a way out

This is the second sewer in two weeks that my children have worshipped. We might have to make it an official Miller ritual. Every playground we go to, scope out the drain, then scream into it for fifteen minutes straight. Who needs a frigging jungle gym anyway? Swings. Pah. Slides. We spit at them. We'll take a mangy old sewer any day of the week. Right kids? Eh? What does Stella hope to find down there? A kindred spirit? An easy escape? This is it, honey. There ain't no way out. You gotta get through it is all. She'd tell you maybe, if she could articulate it, that maybe she just likes to hear the sound of her own voice, her usually piercing ear-splitting shrieks magnified into hell's bellows from echoey damp walls slick with ancient slime, oh the profound joy. To be young again instead of THIS close to forty, willing myself to appreciate the foundling spring sunshine on my face just a little bit more, as if I could. Kids, you always find new ways to inspire me. Now get your ass in the bathtub!

two's the limit

At the playground the other day, the weather was warm, sunny and breezy, one of those magical, unseasonable days where the air got balmier instead of cooler as the sun sank in the sky. I had my two kids there from about one o’clock until four-thirty. At around three I started weakly rounding them up, mostly because there was a lull in mothers that I wanted to talk to. But the kids were having fun climbing the monkey bars, digging in the sand and inspecting the new baseball turf. I was a little hungry, a little ornery, but not dead-set on leaving, especially as it would mean more work for me. Baths. Dinner. Picking up toys. Refereeing fights.

head nut

I woke up around 7:30, happy as a born-again Christian. Sipped my coffee, wrote in my journal, gazed around the room approvingly, even pored over a thick interiors book with Stella cozied on my lap, and somehow didn’t think to look at the clock to wake Hamish until 8:39, six minutes before I usually start schlepping everyone out of the house (at least my goal every morning is to leave by 8:45.) With only six minutes to get ready, there was no time for breakfast at the table, so I got them out with the promise of Pop-Tarts in the car. They’re fortified, people. 

hidden treasure

You might have to click on this picture to really appreciate it. Can you see the bear with its hands on its beefy, beary bits? This is the hidden bonus of playdates at Hamish's friends' houses. You never know what treasures you'll discover. Our bear friend is from a Chinese board book. I think I am now an official fan of Chinese products, poisonous red paint be damned, because you would never in a million years find a photo like this in an American children's book. Can you imagine the Oprah episode condemning the filthy publisher? I took the picture on the sly with my phone camera when the live-in nanny was busying herself in the kitchen toasting cheesy bread and chicken nuggets. Mmm. Nuggets. 

getting busy

Strep is coursing through my family like a raging river. Knock wood, I am the only one who remains strep-free. Hamish started the trickle, the dam broke with Bryan, and Stella is hanging onto a metaphorical tree branch as the bacteria sweeps her into feverish discomfort between doses of bubblegum-pink amoxicillin. It's been a hell of a week planning Hamish's birthday celebration without Bryan to pick up the slack, and he is usually the slack-picker-upper extraordinaire.