Where Is Our Stuff?

We are settling in to our new city.  And new apartment.  Overall, things are going well.

But, I never know where the knives are.  Dan keeps moving them.  We’ve only lived in this apartment for two weeks and he has already moved the block of wood that holds the knives THREE TIMES.  Every time I wash a knife, I have no idea where to put it.  I end up wandering around our teensy kitchen muttering to myself. While holding a knife.  In short: I END UP LOOKING LIKE THE CRAZY ONE.

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Aunt Elaine

Jacob & Aunt Elaine at the Playground

Jacob & Aunt Elaine at the Playground

My sister came to visit a few days ago.  Aunt Elaine. Jacob LOVES to play with Aunt Elaine.  Loves, loves, LOVES it.  Of course Emma does too in her own I-will-cling-to-Mommy-while-you’re-here-but-allow-you-to-entertain-me sort of way.  Incidentally, after a day of this (clinging and expecting Aunt Elaine to be her personal court jester) Emma whined piteously for Aunt Elaine at bedtime.  “Annn Elaaaaaaaine!  Annn Elaaaaaaaine”  She would NOT get in her crib until she had said a proper goodnight to Aunt Elaine.  A proper good night turned out to be a ten minute ritual involving several rounds of hugs.  Waving goodbye.  And blowing kisses.  It reminded me of that scene in “The Sound of Music” when that Austrian woman would not get off the stage at the music festival.

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Business As Usual

We are down to the wire.  Just over a week before we move.  For our almost-five-year-old (Jacob) and almost-two-year-old (Emma), this means . . . almost-nothing.  They’re not so impressed.  You need to put everything in the house into boxes, Mommy?  Whatever. Where’s my Elmo video?  Clearly, there are more important things to focus on.

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Night, night

Jacob as a newborn trying out sleeping.  (He soon decided he didn't like it.)

Jacob as a newborn trying out sleeping. (He soon decided he didn’t like it.)

You know how you tuck your kid into bed, say “good night” and then walk out the door?  Me either.  How did the process of getting a child into a bed become a 45-minute ritual requiring an intermission and a concession stand?  We are simply no match for our children– two stall-master-black-belts who suddenly find Mommy and Daddy RIVETING just before bedtime.  (Send.  Help.)  Here’s how it breaks down . . .

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