A blog in letters. Two friends dish on family, careers, and the food that gets them through.
Hey Sar -
I have literally been trying to write this post for a week. But every time I sit down to make it happen, something (ahem, someone) interrupts. So it's 6am Sunday morning and here I am. The house is quiet and I finally have a moment to myself.
Read MoreBilly,
This time of year, it’s hard to get away from pumpkin. And I’ve totally fallen victim. The problem, of course, is that there are so many pumpkin recipes out there, sometimes it's hard to file through them all for the good ones, the ones actually worth making. Plus, in this season of entertaining, I really wanted to find a couple of breakfast go-tos that were simple enough for June to help with, but also impressive enough to plunk down for an impromptu brunch. So I’m dropping you a quick letter to share two great ones.
Read MoreSweet, sweet amie. How lovely it is to wake at 3:45am to a hungry infant and see your text and know that I am not alone.
I honestly didn’t think it was possible to be this tired and still be awake. I mean, I’ve been tired before. Really really tired. 30-hour–shift-in–residency-tired. But, at least then, there was a mandate requiring I get a compensatory 16 hours off of any duty, at all, for rest and recuperation. Don’t pilots have the same thing? And truck drivers? Why not parents? I’m going on three years of sleep deprivation, here.
Remember when that study came out showing that driving while tired is akin to driving while intoxicated? So, can that be extended to parenting? I mean, am I just as useless to my children tired as I would be drunk? A poor comparison on a couple of levels. For one, I think we can both agree that I am way more fun when drunk than when tired. And two, no one will ever arrest me for being too tired to parent. Even when I wish they would because at least then, I could get some sleep! No way a noisy cell is any more disruptive to sleep patterns than a screaming infant or a sick preschooler.
The true problem with this intense fatigue is that it makes me the absolute worst version of myself. My patience falls precipitously to unfairly low levels (I mean, how can my just-past-three-year-old daughter forget to flush every fucking time?), I look hideous (those poor bastards at my local grocery asked me today if I needed help - not “help bagging,” or “help out to [my] car,” just “help”), and I’m overly suspicious of the motives of everyone in my family (currently, I’m convinced that little Harvey, barely 7 weeks old, is taunting me from his basinet where he is visibly REMing). What. The. Fuck. Question mark.
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