On...

A few months after I got home from the hospital, maybe late March of last year, I was in bed, ready to go to sleep, when I noticed a soft squawking. Interesting... it seemed a little early for baby seagulls to be hatching, and wow, that nest must have been really close to my condo for me to hear them, but, seagull nesting patterns are not something about which I know. (Note to self - Google seagull nesting patterns). I didn't really think much more of this, except that I heard them each night and wondered if they've gotten any bigger, or what baby seagulls actually look like. Several weeks later, I spent a day at my parents' house. And in a quiet moment, I heard baby seagulls. Strange. Well, my parents also live on the water, so I guess it is possible that they, too, have a nest of baby seagulls somewhere near their house, but wow, what are the chances? And then, I heard baby seagulls in Target. What?! Baby seagulls WOULD NOT be in Target! My next thought - Oh... M

I had an interesting conversation with my almost six-year-old daughter, today. It was one of those conversations that made me pause... Not because of what she said, but because of how I responded. As per usual, in my house, and probably in most houses with young children, the idea that one could shower and get dressed without an audience is just laughable. That being said, today, during the getting dressed phase of my morning, the youngest audience member walked in. The conversation went like this: Alli: "Mommy, why are boobs inappropriate?" And here was my first pause... Why would she think that? Me: "Uh, Alli, boobs aren't inappropriate, they're just private." Alli: "Why are they private? All grown-up girls have them." Me: "Yes, when girls grow up, they get boobs. And, well... boys and girls have different parts. And those parts are the ones we cover up and are private." Second pause... Wow, I just told her tha

Sundays are my melancholy days. Not every Sunday. But, if I am going to have a melancholy day, it generally is a Sunday. Sunday is the day of rest. People feel like it is the time to slow down, to not do much of anything. I am horrible at not doing much of anything. A Sunday with nothing to do can feel like punishment to me. For my introvert friends, Sundays feel like relief, but for me, Sundays can be lonely. Sundays make me feel like I want to go home. What? I am home, right? Yes, literally I am at home. However, being in the place you reside doesn't necessarily feel like home. So, this Sunday, in the midst of my melancholy, I decided to reflect on what going, or being, home has meant to me over the years. I grew up in a lovely home, with parents who cared (and still care) about me, in a fantastic neighborhood, where we had neighbors that took an interest in the lives of my parents, as well as mine and my brother's. I started, at a young age, understanding that home