Raising children is like making biscuits: it is as easy to raise a big batch as one, while you have your hands in the dough.
— E.W. Howe
Do you ever have one of those days where you’ve just bought a new vacuum on Craigslist, and it is SO much better than the piece of shit you were using before that you honestly feel like you could conquer the world? And you get really into using it for everything, like dusting, and picking up toys, and cleaning the curtains? And THEN you use it to clean out the toaster and feel like you are maybe on the forefront of some next-level homemaking genius? But then, while you are really getting in those little nooks and crannies that you used to ignore, all the while feeling like an OG Ghostbuster (because, let’s be honest, that long tube is so ripping off Dr. Spangler’s nutrona wand design), you accidentally suck up a small balloon hidden under a kitchen cart? So then, obviously, you experience an epic panic attack in the few moments before you realize that the wretched squeaking noise is not, in fact, from a sucked-up rodent but is instead from your nemesis, the balloon? Which ends with you sitting on the couch for at least an hour, and possibly considering popping a Xanax, because that was some serious shit that just went down?
Yeah, so that’s what I’ve been up to in the 6 weeks since I last posted.
In France, where Poppy discovered that her real parents are Fabio and Gerard Depardieu.
There was certainly a bit more – best Easter weekend EVER, plus an amazing visit from my parents, plus my own solo trip to the US, plus we’re sure William is the next David Beckham after his one and only soccer class here, plus Poppy’s tendencies towards terrorism have abated to the point that we now have amnesia and are considering a 3rd, plus plus plus…the list goes on. But in the interest of starting small, I’m getting this up now and will tackle the rest soon…ish.
The next David Beckham or, possibly, the next Magic Mike; either/or.