My grandmother was the second youngest of fourteen siblings. Yikes, yikes, and double yikes, I know. What does this translate to for me? My mom is the youngest of thirty-six first cousins, and I’ve grown up very close to my own six first cousins. I was lucky enough (thanks to my dad’s job with TWA and my parents’ penchant for road trips) to remain close with my cousins even though, growing up, we never lived in the same city. I remember fondly making up countless dances to “Grease Lightning” with Megan, having coloring competitions with Scott, and going roller skating with David. And yes, Lauren, in case you read this, I do appreciate you cleaning up that poop incident of mine back in 1977.
Now, I live nearby to two of these cousins, and the other ones, I’m fortunate enough to visit. But my own kids only have 2 first cousins, thanks to my sister (and to my sisters-in-law’s lack of procreating). Yet, because of the crazy, close relationships that I have with my own cousins, my kids aren’t lacking in the cousin department. They might be first cousins twice-removed (or is it second cousins?), but to my kids, they’re just plain family.
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Earlier this week, I had the pleasure of accompanying Luke to his school, where they created a parent/child interactive day centered around the holiday of 
It’s happened–it’s finally here. My two kids want to play with each other more than they want to play with me. Whoo hoo!!!!
Last night at the dinner table, Antony was joking around with our five year-old daughter, encouraging her to finish up her burger and carrots. “Who’s the boss here?” he asked.
I’m sure that many of you have already viewed this on YouTube, but it’s worth sharing and watching again. Author (and more importantly, mother) Kendra Kenison’s new memoir about motherhood and nurturing is called 
Call me a stage mom. This morning, I accompanied Annabel and her pre-K class on a walking field trip to an assisted living facility. The purpose of the visit was to entertain the residents with songs. On the 15-minute walk there, I held onto Annabel’s hand and onto another little girl, who I’ll call Spencer. Annabel chatted to me about the ducks, the cars, the trash that she saw along the way, and Spencer just kept squeezing my hand, giggling, and telling me that she was sweaty.
We read a lot at this house. Our bookshelves in the family room are stuffed every which way with historical fiction novels, poetry anthologies, professional guides, self-help books, modern-day war stories, contemporary literature, and my mom’s favorite, book about African snakes.
My wife is at home feeding the baby. I’m sitting at the laundromat down the block from our apartment, white MacBook open on my lap like the dozen SpeedQueen top loaders lined up in front of me. At 9pm on a Tuesday night, the place is pretty dead. Two weeks worth of my clothes are dancing hypnotically in the dryers. Easy listening rock drifts from the tiny speakers in the water-stained ceiling panels and the place smells like one giant, warm, dryer sheet. If the seats were actually comfortable, this could be heaven.
