Meet the Newest Member of the Family…

Give away one of my beautiful scales? Never!

Meet Rainbow Fish Husband Hausfrau. He came into our family because someone in this family has been diaper free for a month! (Jokes about me or Herr Husband, commence now.) Rainbow Fish is actually more charming than I thought he would be. He likes to come look at me and make kissy faces and I’m rather smitten. And the level of care he requires is probably in line with my abilities. Das Big Boy was terribly excited to get a fish and now seems marginally interested, which seems about right.

Also, I’m kind of obsessed with:

Yes, I am one of the many people you know who has gotten hooked on Stitch Fix. It’s basically like getting presents except you pay for them. You tell them about styles you love and hate and they send you clothes and then you can return them if you don’t like them. I kept everything from my first “fix” and wear the clothes constantly. I only kept one shirt from my second “fix,” but I’ve worn it two days in a row so that says something. It’s a great service for people like me who enjoy clothes but whose wardrobes have fallen behind the times either because they have kids or work or accidentally always buy the same types of clothes (tank tops and deconstructed cardigans with statement necklaces over here). Full disclosure: if you sign up and use my link above I get a $25 credit, but I promise I’m not trying to scam you. My evangelism is pure.

Other than dressing myself, or, more accurately, letting others dress me, the fam and I have ventured to Provincetown with Mo, Martha’s Vineyard with the Huxtables, and Cape Cod to see my luminously talented Auntie in I am a Camera. And I’ve solo attended book events for hardcore gifted storytellers Julia Fierro (Cutting Teeth) and Courtney Maum (I Am Having So Much Fun Here Without You). All awesome. Such events and the new clothes might make my life sound glamorous, but let’s remember I have two small children and was recently compelled to utter the sentence, “That’s right, DBB, you can’t juggle Marmalady’s pukies.” And ten times a day I sing a hand washing song to the tune of the ABCs about how good someone is at using the potty.

Das Big Boy is summering at camp, which he has figured out is really school with a different order of events, some new teachers, and a sprinkler. Little Liebchen has a gazillion words understandable only to her parents, and a tendency to lay her head upon the floor and sob when she does not get her way. Wherever does she get it?

Here is what we look like as of last weekend:

We went as a family to the Brockton Fair, where we went on lots of rides and I fed my baby fried dough. Yes, I exist in an odd dichotomous universe in which my children and I either eat only organic hippie food or total crap. Also at the fair, I won the game where you shoot water into the clown’s mouth, thereby procuring a stuffed dragon for my family. It felt good to be a provider again. There may have been a post victory fist pump involved.

I’m trying to write beyond the blog again, so wish me luck with that endeavor.  How do we feel about getting childcare to do work for which you will likely never be paid? Or paid enough? It fills me with guilt, but I’m not sure how else writing gets done. Thoughts?

Faithfully yours, even in long bouts of unexplained absentia,

Deine Hipster Hausfrau