When we found out we were expecting our first child (our daughter), we became one of the oldest clichés in the book, quickly selling our city home and moving to a suburb that was known for nice houses, good schools and little-to-no crime. It's been great for everyone and everything (except for my parallel parking abilities, which are now pretty much nonexistent).
Our daughter was quickly (and somewhat unexpectedly) joined by our son. They're 18 months apart in age and have become the best of friends. I love how much they enjoy each other and one of my greatest hopes in life is that their friendship will continue as they grow older. I find 95% of their friendship to be the most charming thing imaginable. However, in the past couple of months I've noticed their increasing tendency to start a "parents" team and "kids" team in our house (and yes, the dog usually picks the kids' team). It leaves me outnumbered and wondering how a group with such limited verbal skills - the dog can't talk, my son can only string 2-3 words together at a time - can manage to coordinate and execute such havoc. Given that they truly are partners in crime - for the sake of this blog, I will refer to them as Bonnie and Clyde.
Being with my kids is always an adventure and one I've enjoyed sharing with a couple of wonderful mom friends, who understand both my joys and my flounderings. One friend is the first friend I made in Kindergarten. While we lost touch over the years (moving to different towns before the age of email often made that happen), we re-connected on Facebook a couple of years ago and what do you know? As a five-year-old, I had excellent taste in selecting friends. She never fails to crack me up. Another friend is a true "mommy friend" - we met via our daughters, who at the ripe old age of four months befriended one another at daycare. Three years in and they still adore each other, with the added benefit of having provided their mothers with a new friend - what truly considerate children ;) Please join us as we slog through our perfectly imperfect attempts at motherhood.