Loud

Semi-funny story. When AO & I put in the offer on this place we now live, I had no idea that the train ran through our backyard. I have no excuse for not knowing: this isn’t a foreign town to me; I’m capable of reading maps (some would say I’m obsessed with them); and I semi-got that the reason our well-endowed house was priced so cheaply was because of location. I just wrongly concentrated solely on its front-facing problems, i.e. East Wash. Boo.

But ohmigawd, there’s a train, too. But I’ve come to see what others may view as a downside is something, well, if not charming, at least memorable

I’ve come to love the trains, which comes largely in the wee hours. Is that weird? I know that they’re so loud and make such different noises than the street sounds on the street side  of life. But I find them so oddly comforting, even when they’re acerbic.

So, I’d say I’d move away from this damn car-infested street any day of the week, but I want a train in my backyard.

Sneak peak!

Zing!

Last night Molly was being a total butthead about going to sleep. The final incident involved her coughing loudly and seemingly seriously. So, I went into her room and glared at her.

I said, ‘WTF?!’

Jk. I said, ‘Are you ok?’ And she said, ‘My throat hurts.’ I suggested she drink some water. She gasped, ‘I can’t!’ She then, whispering-yelling, told me that she could hardly talk and was in dire straits. I said, ‘Molly, you are the biggest drama queen.’

She said, ‘No Mommy, I’m not. Babies are.’

Day X

So, on Day 19 we fell a bit off of our Monster 30-day plan to be our best, calm selves and get our lives in order. This Administration and, well, life proved too much for us. Instead we said screw it to the mess in the house and the House and everywhere, had some nighttime cocktails and binge-watched some telly. It was cathartic in its own right.

And now, ten plus days later, the house is still a mess, the chaos in Washington is bigger than before and I’m dealing with a flood of emotions at having just celebrated Mollybear’s fifth birthday. With every one of these birthdays – or any milestone really (like, for example, she’s taken to saying, “Oh. My God,” which has to be a rite of passage) – I seem to die a bit on the inside. As cliched as it is to say, this parenting business is not for the weak of heart. And weak of heart I am.

On that note, I give you this article, which I thought was written by me at first. What tipped me off wasn’t the name of the author (I thought that perhaps I had submitted under a nom de plume), but that I drink coffee, Coke Zero and icy cold water in the morning. And then it struck me that the voice seems to be somewhat younger than I. And I don’t have one of those fancy towels she speaks of. And she showers more frequently than I do. And she’s funnier. And a better writer. Look, I didn’t write it. I get that. But still. For just a moment, I thought, “Wait. Did I submit an article to Slate?!”

Day 14

This morning I sent a trash bag stuffed full of dust bunny-laced shoes to the bin. Many were bought in Richmond when I had access to a Nordstrom, but at least one pair predates that. Some are newer, but I don’t wear them, so they got the boot. Ha. Anyway, I vacuumed out the closet (ew) and I feel better already. 

I also tried on a lot of clothes I ordered from Boden and I nearly fainted on the floor. I jest. But I do think I’ve found some great staples and some fun pieces and I’m feeling good about getting dressed going into Week 3 of Project Trying to Keep My Sanity 2017.  

How’re you guys coping? Oh, my exercise plan was derailed by both me and my self-diagnosed bronchitis, but the alcohol-free zone remains intact. For now.