At the end of the work day, most people are pleased as punch to get the hell out of dodge. To go to happy hour for “a quick one”, or to head to the gym to help keep their unobtainable size 00 figures. Me? I dread the end of the work day. And not because I love my job (I really do enjoy it, sort of…) but I dread the pick up at daycare. Here is why.

Immediately I am greeted by my 2-yr-old; the happiest little koala bear, hugging me around the neck so tight I nearly pass out, and my 5-year-old, squealing about the design she just created with sidewalk chalk all while bolting to the car faster than Jimmy Johns can make me a Beach Club. Don’t misunderstand me. I love LOVE this part. But it’s when we get in the car that all hell breaks loose.

The entire 10 minute drive to my far from tranquil home is filled with the “I-want-candy-I-am-thirsty-it’s-too-hot-in-here-I-can’t-even-breathe-my-sister-touched-my-leg-where’s-my-baby-and-blankie-Mom-can-I-get-a-gerbil-when-my-fish-is-dead-I-am-starving” diarrhea of the mouths that sends me in a downward spiral.

Inevitably the girls demand (and eventually help themselves) to a bowl of Cocoa Puffs before I can even turn the car off. They want a show. They want some water. And it’s really hard to manage all of that while I am changing into yoga pants and uncorking a bottle of wine…

But, I deal with it. Because someday I know that they aren’t going to be under my feet while I try to dice and chop the dinner. And that day is going to be freaking great. And so terribly sad all at the same time. Until then, I will defer to my Pinot and pray that there is never a shortage of Cocoa Puffs.

-H

My mom is brilliant.  We grew up in an oak forest.  This time of year, the leaves would start to drop and our five-acre property was covered.  At an early age she conditioned us to believe that raking the yard was a fun fall activity.  Every day after school we would come home anxious to rake giant piles of leaves, jump in them for a few hours, and then move them to the driveway.  Then she’d burn them up.  

One day my little sister posed the question “Who painted the trees?” which my mom answered with another question.  “Who do you think could do that?”  Her first guess was Paul Bunyan.  He’s a big guy.  He could certainly reach the tops of the trees… but his hands were also huge which means he might lack the attention to detail required for such a job.  There were also no footprints.  Paul Bunyan would surely leave footprints behind.  Her second guess was Tinkerbell.  But she soon became concerned that there would not be enough pixie dust for her to get to all of those trees.  I think she finally settled on God, and my mom was happy with that.

Now I have a kid.  She’s almost four.  She is FULL of questions.  Seriously.  So fucking curious.  The leaves are changing and she has been so excited to get out and enjoy the season.  And I love fall, so I’m always game for that.  She asked me why the leaves are changing colors.  I told her it’s something Mother Nature does when the seasons change.  I tried to explain photosynthesis, but she’s not even four.  We’ll save that lesson for kindergarten.

My MIL is an uber Christian.  Uber.  She watches my little lady (M) at least once a week, and this is one of the many reasons we’re so lucky to have our family closeby. Yesterday they went to the park, and M told me about the conversation they had.  She was telling her grandma how beautiful the leaves were, and that she asked her if she knew who painted the trees.  Grandma quickly replied with her default, “Jesus” paints the trees.  M insisted that it’s the work of Mother Nature, because “that’s what my mom told me.  And my mom is in charge.”

Oops.  Well, I guess this is one thing I am OK with her repeating.

N