I am blessed with a bunch of supremely creative sisters. (And just a bunch of sisters in general.) I have sisters who knit and sew, sisters who custom design their own fabrics, sisters who are photographers, sisters who write screenplays and children’s stories, sisters who are gourmet cooks, sisters who draw like the wind and sisters who craft like the dickens. So many sisters, so many skills.* If we were living in Austenian times, they would be described as “very handsome” and “accomplished” whereas I would be described as “merely tolerable” and “kind of a dipshit.” Continue reading
I am constantly caught between wanting to freeze time and wanting to fast forward it to a point in the future where it’s just me and my mumu, playing spider solitaire and watching Netflix.
Today is a fast-forward day. I invite you to sit back and relax as I share a tale with you. A tale of poop.
The day Eva arrived Matt and I hadn’t slept in two and a half months. As I drove, cross-eyed, to the airport to retrieve her, Matt was stumbling around our kitchen banging pots and pans together, hoping it would somehow result in spaghetti and meatballs. We wanted our new au pair to believe she would be living with nice, normal people eating nice, normal meals—not human trash monsters covered in acid reflux and muffin crumbs.