R.I.P party girl

Hi! It’s been awhile… We’ve had a few holidays here, April 25th (freedom from fascism day) then May 1st (labor day) which basically means long weekends, short weeks, and lots of time off from school… basically no blogging time for mom. Plus the weather has been positively dismal, rainy and gross.

Aren’t I a big round ball of sunshine? Glad I haven’t been bringing you down on this blog with my optimism?



Anyhoo… we’re just back from a weekend in Milan now, where we had our newest niece’s christening (I am so over packing and unpacking every other day, btw).  And since we had the entire weekend at our disposal, along with free babysitting by grandma, we took this chance to see some of our old friends from our younger, party heydays. We all met at my in-laws’ house Saturday afternoon with kids to celebrate the first rain free Saturday in two months by letting the kids romp around the soggy grass (incidentally, my MIL is a saint, she had 40 people at her house for the baptism on Sunday and yet she let four sets – each composed of two adults and 2 kids under 6 – of our friends come take over her yard), the kids played really well, even though they hadn’t seen each other since last summer. The in-laws have a gigantic property (for Italy), so they got to run around and get muddy and we got some chatting and catching up done and the weather was just perfectly perfect and then that night various and sundry grandparents / babysitters allowed us to go out and enjoy a drinks laden dinner in absolute child-free peace and quiet.


Whilst in the middle of the very complicated problem of decided where to spend our first night in the big city in what seems like forever, I got to thinking about when, way back when, we left Milan for the rural haven (or hell, depending on my mood) in which we now reside. I was barely 30, skinny, no children, with lots of money to spend on entertainment and shoes and nary a care in the world (or rather, none of the earth-shattering, life-changing variety) and now I’m about 15 pounds heavier, more wrinkled and most of my money somehow gets sucked into the black hole that is child rearing (I need to stop blaming the children, all of my money is being sucked into the death star of a black hole that is the house renovation). I’m not complaining about this, I’m perfectly happy with where my life is right now (barring the added weight of course), but what got me thinking was that when I go back to Milan, in my head, I’m still that girl that left the city eight years ago.

I was thinking about what to do, of our old clubs and favorite bars, and suddenly I realized that I probably would no longer be let in. I’m too old, I no longer project the right image, I’ve got the mommy aura about me… (and honestly, I no longer own the right mixture of slutty and classy clothes and impossibly high heels, I would probably fall off of now). And that is all fine, I don’t really need or want to be that girl anymore, but when I left here I didn’t realize I was leaving her behind.

So basically, what I’m saying is, we need to be more present, in my opinion, more present in the present (if you’ll allow me the awkward phrasing) because we lose it without even realizing it. But that disconnect between what goes on in my brain and the actual reality is always a bit disconcerting, like my brain still thinks I’m 25 and skinny, but my clothes, unfortunately, wholeheartedly disagree with me, so it’s always a bit of a surprise when I look in the mirror. Or the fact that I’m often shocked at having to make adult decisions, like, shouldn’t someone more grown up than me be here to tell me what to do? And then I realize that someone more grown up than me is geriatric and, quite likely, enjoying the freedom of their retirement, and doesn’t give a crap what I do anymore. How and when did adulthood sneak up on me? And where did the party girl go? Cause she was undeniably stupider than me, yet infinitely more fun. (Also, much, much, better dressed).

Another day, another year.

2013. I don’t know what to think anymore at the beginning of a new year. Used to be I’d get excited, or depressed, thinking of the endless possibilities or the hardships ahead. Now, well, I’m not so sure what my attitude should be. It’s just another day. Another year. Much like the day before, the year before… the one before, and the one before that. It’s so arbitrary, the new year, isn’t it? The Chinese don’t even celebrate it till weeks after we do. Yet, here we are, every year, doing something on the night between December 31st and January first, doing something or nothing, purposefully, intentionally, willingly. But what, exactly, makes this day, this night, anymore special than the one before, or after? Kind of like starting a diet on Mondays, diets started on Sunday or Tuesday are just as effective. The point is starting.

I woke up with a headache today. The last week of 2012 was terrible, comparatively, as a first week of vacation. I was horribly (survivably) sick, I went through two courses of antibiotics, steroids, and loads of other stuff, I’m still not great, but the minute I was up again the husband got sick, in one of those cruel parenting turn-taking jokes of the universe. We’re all sniffely, not able to really enjoy our vacation, to see our friends, to get our shopping done, to go eat at the restaurants we dream of all year. When you live so far from home so much expectation rides on these fleeting trips home that being felled by the flu feels like something akin to tragedy.

This week we’re going to make the best of it, try to make it to the Space Center, to a couple of restaurants, to some stores, I’m hopefully doing a cake decorating course I reserved weeks ago, see some friends… But the New Year? No sir, no ma’am. I’m not ready for the hopeful, exciting, new beginning.

So this year I’m celebrating the new year when we get home, somewhere around the tenth or eleventh or so, when I’ve recharged my batteries. And I’ll be celebrating the ordinariness of my very mundane life, cause that’s the one I live everyday. Cause this year my life is not going to be about the one, special, out of the ordinary day, the New Year’s Day, the anticipated trip home, the once in a lifetime occasion, the extraoradinary, this year I’m celebrating my every day, day after day, with the sniffles and the disappointments, and the anger, and the unexpected joys and surprises, the laughter, the tears, the yelling, the fighting and the joy.

I’m sick of the specialness of special occasions, I’m ready for the ordinariness of ordinary life. Maybe I’m at the brink of middle-agedness, and that colors my outlook on life, but I figure I have many more ordinary days ahead of me than extraordinary ones and I should make them all count.

Another day, another year, that’s special enough. Isn’t it?

Chit-Chat Tuesday on Friday (cause I can’t seem to get my shazit together)

Off and on I’ve tried to write chit-chat Tuesday posts, as a sort of spin-off of the virtual coffee posts I used to do (on Moomser), because I liked just writing to chat and catch people up on (and remind myself of) all the mundane stuff we’d been doing. I haven’t been all that consistent. But then I figured, considering the scarce posting I’ve got going on on this blog anyway, I can probably chit-chat with my one or two readers on any unspecific day of the week as long as I’m posting something already. So anyway…

I’ve been watching two shows kind of obsessively lately. Now that I think about it, I seem to do everything obsessively lately. This summer I read obsessively, for example. No great works of literature, mind you, just easy, pleasant, reads. Over 300$ worth of easy, pleasant reads, in fact, as I surmised this week by looking over my amazon charges from June, July and August. Which is astounding, if you think about it, as most of the books I bought were on sale for 1.99. Then in September I started going to the gym obsessively. I went from not setting foot in a gym for the last six years to practically pitching a tent and moving in to one. I went everyday for a month, and now I go three to four times a week. As I said, obsessive.

But going to the gym has obviously let to other “spiraling out of control” behaviors like: obsessive tv watching. Because, you see, I hate the gym, hate it with a passion and honestly a healthy degree of supercilious arrogance borne from years and years as a “dancer”, the gym was for those other people. And now here I am, completely gym obsessed. But back to the tv shows. I need entertainment to go to the gym, otherwise I would want to shoot myself after ten minutes on the treadmill, so I started downloading episodes of “How I Met Your Mother” on my ipad and watching it when I do cardio-type stuff. It keeps my brain from realizing my body’s pedaling furiously or running (slowly) absolutely nowhere for 20 minutes.

I don’t know if/how much that show was popular in the US, though it’s on it’s 8th season at this point, so not too badly, I imagine. In any case, I think it’s funny and it passes the time, which is precisely what I’m going for, so it’s a perfect gym companion. Although the other day, I realized how badly it was trying to be Friends, but somehow failing at it, for some inexplicable reason. Barney channels Chandler constantly he even does the same arm flailing run out of the room that Chandler did, Ted wants to be Ross so badly but without Rachel it just doesn’t work, Marshall is a good, yet not quite as funny Joey, and Robin fails at Rachel just as badly as Lilly sucks at being Monica. It’s a Friends wannabe, but a good one nonetheless. And if you haven’t ever seen the show that last paragraph likely made no sense, so I apologize.

My mom was here last week, and she left me with a renewed lack of confidence regarding my cooking skills (she’s an awesome cook, and though generally I’m not a bad cook, when she’s in town most of the stuff I make ends up being inedible. I think it’s a passive aggressive method my brain uses, unbeknownst to me, to get her to cook for us.) as well as an awesome way to trick my ipad into thinking it’s in the US (something to do with IP addresses – if you’re interested email me and I’ll explain it) so I can now login to Netflix and Hulu and a whole host of other sites that are sucking away whatever small amount of free time I had left. In fact, I’ve started watching Scandal. I highly recommend it.

So between finally being able to watch American tv shows for free on my ipad and the gym, I’ve been obsessively watching tv. I need to get a life.

Another consequence of this health kick I’ve been on is that I decided to do one of those crazy insane no carbs, no sugar, just protein and certain vegetables, go into ketosis -type diets. Only for ten days, thank god, but right now ten days feels like just way too long. Although it’s getting better, the first three days were terrible I had a headache, I was jittery, I was cranky and high-strung, I craved sugar and bread to an almost uncontrollable degree, it felt, for all intents and purposes, how I imagine drug withdrawal to feel like. Now I’m just hungry all the time. For some reason, protein just doesn’t give me that “I’m full” signal, or rather, it does for like half an hour, and then my body and mind go into panicked “give me food, I’m starving” mode. As per several people’s suggestions I’ve been chewing a lot of gum. Even my jaws are getting nicely toned at this point.

I just hope it’s worth it. Also, I never thought I’d be excited about fruit, but next week I get to start eating fruit again, and right now fruit elicits the same anticipation and glee as chocolate would have. I know, that’s kind of sad.

Lastly, I’ve decided it’s time for the Boy to lose the diaper at night. I’ll let you know how it goes. Although, this decision hasn’t made it’s way from my decider to the actual physical world so let’s not hold our breath or anything, but I am starting to consider it and that’s a step in the right direction right? I just don’t want to be laundering peed upon sheets from now till kingdom come, you know? Now that I think about it… he doesn’t really need to be diaperless yet, does he?

And on that note…

I’m over, and out.

A little of this and a little of that

WordPress is driving me insane. My old blog was on blogger and though missing some of wordpress’ more interesting features, most of which I do not use as I’m neither curious nor computer literate enough, blogger had a fantastic widget for blogrolls. My blogroll automatically updated each blog’s new posts so I always knew when to go read them and could conveniently click on them directly from my homepage. I didn’t need to check my reader, my email, and my carrier pigeon, it was all in one place, sorted by most recent, the pinnacle of convenience.

Word verification irritates me. I understand that very, very popular blogs need some sort of filter to minimize the amount of spam they have to deal with, so they make their readers register. Fine. But these blogs are few and far between. Regular blogs can probably do without this, and those blogs with 20 followers and no social media anything probably don’t get all that much spam to begin with. So, why, why make us jump through hoops to leave a comment? I hate word verification. I hate having to try and decipher the stupid letters that look nothing like letters that spell out words that don’t exist. And half the time that isn’t even enough, I have to put in numbers too, or worst of all, do math. Gawd! I mean honestly, isn’t the pleasure of reading your readers comments enough to justify spending a couple of minutes erasing the crap in your spam folder?

I don’t know what to watch on tv lately. Italian tv, even Italian satellite tv, is just abysmally terrible this year. I keep downloading stuff on itunes, but it gets expensive. Also, most of my favorite shows are over (permanently) so I don’t know what to watch. Any suggestions on this front would be greatly appreciated.

I would like to find (or put together, though it’s quite possibly more work than I can handle right now) an honest to goodness book club for me to join. One that suggests a book, gives reading assignments so everyone is always on the same page (double entendre intended), and moderates regular discussions on the book regularly. Is there such a thing? Where might I find it? Also, I’m on goodreads, if anyone would like to befriend me…

I’ve been going to the gym regularly (almost every day) for three weeks now. I’m pretty upset that I have lost not one kilo. Though my jeans are starting to fit a wee bit more comfortably. Apparently, this is a good thing, though honestly, I’d like some reassurance from my scale.

I have a very, very, sweet husband who is a very, very good guy, and I’d do well to remember this fact more often. I’ll tell you why in the next post. (or rather the next, next post as the next post will likely be the Monday Listicle). Creating some suspense….

Okay… all done with this week’s inanities. Leaving you with some stuff to read:





It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to

October 3rd. It’s my 37th birthday today. Normally I get very excited about my birthday, I love birthdays and celebrations in general. I’ve always believed that the older we get the more we should celebrate our birthdays because there are fewer and fewer of them ahead of us. Macabre, maybe, but true. We should take advantage of them, make them special, get excited, like when we were kids.

This year, however, I’m not feeling it. I don’t know why. I’m almost embarrassed to say that I feel like I’m going to be disappointed, in fact, I am disappointed, preemptively, which makes no sense at all. (What am I, twelve? ha, I could only wish!)

In any case, I’m done with all the mental masturbation (please forgive the vulgarity, but there’s no better word for what I’m doing right now… oh, I wonder what’s wrong with me, let me think back to my childhood and analyze every single significant moment in my life to see if there’s any connection with this current bout of mal de vivre…). No sir, I’m done.

I’m un-excited, I’m disappointed? Who gives a shit? Is what I’m telling myself this year. So I’m going to get excited about doing something nice for someone else.

I’m not sure what exactly, but I’ve got all day to figure it out. In fact, if you’ve got any suggestions I’m all ears!

(Isn’t that the most ridiculous expression ever? Who came up with that, Dumbo?)

Only hot, young, guys need apply

It’s 2.30pm and I’m still in my workout clothes. At this point I’m not even going to shower and change out of them cause I have Yoga in another 4 hours so what’s the point. I mean, seriously, showering, shaving, washing my hair, blow drying it (cause I’m a wimp and can’t go out in wet hair when it’s chilly anymore)… only to get back into a very similar workout outfit? Talk about a hassle.

It’s 2.30 pm and it’s the first time I open the computer today. How does that even happen? I haven’t checked my emails, haven’t been on facebook, haven’t visited any of my “daily reads” blogs. And this is exactly what it’s been like for the past ten days, honest to God, I don’t know how this happens.

It’s not like I did anything earth shattering today, or any other day last week, in fact. I get up, I wrangle the kids, I take them to school, I run errands, I go to the gym for what feels like four, but is actually closer to one and a half, hours, I come home, I eat, I get the kids, I put them down for their naps and BAM! It’s 2.30. What the hell??

This nonsense started almost two weeks ago, when, getting up from the couch with a pain in my back, I decided I was done with feeling like I’m a hundred and three. My grandma, who is actually almost a hundred and three is more limber than I. I spent my days recently with pain in my shoulder, in my hip, in my lower back, in my knee. I have neither fallen or been in an accident. Is there any reason on this green earth why an otherwise healthy woman of some thirty odd years of age should have such a list of ailments? Absolutely not! Is the thought that started me on this road of not having any time for faffing around. Because I started going to the gym. Every day. E.v.e.r.y. d.a.y. for an hour and a half. With, thank god, a very cute personal trainer.

In fact, if he wasn’t quite so young, and fit, and blonde and blue-eyed, and smiley, and cute, I probably would have throat punched him by now. Because the pain I was in before is nothing compared to the pain I’m in now. The pain I’m in now laughs in the face of the pain I was in before. I’m doing squats, and lunges, and all manner of outlandish movements on weighted medieval torture devices. And then I walk, oh my lord, I walk for like forever, uphill, then downhill, then at a faster or a slower pace, I walk, and walk, and walk, and by god, I don’t go anywhere. Talk about frustrating.

And that’s why it’s 2.30pm and I’m sitting here for the first time all day, finally in front of my long forgotten friend, wondering if I’m too stinky to just stay like this until yoga tonight or if I really should go shower, and change into a fresh pair of yoga pants. All this so I can fit back into all the marvelous clothes I have in my closet and I can play with my kids without creaking and huffing, puffing and jiggling and complaining. Ugh.

The bad guy

The thing about having kids, I’ve found, is that there is no way for you to really prepare yourself beforehand. Sure, you go into it with a lot of ideas, a ton of opinions and a truly ridiculous amount of information relative to the first year of a child’s life but you still end up just flailing about in the dark with nary a clue as to what you are doing and where you are going and how on earth you are going to get there, somewhere, anywhere.

I had a very strict mother, I didn’t want to be a strict mother, I wanted to be a laid-back and easy-going yet firm and friendly mother. Notice how that sentence is just a long, run-on oxymoron?

I’ve since realized that I can be easy-going and friendly but that’s not going to result in my also having well-behaved, respectful kids, the only way I can get that is to be firm, and be their mother. I’ll never be laid-back; I was born without that particular gene. And since I’d rather have well-behaved, respectful kids than not, I’ve found myself becoming stricter and stricter. Basically, I’m turning into my Mother. I’m living a cliché.

But still, I don’t want to be the bad guy. I don’t want to be the one always yelling and scolding, I don’t want to be the pain in their patootie (literally and figuratively). The hard part is trying to figure out how much is too much and how much is too little. I want them to have fun, I especially want them to have fun with me, I want them to be silly and enjoy their childhoods and I want them to have good memories with me, the good, happy moments have to largely surpass the annoying, boring, trite, ones. But I also want them to be polite and to listen to me and to follow the rules. When I say let’s go, we go, when I say we put up the toys, that’s what we do, but I’d like it to be done with much less yelling on my part and fewer sour pusses on theirs.

I don’t want to be the bad guy, but I do want to be the boss. I don’t believe we live in a democracy, I’m aiming for more of a parliamentary monarchy, they get to say what they want, but my opinion is the only one that really counts. After all, I’m their mother, part of my job is to teach them both manners and morals, neither of which can bear any argument.

I’ve been reading this book called “Bringing up Bebe”, written by an American mother living in France, it’s really good and quite funny at times and she brings up the notion of “cadre”, which literally means square and in this context is used as a framework of set rules that cannot be tampered or argued with. I’m very familiar with the French concept of cadre as I went to a French school (in Houston) and education is based on it. In it’s application to motherhood, though, it basically means that you have a set of rules that you do not deviate from, ever, that create the basic framework of your child’s education and within that framework you give the child the freedom to make his choices and do what he will.

I basically grew up in a “cadre-style” household, but until I read it described from an American’s point of view I had never realized what it was. To give you a very specific example (one which I’m in the process of implementing right now) I used to fight nightly with the kids at bedtime, yelling at them, chasing around after them, screaming, crying… it was complete chaos, but now they get ten minutes of crazy time, then they brush their teeth, they go potty, they get in bed and I read them a story. Within this framework, they pick which toothpaste to use, where they brush their teeth (I used to insist they stand at the sink, now I don’t care where they are when they’re actually brushing as long as they spit and rinse in the sink – as opposed to, say, the toilet), they pick which songs I sing to them and which story I read. They have some control, but they’re doing what I say. Now, if you’re reading this thinking, “we’ll that’s obvious, isn’t it?” then I envy you, but to me it was a bit of a revelation.

My cadre is still a work in progress, I’m still defining, both for myself and for them what the framework to our lives and routines is but it’s already making things easier. They have fewer rules to follow and they are clearer, more easily defined. It’s easier for me too, cause I’m not getting frustrated at every junction, I have to stop and actually think about what it is I want from them exactly and what is the best way to get there. I have to think more, but I yell less.

I’m still flailing about in the dark, but at least now I’m actually thinking about which direction I want to go in and formulating a plan as to how to get there.

I don’t want to be the bad guy, but I don’t want to be the good guy either, I guess I just want to be the person they look to for direction and for comfort as they live their lives autonomously. Or, you know, as autonomously as two people who still need me to wipe their bums can live.

Set in my ways, like a cranky old codger

As I’ve mentioned I’m at the beach with the kids, and this time away from home has helped me realize a few things about myself and my life. Our day-to-day here is much simpler, we get up, we have breakfast, we get ready and we go to the beach (with a couple of fights, a crying fit or two, the beds getting made, and me yelling a bit in between). We spend a few hour at the beach, we have lunch, we come home, bathe and nap. I clean and look at blogs, we go out, to the greengrocer, the baker, the butcher, and the candlestick maker. (I’m actually kidding about that last one.) Then we have dinner, go back down to the square for the dancing or kiddie show or whatever entertainment is on offer that night and then we go to bed, get up the next morning and wash, rinse, repeat. If friends come to stay our routine remains pretty much the same, even whilst the chaos level rises exponentially, but it’s all good.

When the husband or the nanny come though… well, I’ve noticed I start getting a little tense, a little more upset, a little… completely pissed off all the time. Why? Because the truth is I’m 36 going on 89. I’m set in my ways, I like things just so, when I settle into a routine I don’t like to have it disrupted. Well, more like I positively despise having it disrupted. The nanny, she puts the dishes away wrong, she puts too much detergent in the washer, she sneaks bleach in the house when I’m trying to green my cleaning products… at home I don’t mind, I’ve got too much to do, and as long as the house is clean I don’t really care how it gets that way. But here, I’m in control of my life, the house is small enough to be manageable and it’s new, everything is where I want it, it’s mine, more than the house we live in every day is. And I want things just so.

The husband, he comes and he wants to go to the beach earlier, or later, he wants to have breakfast at the cafè, he wants to go swimming, or he doesn’t, he hogs the shade, he talks on the phone with the office or his colleagues or his mother. He invites his mother over without asking me, when he isn’t here. He wants to eat dinner out, or in, he wants pizza or sushi or pasta. All legitimate requests, but annoying nonetheless cause he screws with my routine. I can’t just decide and do, when he’s here, I have to suggest, listen, negotiate. Many of these are the same reasons why I wanted to separate a few months back, because life on my own is just easier most of the time. I’ve come to terms with it in my regular life, I realize that with every negotiation I don’t have to face, with every concession I don’t have to make I’m paying the price in sole responsibility, snow shoveling, and spider elimination. So you compromise, in marriage. But I’m on vacation and when he’s around I’m not on vacation anymore. Sure, I’m on an extended version of the mother vacation which means I still cook and clean and run after children, referee fights and all that, but my mind’s on vacation and then he shows up and effectively rains on my parade.

The truth is though, that I should just be thankful that I have a nanny who takes the kids off my hands so I can get some work done, or cleans the house, or irons our clothes, I should be happy to see the Husband on the weekends, to talk to another adult, to go out to eat or have an extra ice cream or a cocktail. I’m just a cranky, old lady, despite my relatively young age. And all I can think of is God help us all when I actually reach my old age cause I’m going to be completely intractable, like a codgery old fool.

Chit Chat and Virtual Coffee

I haven’t done a virtual coffee post in so long, I’m not even sure I remember how to do one! Of course, I’ve never done one on this here blog, so most of you are probably going, huh?? I did almost forty on my other blog so this feels like going back to an old friend, but from a new place. Maybe I should stop blabbing and just get on with it…

Hello dear friends, and welcome to coffee!

Today I’m feeling chatty, but haven’t got an awful lot to say, so it’s just going to be one of those posts….

We’re finally in full on summer mode here, I know that seems weird to most Americans whose summer vacations are almost over but in Italy it goes from mid June to mid September. Entirely too long in my opinion, but no one’s asking me.

I’ve officially moved to the beach for the month, yes, the month. I’m doing the Italian housewife thing and taking the kids to the beach for the summer. Of course, most housewives here who are lucky enough to have a beach house spend the entire summer at the seaside but I couldn’t bring myself to do it, one month is more than enough, I’ve got a vegetable garden to tend to at home after all!

The husband inherited/bought an apartment on the Italian Riviera Ligure last year from his mother and we spent all of last summer renovating it, so this year we get to enjoy it, and let me tell you, it’s perfect. I’m not bragging, it’s perfectly perfect for us. It’s small enough to clean and keep orderly without me wanting to kill myself but large enough so we can have friends visit with minimal inconvenience to all. It’s a 30 second (literally) walk from the beach and has everything you could possibly need within a 2 minute walk range. It’s not a glamorous, nor trendy town, there are few really good restaurants and to say most locals are rude is an understatement, but it’s comfortable, there are shows and various entertainment for kids almost every night, the beach is sandy and the water is shallow for miles, so it’s perfect for young children.

Our BFFs came to visit last week for a few days. There were six (and a half) of us, my pregnant friend, her two kids, myself and my two kids. Let me just say that, contrary to what I had previously thought two kids plus two kids does not equal four kids; two kids plus two kids equals a herd of elephants. On speed. We survived, however, and hopefully they’ll come back and visit next week too.

I’ve discovered both my children are incredible homebodies (trait that they did NOT inherit from me), who have a low tolerance for being far from their familiar surroundings. After a week here they started asking when we’re going home, I’m having a hard time explaining to them that this is their home too.

I’m in the process of co-writing a children’s book with a friend, the process is driving me crazy. I don’t get how real writers do it… It’s a book about a tractor and his capers, it goes with an educational dvd series my friend is producing (filming, editing, and any other ing you can think of), so it’s her idea… but boy, co-writing is hard. Or maybe it’s just hard for me, I need to work on my team playing skills, or something.

On a related (but also not) note, I’ve started taking Bach Flowers for my moods. I went through a mild depression a few months ago, at which point I had decided to ditch my husband and my nanny and run off with the kids, though I hadn’t actually figured out where to… Instead (thank God!) I started following the Mood Cure (not going to get into it, but you can click on the link for more info), ditched only my old blog and miraculously started feeling better. Right now I just have sporadic moments of craziness that I’ve decided to temper with Bach Flowers. I’m focusing mostly on trying to be more patient, so I’m taking a flower called Impatiens (har, har) and, though not miraculous, I am feeling some improvement, I’ve stopped yelling at my kids full-time and am now mean mama only some of the time. We’re all quite relieved. I’m hoping on a reappearance of fun mama soon, as I, and the kids, quite liked her.

Unfortunately, my blogging respite has ended as naptime’s almost over (what do moms of older kids do for free time during the summer I wonder?). Thanks for stopping by to chat, please tell me what’s going on with you, I really want to know!

Toodles, M