I used to be interesting. I lived in foreign countries and traveled to exotic lands and ate delicious foods with strange utensils, and sometimes, with my bare hands. Now, it’s a thrilling day if I don’t have to see anyone’s poop but my own. My perception of exoticism has changed slightly.
I have a husband, a son, a daughter and a dog. One of us is English, one is Ethiopian, one is half-English and half-American, one is from Louisiana, and one is from Maine. We are a motley crew. We live in a house near Boston in a neighborhood that would make Norman Rockwell weep with joy. We have a station wagon and weekly neighborhood playdates and a bus stop right outside our house.
I am the mom who manages to plan the birthday party, but forgets (and then doesn’t care about) the gift bags. I am the mom who makes one child’s Halloween costume, but can’t be bothered with the second, so I buy it online. I am the mom who says of course you can go downstairs and play video games at 7am on a Saturday, as long as you don’t make enough noise to distract me from my blissful, blissful slumber, in which case I will gleefully murder you with my bare hands. Most of the time, my house looks like it should be condemned. I drink, I swear and I throw things (kind of a lot). Jackie Kennedy I am not.
I was a writer before I had kids. Now I write this blog when I am not chasing a toddler, dodging baseballs, or making a stiff drink. This website is my attempt to keep writing so my brain doesn’t turn into oatmeal.