Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Real Life

Poor Brigid was hit with the fever o'mystery this weekend, which went unnoticed until she fell asleep on the couch for two hours on Sunday afternoon, and woke up feeling approximately one million degrees warmer than she normally feels. We thought it might have just been some leftover heat from sleeping under a sheepskin lined blanket, but...no. Mild fever, it was.

Of course, this meant that she had to stay home from school on Monday. I kept everyone in their pajamas all morning because Brigid was sick, and Caitlin was fussy, and I had a two and a half hour conference call to contend with, so naturally Steve called at 12:45 to tell me that people were on their way to see the house, which went on the market over the weekend, and how soon could I have everything straightened up and all of us (two dogs, two cats, two kids, myself) out of the way?

Flash forward to me, unshowered and make-up free, carrying a pajama-clad Caitlin, complete with poop-filled diaper, and leading a nightgowned and barefoot Brigid across the front lawn to the neighbors' house (they told us we could hang there during the showing), with Steve following behind me, trying to contain two barking dogs on leashes, while the realtor was walking up the front walk with the lady who wanted to see the house.

Wouldn't you want to buy a house from the neighborhood rednecks?

Whatever. Brigid was just excited that the Powerade we were making her drink for fever hydration purposes had turned her tongue blue.
 Because THAT doesn't add to our redneck aura at all...


  1. I hope sweet girl is feeling better.

    Also, you're totally my people.

  2. I hate having a house on the market. It's exhausting.


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