.606-06:00

One of the songs on the girls’ current (constantly played) music class CD is an instrumental version of the Shaker hymn “Simple Gifts.” One day in the car I started singing along with it, mashing up the traditional Shaker lyrics with some of the “Lord of the Dance” version, plus a little fake Copland-esque trumpet fanfare. Ingrid was intrigued, and from then on she wanted me to sing along every

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-4146611541305391552009-03-04T13:35:00.003-06:002009-03-04T14:52:37.489-06:00

I—along with possibly my whole family of origin, and possibly also a bunch of other people from the part of the country where I grew up—pronounce the syllable ul funny. At least, it sounds funny around here. Until A, a purebred Midwesterner, pointed this out, I had no sense that there was any regional variation in this sound. (I was a little like my native Oregonian friend who once nearly

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-61643765844056871072009-03-01T21:13:00.002-06:002009-03-01T21:28:50.034-06:00

Ingrid, at almost four, had never been to McDonalds. I felt sort of smug about it, and also the tiniest bit guilty for depriving her of one of the widely known pleasures of American childhood. Then I heard they were giving away Hello Kitty watches with happy meals. And we were out swimming at the Y and needed a quick dinner. I was kind of bored with the food co-op deli (where we've eaten a lot

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-76325868544305774882009-03-01T14:28:00.003-06:002009-03-01T14:41:49.568-06:00

I’m so deep in this parenting thing that it’s hard to know what to say, here or to any grownup who might ask. I’m moving all the time, or shuffling people along. Socks, shoes, mittens, coats, hats. Shoes, Iris. SHOES! Or mediating. Hmm, we have two girls who want the stuffed kitty, and only one stuffed kitty. What solutions can you think of? Or correcting. Ask nicely. Use a Kleenex. It's ok to

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-1162921960036285592009-02-12T13:47:00.003-06:002009-02-12T14:15:52.911-06:00

Don't tell any of the nice people who are giving me so much sympathy and help during A's long trip, but things are going pretty smoothly here. We're in a rhythm. Occasional drama aside, the girls are pretty fun right now. We keep filling the calendar up with interesting activities. It's a little like rock climbing—as long as I don't look down (check the calendar, like I did the other night, and

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-61506497111945574932009-02-05T14:39:00.004-06:002009-02-05T17:57:49.538-06:00

Ingrid: Mama, I'm cold. Me: Hmm, maybe you should put on a sweatshirt. Ingrid: No, No. Me: (Thinking. Here we go again with the cold catch-22.)Ingrid: My mouth is cold. Me: Your mouth? (mining my memory for diseases that might have this symptom)Ingrid: On the inside. Me: On the inside? (Could she be having a stroke?)Ingrid: Like I need some hot chocolate.

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-30834132486828806642009-01-31T21:26:00.003-06:002009-02-01T14:03:45.792-06:00

A left this morning, after days of frenetic packing and preparations of various kinds, including A teaching me how to clean out the weird water trap thingy at the bottom of the washing machine, how to package the recycling for pickup every other Friday, and how to unhook all the various cables from the TV (which lives in the murky basement) and re-attach everything up here in the habitable part

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-67163339785812302872009-01-16T15:07:00.004-06:002009-01-16T16:08:08.532-06:00

Those little girls are so adorable, those little girls of mine pushing their way out the front door padded with down head to toe, with their matching colorful lunch bags swinging from their fat-parka arms. Even Iris, my baby, has her own lunch bag, and makes a fishy-kissy face at me after I hang her coat in her cubby, and follows her big sister, her suddenly at-ease and in-charge big sister, when

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-37654449586218554332009-01-06T14:25:00.003-06:002009-01-06T14:38:36.434-06:00

A will spend the months of February and March in Siberia. I am not kidding. For his job, he has to spend nine weeks (really from late January through the first week of April, if he's lucky and his flight home isn't postponed by days and days due to weather) in the middle of nowhere in the Russian far east.This will suck for him. He'll be living in a thing that sounds a lot like a semi truck

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-66482811017628553552009-01-03T18:44:00.003-06:002009-01-03T19:00:09.137-06:00

Way back last summer, my mom, ever cautious and thoughtful—not to mention early—with the Christmas gifts, told me she was thinking of giving the girls a kid-sized picnic table for Christmas. Would we have room for it?It was nice of her to ask; our house isn't huge, and we add furniture with caution. We have a lot to trip over already. We thought about it, and figured out we could use the table

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-66680516694043008762008-12-30T16:30:00.006-06:002008-12-31T23:39:00.902-06:00

We've been staying with my parents for a week and a half. There's been the expected amount of Not by the neck. NOT BY THE NECK! And a little Can't I please just sit on the toilet and fucking read two pages of Time magazine without anyone barging through the door on me? But much less of that than you might think, and also plenty of I can hardly believe this beautiful family is mine.Christmas Eve:

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-19830045205211346692008-12-23T15:15:00.004-06:002008-12-23T15:24:14.721-06:00

If we weren't leaving town in an hour, I'd tell you the whole story of the $99 haircut, complete with minion, hand massage, elf-ear-hat-wearing hairdresser diva, and lecture about Poor Quality Grocery Store Conditioner. Also, I'd tell you about Lice Watch 2008/09 and how itchy I feel even though the child in question seems to be in the clear. And also about holiday excess, recent promising job

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-79012211887906348382008-12-16T13:25:00.006-06:002008-12-16T14:53:23.507-06:00

The best magic of receiving a gift comes from being understood. I think this is even true for little people who express delight at every small new thing. Just the right gift brings on that look: I can hardly believe my luck to have this. How did you know? As Mama, I'm in (or at least tied for) the number one position to make that look flash up on their faces. Of anyone, I'm the closest to knowing

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-88897357182650181242008-12-12T09:53:00.004-06:002008-12-12T10:57:24.961-06:00

I'm glad that I'm able to work a flexible, part-time job. In a big way, it is the fabled "best of both worlds"; things don't go well when I'm "at home" full time (not that that's an option financially, anyway), and I don't think I'd be happy being away from my kids full-time.But in the course of a couple of conversations this week, it's become clear that these two bullshit beliefs have more or

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-14543635442298039302008-12-07T21:03:00.007-06:002008-12-08T08:37:53.235-06:00

It was cold in Portland, and my grandparents were young—twenty two—and newly married. When they heard the news, they left their little house together and walked. They didn't talk, and they didn't know where they were going. They just walked and walked. They ended up, long past lunch time, at my great-grandmother's house, all the way on the other side of the city.That was all my grandmother told.

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-33222693454173752532008-12-02T13:09:00.002-06:002008-12-02T13:17:35.592-06:00

1. A HUNDRED AND FIFTY SIX YEARS. Is how long A's family has lived in that county. Not 130. Apparently all I needed to do to smoke him out of his blog-reading hole was get sloppy with my family history facts. (Hi, A.)2. Do you back up your blog? What with all the data loss disasters I've written about, you'd think I'd be all ultra on top of backups of everything, but I'm not, and what's the

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-49049955799600207482008-11-29T21:38:00.003-06:002008-11-29T21:46:44.460-06:00

The day after Thanksgiving, we took the girls skating.A’s family has lived for a hundred and thirty years in the same county—a flat place laced with lakes. They know which one freezes first, and where the ice is thinnest. They know that five inches is plenty thick to hold a man and his wife, his son and daughter in law, and two little girls.But I’m not from here, and at the beginning of winter,

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-61042383006053814492008-11-24T21:09:00.005-06:002008-11-24T21:20:27.519-06:00

I know you never get tired of mediocre images of my household filth. (Right? Right!?). But if you start feeling like looking at photos taken by someone who knows how to use a camera, go and check out my friend Chris's new blog. He knows what he's doing, and don't worry: so far I have never known him to shoot compost.

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-49929778229723095512008-11-23T16:13:00.001-06:002008-11-26T15:14:11.248-06:00

They both have ear infections. In both ears.

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-34687150161164105442008-11-22T20:41:00.004-06:002008-11-26T15:14:11.249-06:00

Am I too strict or too lenient? Am I disregarding my kid's deep anxieties, or am I being taken for a ride by a manipulative three year old? It’s the maternal equivalent of “virgin or whore” and the organizing dichotomy of my parenting psyche. In times of ease and equilibrium, I don’t worry about it, but when things start to go pear-shaped I always feel like I'm on one awful end of the spectrum or

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-7866982302699423832008-11-21T14:48:00.004-06:002008-11-26T15:14:11.250-06:00

Ingrid finally went to sleep without me in the room last night. We went upstairs together and she cried a little bit in her room while I brushed my teeth. By the time I was ready to get in bed, she was asleep. It was 10 o'clock. I can rant alot about this on a small, immature, micro level: I need a break in the day! I can't stand to sit there waiting for her to fall asleep! The sheer demand on my

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-51740757209009401402008-11-20T21:26:00.002-06:002008-11-26T15:14:11.250-06:00

Second night, same as the first. Except without any yelling from me, and with more of a general "I don't want to go to sleep all by myself" vibe. Wise friend here for dinner pointed out there's probably some larger, unspoken worry or fear. I brought Ingrid down from the initial storm by talking about missing Daddy, about growing up. About how Daddy is coming home soon, and however big and old she

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-64297501483093356412008-11-19T21:50:00.003-06:002008-11-26T15:14:11.251-06:00

Two funny conversations and one not so much.On the way home from day care, Ingrid said, "I got to make something to chew on today." Apparently it was made of rubber. With strings in it, and with her name on both sides like the tag on her lunch bag. She made it, then she put it in her mouth and chewed on it, and she didn't get to bring it home, she just left it on the table. It wasn't food. She

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-6334818404678658852008-11-18T21:42:00.002-06:002008-11-26T15:14:11.252-06:00

Possibly you've noticed how well I followed through on the idea of posting every day in November.This isn't really a writing time, I guess. A is in Ethiopia for a week. My mom has just left after a three-day visit, and, while she's really not a high maintenance guest and is even marginally helpful, it was still tiring to Have Someone Here. Meaning, to prepare adult meals other than cheese

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-68618551418194530862008-11-12T15:55:00.003-06:002008-12-07T22:09:41.428-06:00

This is part of a map of the area within three miles or so of our house. The dots are home foreclosures. Home foreclosures from the past ten months. It’s a very strange time to be around, isn’t it? Yesterday on a highway off-ramp in a fancy neighborhood, I saw someone shifting from one foot to another, wearing a big warm coat and loosely laced hiking boots, and holding a cardboard sign. COMPLETE

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-41388096613428178262008-11-11T13:33:00.004-06:002008-12-07T22:09:41.429-06:00

We spent the morning of election day door knocking, the girls and I and a friend of ours. I pulled the girls in the little red wagon. It was unusually warm for November 4, sunny and breezy. Iris played happily in the wagon; Ingrid hopped in and out, running along beside us, helping ring doorbells and jumping down the last two steps of each front porch into drifts of yellow leaves. If Ingrid

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-33649454128523540722008-11-04T13:19:00.003-06:002008-12-07T22:09:41.432-06:00

There's definitely no way I'll be able to sleep tonight without knowing who came out ahead today. So, unless things start looking (shudder) 2000-esque, I'll be up as late as I need to be. A (who—Emmie's right—is actually a saint) has other ideas. He feels he'll sleep better not knowing than he would either elated by an Obama win or in despair over a loss. So if things start to look like they'll

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-14630625934541295382008-11-03T13:56:00.003-06:002008-11-03T14:34:50.259-06:00

I guess another thing I learned about gardening this year was to harvest the green tomatoes a bit earlier. These came in after it had gotten way too cold, and I noticed last night that one had started to spew foam. I would love to be able to post a photo of how beautiful this would be after another week on the kitchen counter, but A insisted we throw it in the compost last night. Sheesh. Some

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-16812945809267169682008-11-02T20:34:00.003-06:002008-12-07T22:09:41.433-06:00

My political involvement has always been spotty, but this presidential election has me by the back of the neck. After the 2004 DNC, which I don't remember watching, people around me kept mentioning the senator from Illinois who gave the keynote address. I finally watched the speech on line several weeks later. I was impressed with his nuance and level-headed smarts. I said to A, It's a shame that

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-54254934650831682972008-11-01T22:42:00.003-05:002008-11-26T15:19:48.144-06:00

November is that month when people post every single day. Nablo ... you know. It just (30 seconds ago) occurred to me that doing that might be fun and a good practice. And because I like rules, I am posting now, November 1, 10:43 p.m. See you tomorrow, maybe.

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-66111127242020127492008-10-31T10:59:00.002-05:002008-11-26T15:15:52.694-06:00

This summer was my first real attempt at a vegetable garden. For several years, I'd grown lots of basil and tomatoes in big pots, plus a sweet little herb garden each summer. I'd been held back from a "real" garden by our lead-containing urban soil. This spring, though, I got my dad to help build three giant raised beds, and off I went, enthusiastic but pretty darn unprepared.Though I grew up

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-73302647316929451832008-10-27T14:00:00.003-05:002008-11-26T15:19:48.145-06:00

Considering I’ve been at this for over four years, I don’t have so terribly many posts hanging out in my ‘drafts’ folder. But a while back Eva treated us to a tour of her draft posts, and it was pretty amusing. I don’t think I can quite reach that level of hilarity, but here’s my list, most recent first:Title: It’s not who you are, it’s where you are. Or something.Content: A paragraph about how

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-4112616838332273232008-10-25T18:49:00.004-05:002008-12-07T22:09:41.434-06:00

It's hard to start posting again after drifting off into non-blogging land. It's like I should be coming back with something really fantastic, or at least some sort of update or reason.It's not (just) that I've been on Facebook all the time instead of writing blog posts. I have been on Facebook a lot, to my embarrassment, even though some people make a beautiful case for the literary merit of

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-6718299828096686632008-10-08T10:46:00.004-05:002008-11-26T15:21:30.894-06:00

It’s been a long time since “a dollar an hour per kid” made me a rich tweenager, and the cost of babysitting now makes me suck my breath in every time. We’re feeling the burn of double day care payments and fifty other increased expenses, and as worried as anyone about our financial future, but lately our usual friends-and-family sitters have been unavailable for one reason and another, so over

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-68364836025896822972008-10-01T09:38:00.002-05:002008-11-26T15:19:48.145-06:00

OMG. I want to tell you about a fabulous web site. You post your profile, and you can search for your old friends by school and class year. People post pictures and all kinds of things about themselves, so you can see that guy you had a mad crush on when you were sixteen is now a paunchy lawyer in a red state. And then you can become “friends” with people you know, and post updates on what you’re

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-59122999042009363452008-09-23T13:39:00.002-05:002008-11-26T15:19:48.146-06:00

... is it impossible to find a raincoat in kids' size 5 or 6? Other than a $65 Marmot one from REI, I mean. I haven't spotted a single used one this summer, and Target has cute ones up to size 4 and then ... nothing. Is everyone supposed to stay inside when it rains now, or just roll up the sleeves of Mama's Mountain Hard Wear and waddle around like E.T. as we did this morning?... are these a

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-39058173728286723202008-09-22T14:18:00.004-05:002008-11-26T15:19:48.146-06:00

The entire world is apparently falling into financial and political ruin, but at least I'm finding a lot of reasons to feel good about myself—beyond even the pipe cleaner sculptures:Yesterday Ingrid pulled out her new favorite trick: "But Daddy does it that way!" And we had a conversation about how different people have different ways of doing things, and this is the way I do it, so when she's

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-8873118851839218742008-09-20T14:07:00.005-05:002008-11-26T15:19:48.147-06:00

This morning my father in law—Grandpa Gary—accompanied us to our first Mu*sic To*ge*ther class of the fall. He loves to sing and was thrilled to have the chance to dance around a little room with a dozen or so under-fives, his adorable (and adoring) granddaughters among them.Everything was smooth until "She'll be comin' 'round the mountain." The teacher led us through several of the traditional

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-56706070242214846852008-09-16T21:54:00.003-05:002008-11-26T15:15:52.695-06:00

Now try to tell me I don't have some kind of future in the visual arts.And feel free to call my bluff the next time I tell you I've got a "really busy" week ahead.

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-4850880041234550582008-09-16T13:56:00.002-05:002008-11-26T15:20:44.052-06:00

This is just to sayThis morning I used uptwo half-full boxesof baking sodaand a whole bottleof organic white vinegarmaking volcanoes with Ingridin the sandbox.Forgive me.She loved it, and it smelledlike childhood.

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-11527780474320733512008-09-15T22:18:00.007-05:002008-11-26T15:19:48.147-06:00

Friday I took the day off work, hoping to catch up with the various things I'm really behind on. A is out of town this week and next, and I thought it would be great to get a little on top of things before the inevitable crazy couple of weeks.Instead, we woke up at 7 Friday morning to a baby completely covered in vomit, and I spent most of the day sitting on the kitchen floor nursing Iris,

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-77105346981543123112008-09-13T00:13:00.005-05:002008-12-07T22:09:41.435-06:00

My friends and family and I spend a lot of time het up about Those People on the Other End of the Political Spectrum. What are they thinking? They must be brainwashed. They are inhabiting some weird alternate universe.I just stumbled on Jonathan Haidt's What Makes People Vote Republican? (linked to from—and pointedly summarized in—this great Judith Warner editorial, which is sort of funny), and

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-52828453882080644512008-09-10T12:51:00.005-05:002008-12-07T22:09:41.435-06:00

Yesterday’s primary election here was not suspenseful. None of the races, within my party and precinct, at least, were heavily contested. I voted out of habit, and to make my mark for a couple of the school board candidates.Our polling place is the middle school five blocks from our house. We stopped there on our way to the library. Iris wiggled in the backpack, grinning at the officials and

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-10241056921739950352008-09-05T15:22:00.003-05:002008-11-26T15:19:48.148-06:00

A year ago, on one of our first outings as a mama-and-two-girls trio, we went to a big giant craft store and bought three bottles of poster paint. Red, yellow, and blue. For kiddie painting projects. In June, I found some all-natural, juice-only popsicles at the co-op and bought them. For treats on hot summer days. I bet there were 16 in the box.Ingrid loves to paint, and we do it often, and I'm

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-61472445533777397252008-09-03T20:06:00.003-05:002008-11-26T15:17:44.393-06:00

Today after school:Ingrid, cheerfully: [Name of Wyoming Town] didn't hit me on the head today. Me: Well, that's good. It sounds like he made a better choice today, (blah blah blah about hitting and how it hurts, etc. etc.)Ingrid, interrupting, still cheerfully: Today he poked me in the eye. Other than that, she seems to have had a fine second day. Her teacher commented on her sense of humor,

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-50240664901410831262008-09-02T21:52:00.003-05:002008-11-26T15:19:48.148-06:00

Iris is so cute these days it is almost unbearable. She has ringlets! Red ringlets! And she staggers around the house clutching a tube of toothpaste or a plastic lid in one hand and waving the other arm wildly over her head to maintain her balance. She articulates new words every day, with such adorable deliberation and glee: Ba pa (backpack). Bap-pul (apple). Keekeepat (kittycat). She is

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-38946066745766768462008-08-30T15:32:00.004-05:002008-08-30T15:40:42.749-05:00

I scalded some peaches this morning in order to peel them and add them to our pancakes. Who knew the mark left by their juice would be purplish blue? And shaped roughly like a map of Norway?

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-5851714621435236832008-08-28T00:38:00.004-05:002008-08-31T15:16:17.467-05:00

Ingrid had her last day at the old day care Friday (“It’s closed now,” she said, driving home that evening. “Closed like a library.”) We gave each of the three teachers plus the director a photo of her in a handmade frame (She decorated each with meticulous, evenly spaced dashes, front and back.) We said goodbye, and it was sad and a relief to have the ending over with.Today she was to have

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-78089555612390069682008-08-19T16:48:00.003-05:002008-11-26T15:19:48.149-06:00

Since yesterday afternoon, Iris has pooped in the potty three times and peed in it at least twice.For those who might have trouble telling apart "the sisters with the I names", Iris is the baby. Who turned one two weeks ago.Yesterday she climbed onto Ingrid's little potty with her pants on. Out of curiosity, I took her pants and diaper off and sat her back down. Then the phone rang. I was

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-61993998006532667132008-08-10T14:22:00.003-05:002008-11-26T15:21:54.101-06:00

Last week I felt horrible and didn’t know why: walking through mud, thinking like mud, seeing through a tunnel of mud. Detached from Ingrid, and reacting to her clingy reaction by pushing her away. Honking at everyone who didn’t use their turn signal.I didn’t get why. It seemed like it came overnight and for no reason, and it scared me that it hit me out of nowhere, in the middle of summer—the

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-31697138264881967862008-08-03T20:46:00.004-05:002008-11-26T15:22:17.230-06:00

I'm not sure how so many long days can add up to such a short year, but tomorrow my baby turns one year old.One year ago today she was a mystery—a genderless, active, rather pointy baby who liked—during ultrasounds, anyway—to suck on his/her upper lip. We've learned so much this year: She is a redhead, a tall one, a ham, an adorable bottom-up sleeper, a persistent climber, a dog lover. She loves

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-77319120494490730102008-07-30T14:22:00.000-05:002008-07-30T14:44:17.411-05:00

I spent last summer slowed by the sweet weight of Iris, first in my belly, then in my arms. The summer before that, I was barely emerging from the fog of the first year of motherhood, and afraid, still, of getting my baby dirty. The previous year I was frozen in the heat, shuffling through sweaty, milky postpartum days. And before that trails a string of nondescript grownup summers,

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-85120434348928337762008-07-25T06:43:00.007-05:002008-07-25T06:43:02.004-05:00

Today is the fourth anniversary of my first blog post.I've had a long hiatus or two, but, still, four years is a long time, and it's way longer than I thought I'd be at this. I started this blog to join the community of bitter, funny infertile women writing on line—a community I needed, at the time, desperately. Since then this has been part notebook, part brain dump, part builder of small but

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-14906405222795401092008-07-18T10:05:00.002-05:002008-11-26T15:25:32.948-06:00

We chose Iris's name a few days before she was born. It rose to the top of a pile of names that we liked but that each had a fatal flaw: Edith or Alice (too plain, maybe, and without much meaning for us), Harriet (too much like my real name), Freya (A loved it, but it made me think frazzled), Siri (a nickname for Sigrid, it turns out, and it means butt in Japanese), Esther (a bit too old lady, we

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-48025354979871716942008-07-17T14:14:00.000-05:002008-11-26T15:23:21.946-06:00

Right now the blackboard of shame says 8 days, and my record is 11.5.No one at day care ever so much as batted an eyelash about the train undies.The neighbors finally took down their Christmas wreaths around the first of June.I run at least twice a week these days, and my pelvis hardly makes that snapping sound at all anymore.Ingrid has asked about nail polish two more times, and each time my

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-16391893343180646662008-07-14T21:21:00.005-05:002008-07-14T21:36:41.393-05:00

This is certainly a case of caro being late to the party, but last week I discovered Alltop, and I am smitten. I'm a sucker for simplicity in design. And what an elegant way to skim through favorite reads and find new ones. My blog is on there, as well...waaaaay at the bottom of the moms category. And I'm so tickled to be part of such a nifty site that I am doing just what the clever Alltop

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-48840941443905596862008-07-11T16:00:00.003-05:002008-11-26T15:19:48.149-06:00

Wednesday night A was out of town, and it was a work day. The events of the evening seem worth recording for posterity: Pick girls up from day care. Decide it will simplify dinner to pick up a you-bake pizza. Tell Ingrid we are getting pizza.Drive around tiny cramped pizza place parking lot looking for space.Drive around block looking for parking space. Drive around block again.Drive around block

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-82468939866475147482008-07-09T09:24:00.000-05:002008-11-26T15:19:48.150-06:00

Ingrid's been peeing on the potty with total reliability for months. Number two, though? Never.We'd tried all sorts of encouragement, all kinds of potties, all kinds of conversations, and a good long stint of no-pressure, hands-off waiting. Out of some sort of idealism, I'd been resisting offering bribes. And somehow I'd been thinking that, once I finally crossed into the world of offering

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-11462000659294102008-07-07T19:00:00.000-05:002008-11-26T15:19:48.151-06:00

The red currants are ripe, and both girls know how to pick them—Ingrid conscientiously placing most of hers in the bowl, and Iris with great concentration and two tiny fingers. The herbs—parsley, dill, mint, sage, basil—are ready to be pinched back and harvested. There are flowers, and Ingrid and I clip a little bouquet for the table: coneflowers, amaranth, lavender.It's hot out, but not too hot

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-51467005801352931732008-07-02T16:11:00.005-05:002008-07-25T15:31:16.920-05:00

Our friends C and J come over for dinner every week, usually on Thursday, when our shared box of CSA vegetables arrives. They are terrific people. Cooking and eating and sitting around the table with them is a deep and reliable source of pleasure. And there's something else, too.One Thursday in May, C came over early to bake a birthday cake (their oven was broken). Ingrid had refused, in a

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-46097752355988088062008-07-01T23:00:00.002-05:002008-08-31T15:15:28.844-05:00

This is exactly what people mean when they say blogging will cause your kids trauma and embarrassment. But I can't resist. I have worked very hard to word this in a way that won't attract scurrilous googlers:This is my eldest's number one favorite implement for bathtub self-exploration.Obviously, the girl is a genius.

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-91715091465188048012008-06-30T13:25:00.002-05:002008-06-30T13:54:00.836-05:00

I dreamed I was going to do some sort of reading of my poems. I arrived with a stack of poems in a big box that looked like our dining room table turned upside down, and everyone at the reading treated me like some kind of crazed pariah. "That is the filthiest dining room table I've ever seen," I heard people gossiping to one another. "And are we really supposed to listen to those poems after she

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-75132615673357361762008-06-25T20:44:00.003-05:002008-11-26T15:21:30.895-06:00

Just now as I was helping Ingrid get ready for bed:"Mama?""Yeah.""H has polish on her fingernails."[H is a girl at Ingrid's extra crunchy Waldorf-y wonderfully free-thinking day care, where all the women are strong and half the kids (including H) have two mamas.]"Oh! That's very grown up!""Mama, I want polish like H's."Oh, hmmm...""H's is purple.""Oh, wow! Who helped H put on her nail polish?""

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-25977722316285197452008-06-25T16:01:00.001-05:002008-06-25T16:03:47.388-05:00

I make it a rule not to write about work, but this isn't about work, it's about working. It's about what it feels like to keep going to my office every week.I've been working at the same place for almost six years now. When I started my job, I had no children. Had never been pregnant. Had never tried to get pregnant. A and I weren't even married.The place has been good to me. They've given me so

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-65689391213257000412008-06-24T20:30:00.003-05:002008-06-25T15:37:22.120-05:00

The best thing the girls and I have done with our days this summer is to pack up swimsuits, sandwiches, and sunscreen and spend the whole middle part of the day (from the end of Iris's morning nap until the beginning of afternoon nap time) at the park. We play in the wading pool until everyone's hungry, and then we sit on a bench in the shade to eat. We pee in the sketchy rec center bathroom. I

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-91086610107404236052008-06-23T20:22:00.002-05:002008-06-25T15:37:30.058-05:00

Iris wakes up first. I feed her bananas and drink tea and tickle her feet, and then Ingrid wakes up. "Maaa maaa!" She sleeps in a big girl bed, but she treats it like a crib, sitting there calling for me to come and get her. I balance Iris on my hip, and all the way up the stairs she kicks her legs and bounces. "Gidd! Gidd!" I open Ingrid's door. "Hi, chunkster!" she croons. "Good morning, little

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-3891348734916962272008-06-22T22:20:00.005-05:002008-11-26T15:24:13.046-06:00

Revising complaint letter to awful children's dentist...replacing "half-assed" with "insincere" and "piss-poor" with "unacceptable". Peered at bathtub turd like a medium reading tea leaves for several seconds before realizing I didn't actually want to know whose it was that badly. Purchasing an ark's worth of Schleich animals to bribe Ingrid to poop on the potty. Also, a case of size six diapers.

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-68273869237554188552008-06-16T14:54:00.004-05:002008-06-25T15:37:50.114-05:00

(And that's not a lifetime record, it's just since I decided a couple of weeks ago that some sort of external shaming would get me back on track.)

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-83867184988086925702008-06-14T20:09:00.002-05:002008-06-14T20:21:19.329-05:00

Friends, I'm sorry about that. How sweet of you to not all lunge through the computer, shake me by the shoulders and demand, "What in the living fuck are you talking about?" My excuse for the incoherence is that I've had some sort of stomach bug that had me puking all night Tuesday, bleary in bed all day Wednesday, and, until now, not really able to eat much other than crackers. Count yourselves

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-71083621624968571062008-06-12T13:56:00.004-05:002008-06-25T15:37:06.080-05:00

In Barbara Ehrenreich's Nickel and Dimed, she describes working in the clothing department at Wal-Mart. All day, she's responsible for cleaning up the continually unfolding mess, sorting, folding, and hanging clothes that customers have removed from the racks. Of course, her job is never finished. There are always more t-shirts in the changing rooms, sweaters unfolded, jeans carried off but not

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-55808135682842773062008-06-08T12:07:00.003-05:002008-06-08T12:30:45.101-05:00

I've gotten out of the habit of writing, and been out of energy for it. A was away for over two weeks, and during that time I gradually wore down my reserves: up many times a night with a teething Iris, plus awake in the 5 o'clock hour every morning. This left me not exactly tired, but with the sense of having basically nothing left for anything but getting through each day. That sense is

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-11758852416560390942008-06-02T16:38:00.004-05:002008-06-02T16:43:15.058-05:00

I ought to make some sort of consistent policy on whether to post photos of my kids here. But for now, since I'm not well rested enough to either do that or write more than a couple of sentences, enjoy the cuteness.

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-7304389522802717832008-05-30T22:15:00.000-05:002008-11-26T15:32:16.334-06:00

Squishing, whatever.Kate guessed right. It is about a just three year old squashing, elbowing, and upending the crap out of her baby sister. I’ve written about the problem and a move toward a solution before, but it’s kept up. The squishing, I mean.The squishing comes in waves, as does my ability to deal with it calmly rather than giving in to the primal baby-protecting urge to scream like an

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-40466951310918588132008-05-29T13:22:00.002-05:002008-11-26T15:26:22.311-06:00

What I want is one of these that works on the ears instead of the tongue, turning whining into normal, reasonable talk and a full-throttle tantrum into delighted giggles.

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7454139.post-10454891786434865852008-05-28T13:04:00.003-05:002008-05-28T13:52:51.862-05:00

I've got seven posts in my head but none written. Maybe I can get to one this week. Which do you think you want to read?Inside JokesTurning ProSistersSlow SpringComing CleanAgain With the Baby SquishingWork

carohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04771333861395563193noreply@blogger.com3