Who the hell are you? Good one. I am many things to many people. I'm mom to Peach, 6, and Olive, 2. I'm wife to T-Bone. I'm #240074** to the State Bar of Texas. I'm a good dancer, a bad speller, and I am deathly afraid of clowns. Seriously.
What's with the Spanish? I've decided that being a mom is, in some ways, like being a tourist. It seems like everywhere we go, we walk around in circles a lot, then sit on every chair, bench, step, or stoop, read every sign - aloud, stop and gaze at every animal, body of water, and varied point of interest, take a shitload of pictures, try the food, and buy the t-shirt. And don't forget the packing beforehand. I try to be prepared for all manner of sustenance-, potty-, and weather-related emergencies (not necessarily in that order). Who knows when we might run out of gas during a Central Texas blizzard and be forced to live off of Cheerios and raisins until help arrives. Or worse, have a blowout diaper at Foley's and have to haul ass to the other end of the mall to Nordstrom's and the lovely restrooms they have hidden there. I did finally make myself cull down the traveling medicine chest I've been lugging around in the diaper bag since Peach was born. I feel like it's probably okay to throw out that unopened and expired (and now practically illegal to possess) bottle of ipecac, and I think I can now leave home without the huge nasal aspirator they gave me in the hospital six years ago. You know the one.
Why should I read this? I don't know. I don't even know why I should write this. I'm in a transitional phase career-wise (see Uncle), which could be interesting, but I don't have a bone to pick, a flag to wave, a cause, a gimmick, or a product, which could be boring. I haven't quite decided where I'm going with this, but it seemed like a good time to start. So stay tuned. Or not.
What's with the Spanish? I've decided that being a mom is, in some ways, like being a tourist. It seems like everywhere we go, we walk around in circles a lot, then sit on every chair, bench, step, or stoop, read every sign - aloud, stop and gaze at every animal, body of water, and varied point of interest, take a shitload of pictures, try the food, and buy the t-shirt. And don't forget the packing beforehand. I try to be prepared for all manner of sustenance-, potty-, and weather-related emergencies (not necessarily in that order). Who knows when we might run out of gas during a Central Texas blizzard and be forced to live off of Cheerios and raisins until help arrives. Or worse, have a blowout diaper at Foley's and have to haul ass to the other end of the mall to Nordstrom's and the lovely restrooms they have hidden there. I did finally make myself cull down the traveling medicine chest I've been lugging around in the diaper bag since Peach was born. I feel like it's probably okay to throw out that unopened and expired (and now practically illegal to possess) bottle of ipecac, and I think I can now leave home without the huge nasal aspirator they gave me in the hospital six years ago. You know the one.
Why should I read this? I don't know. I don't even know why I should write this. I'm in a transitional phase career-wise (see Uncle), which could be interesting, but I don't have a bone to pick, a flag to wave, a cause, a gimmick, or a product, which could be boring. I haven't quite decided where I'm going with this, but it seemed like a good time to start. So stay tuned. Or not.
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