The best words I can use to describe last night's Halloween extravaganza: Laser. Focus. These two were ON TASK.
(First, can we please note that heart sunglasses make quite the perfect addition to a Belle costume?)
Now allow me to present to you the series of "family photos" my neighbor took of us. I'm going to tell you who I think won each shot; let's see if you concur.
2 weeks postpartum. (Note: This photo is in no way representative of actual life with a baby.)
The first time I wrote about being a parent was the day after my first child - my son - was born. I didn't "write" about it, actually: I just posted a series of pictures, because I had no idea what to say about parenthood, having experienced it for all of 12 hours, and was overwhelmed by the idea of saying anything at all, lest what I said turn out to be "wrong" or "not motherly enough" or some such ridiculousness. As I wrote in this post, "To write about my feelings for my baby is to open up conversation about those feelings, and they are so precious and so mine that it would be heartbreaking for me were they to be trivialized or misunderstood."
I mean, I used to hide pacifiers before taking pictures because I was scared that some unknown Internet Person would yell at me that giving my baby a pacifier was a terrible, horrible thing to do. ...Because what did I know? Maybe it was!
I've spent the past week trying to write a story about a shitty performer I saw at a fair, and somehow the post keeps turning into an analysis of systemic misogyny and Harvey Weinstein, and ultimately leads me to a story from my past I've always been afraid to tell. I'm having trouble getting to the root of why all of these things feel so tied up in a ugly little knot.
So - because I might as well start somewhere - let me start with the clown.
Paws off, Virgil.
Everyone - and I believe this from the depths of my soul - should have a pair of house booties. I don't mean "slippers"...I mean house booties.
It is vital that said house booties possess the following qualities:
Why Google when you can crowdsource advice on Insta?
I didn't know that it was possible to be mad at a piece of kitchen equipment, but it totally is. Right now I am so furious at my pan that I am may very well use a metal fork on it the next time I scramble my eggs (OH THAT'S RIGHT, YOU HEARD ME).
(Before I keep going, I think you should probably know that I am on a killer combo of narcotic pain medication and two and a half hours of sleep right now. Highly recommended.)
