Do you ever feel like you live under a tyrannical dictator? A crazy one that makes impossible demands of everyone around him and goes berzerk when those demands are not met immediately? One whose abusive behavior you forgive the second he shows an ounce of tenderness or remorse? One that makes you wait on him hand and foot and has you convinced that his bad behavior is all your fault? No? Well then you must not live with a three year old.
I have a new job! This is good and bad because my kid free time is so limited and I’m feeling spread a little thin, but it feels good to be working again. I’m doing some (part time) personal chef type cooking for two lovely families and so far I’m really enjoying it. It may be a temporary thing and that is okay too. I’ve said for a while now that I don’t know what to do with the rest of my life but I don’t want to go back to cooking for money. This feels different though, because I’m cooking food the way I want to, being creative and using high quality ingredients. It’s kind of like cooking for my friends or family except I get paid for it. It has cut into my writing time though and I’m a little bummed about that.
The best toy EVER is the vacuum cleaner I bought a few weeks ago. It has gotten more hours of play than all the Christmas toys combined have gotten in three months. The down side is that it lives in the middle of the floor with attachments scattered everywhere and yet I don’t get to use it to clean up because it is always in use.Wait a second, what does that sticker on there say?!Uh…
Nothing says true love like spending your 15th anniversary doing taxes so you can meet with the accountant the next morning. We had planned to celebrate the weekend after, when we could get a sitter and go out, but fate had other plans. We all got the flu for two weeks, then the sitter was booked up, then sick again, and now Felix is going through some separation anxiety that makes leaving him, shall we say, difficult. We ended up last weekend (a month after the anniversary) having lunch together at home and calling it a celebration. Felix was napping and we threatened Lola with chores if she didn’t keep quiet for half an hour. And this is what life and marriage are like. We’ve had an anniversary in Tuscany, an anniversary where I was at a birth, an anniversary in Marrakech, romantic dinners out, romantic dinners in, and now an anniversary spent with receipts at the kitchen counter. You win some, you lose some, you cry and laugh and carry on.
Things my kid has slept with recently: Not that I blame him, I mean, who wouldn’t want to snuggle with a Microplane or pieces of a Shop Vac? So cozy!
These last few weeks have felt long for a million stupid little reasons that I can’t quite cope with. There was a particularly rough stretch mid month that just seemed to drag on forfreakingever. Normally I make a proper Irish spread for St. Patrick’s day, something like shepherd’s pie or colcannon or Irish stew and soda bread (no corned beef, I just can’t, it smells too much like armpit) but this year I was totally spent. It felt like it had been Thursday for like 18 days, and it was still Thursday. So this year’s St. Patty’s dinner looked like this:No, not really. I pulled it together and and made these sandwiches. Grilled Irish cheddar, bacon and yellow heirloom tomato on white bread (remind me to explain my love of white bread sometime). They were tasty, and special because I didn’t kill anyone that day.
You know what’s adorable? When a small person wearing sweatpants, mismatched socks and sandals on the wrong feet tells you that you’re adorable. My exhausted, anxious, brow-beaten heart can still be melted.