Don't let Little Liebchen's face fool you; she loved the hayride. She was not, however, impressed by the dude who took our picture.

Don’t let Little Liebchen’s face fool you; she loved the hayride. She was not, however, impressed by the dude who took our picture.

As in hayride. Today we fulfilled a fall promise and did one, to the delight of the whole family. The last time we went to charming Drumlin Farm, we were told there was no one around to drive the hayride tractor, except that there would be a hayride for a birthday party. That sucked, because as soon as we finally convinced Das Big Boy (to whom we had pledged a hayride) that it was ok that he wasn’t getting one because the farmer wasn’t there, the birthday party hayride went rumbling by. We managed to contain the tears, but barely. And I just felt bad for the little dude. Disappointment sucks when you’re four, especially when it’s coupled with a seemingly inconsistent injustice.

But today, we managed the hayride, visits to the animals, some frolicking and a picnic at Dairy Joy.

Then we came home and didn’t leave the house again because, let’s face it, we’ve kind of been overdoing it and everyone is exhausted.


Including me. So here’s a photo essay of our day.

She stole my chocolate milkshake.

She stole my chocolate milkshake.



Drummin' at Drumlin.

Drummin’ at Drumlin.


Big Win

Remember the craft fair I mentioned in yesterday’s post? Well, I won something at the silent auction. And it was an actual win, because I got the prize for less than market rate.

Das Big Boy and Herr Husband on our impromptu bowling date today. DBB has excellent aim, but his speed seems to defy the laws of physics. It's an incredibly long wait for his ball to get to the pins. But he got two nines and a 10 (three throws candlepin) today, and he was SO excited! It was adorable.

Das Big Boy and Herr Husband on our impromptu bowling date today. DBB has excellent aim, but his speed seems to defy the laws of physics. It’s an incredibly long wait for his ball to get to the pins. But he got two nines and a 10 (three throws candlepin), and he was SO excited! It was adorable.

Here is our imaginary conversation (you’re in italics; I’m in regular print):

What could it be?

What does Hipster Hausfrau need?  I ask you, indulging yet again in that annoying habit of catechizing you and referring to myself in the third person. I do this to my poor children all the time.

Wine? You posit, demonstrating your in-depth knowledge of me.

No, like really need. I always have wine.

A bit of time to herself, maybe with a massage?

Yes, actually. I do. Please mention that to Herr Husband. But that’s not what I won.

To organize her life?

Ding ding ding!

Yes! I won two hours of professional organizational services! People might wonder how it’s so hard for a stay at home mom to keep her house in order. I’m going to steal a line from Rocky: “I’m busy raising people!” And it’s true. That’s my focus. So some days I have a really clean house and most days I don’t, and then there are places like my desk and my pantry which are always terrifying. But I have a million schools and appointments and meetings and errands and play dates to run to, and when I’m home with my kids I like to do projects and play and read. My house has endless laundry (as problematic when it’s clean and waiting to be put away as it is when it’s dirty), dishes galore, and lots of papers to manage. And I’ve always sucked at organization. I was the kid in elementary school whose teachers would finally give up and dump her desk to make her clean it. And we’d always find like four disgusting old sandwiches in there.

Also, I’ve just realized that I should be embarrassed at preschool drop-off, not because of my outfits, but because my car looks like chimpanzees are squatting in it.

Wait, you’re saying, if you don’t know me that well, I thought you were a hipster HAUSFRAU? And you’re right. I do make that claim. But in a sassy ironic way that means I’m a mom and I cook decent food (when I feel like it) and I grocery shop and manage all of our lives, but if you’ve come to this blog looking for tips on home organization, I think you might be as shit-out-of-luck as the folks who come here looking for pictures of women doing unmentionable things with vacuum cleaners.

Another photo from yesterday's day of bliss, intended to demonstrate the cuteness that is LL and distract you from the mess of my house.

Another photo from yesterday’s day of bliss, intended to demonstrate the cuteness that is LL and distract you from the mess of my house.

So anyway: I’ve only got two hours with the organizing lady. Where should I target the assistance? There’s the pantry. There’s the wine glass/kids’ craft supplies storage cabinet (yes, those items currently cohabitate). There are the toys in the kitchen. Then there’s my closet, and the top of my bureau which is littered with costume jewelry and random crap. My desk is scary, but I feel I have to do that myself because it’s a lot of papers, many of which can likely be thrown out, but some of which are essential to that book I’m supposed to be writing.

What would you do if you had minimal physical organizational skills–it should be noted that I am excellent at time management and scheduling–and two hours of a pro helping you? I’d love for her to develop some systems I could keep up, but our expectations of my abilities should be extremely low.

Please note something amusing: years ago when I was a teacher, I was an organizational tutor for a high school student. Much of this work involved helping her manage her time, but I once helped her develop a new organizational system for her bedroom. My mother thought this was the funniest thing ever. So I guess I’m a professional organizer, too. But unlike the one whose services I have won, I am not a member of the National Association of Professional Organizers (NAPO). In fact, I’m pretty sure if I tried to join there would be massive protests. Like sit-ins, with everyone in their own neatly aligned storage bin. Does anyone know anyone in NAPO? I want to go to his or her house. And squat in it. Except they’d notice me right away (unlike the chimps in my car, who could go undetected for months).

I’m not posting pictures of my mess because I fear your judgement. And I can’t post a picture of my outfit because it’s the same one I wore yesterday (you were warned). So you got kid pix instead. Lucky you.

Upholding the Promise

Is it just me or is Das Big Boy's masterpiece just a little bit phallic?

Is it just me or is Das Big Boy’s masterpiece just a little bit phallic?

I had my second preschool curriculum night this week. And there was an after party at a local restaurant reputed to be a swingers hang-out. Not sure what the preschool parents who attend curriculum night/swingers overlap on a Venn diagram would be, but no one tried to get me to put my keys in a bowl or anything.

Also, both of my children are awake.

And I’m on my phone again. So I don’t have a lot to offer but I thought you might enjoy this:

Please note how she totally thinks she’s riding the bike even as she’s walking it along. So smug and cute.





docs 3

Herr Husband interrupted his basement workout to take this photo, so the bottom-of-the-basement-stairs lighting is unflattering, esp. on the shoes. But you get the effect.

No, not my children. Me.

Remember how I wanted Doc Martens? I bought them. And then Stitch Fix sent me a red plaid shirt (it’s not flannel but sort of silky and low cut and that makes it sound weird but it’s great). And I wear those two high school era items with black leggings (which are more  80s than 90s but I’m not wearing floopy jeans like I did in my misspent youth.) And I look like an angry teenager (who’s lived in a tanning booth smoking cigarettes and doing meth or whatever would give a teenager skin like I have). And then I go to preschool pick-up and everyone thinks I’m either trying too hard or insane. What they don’t know is that it’s a healthy mix of the two.

The Docs, disappointingly, are a half size too big, but Docs only come in whole sizes so I’m sucking it up. Plus, one of the reasons I’m into the Docs and other chunky boots right now is because I think big feet make your legs look small. It’s like the clown shoe version of dressing yourself slim. But seriously, have you ever seen a clown and thought, “Wow, look at those cankles.”? Exactly.

There you have it. My latest bit of style advice. Dress like a hard-living teenage clown.

docs 2

Another angle. Still sort of hard to see. But the clunkiness should be obvious.

Apastalypse Now

You guys, Herr Husband cleaned our pantry tonight (with an assist from me–seriously. I was the one who found the copy of Are You My Mother? that I’d had to buy from the library because it was lost.). Anyway, he found–no lie–thirty-two boxes of pasta (opened and unopened). Apologies to Nanny Sunshine who once cleaned our pantry. Please know that every time Gigi comes over she says, “Poor Nanny Sunshine, after all the hard work she put into this pantry…”


Newsflash from Obvious Town: Organization isn’t my strong suit.

I tried to argue that it made me a good mother because I was prepared for a disaster in which we needed food stores. But really, I know this is insane. Das Big Boy won’t even eat pasta unless it’s macaroni and cheese (NB, Dr. G: I only feed him the organic kind…). We also have six boxes of that (not included in previous pasta totals, which also omitted Asian noodles in what Herr Husband referred to as, “an effort to be generous.”)

Now you could go all #FailedFeminist on me, and point out that I shouldn’t be blamed for this excess, because it’s not my duty to stock our kitchen or clean our pantry. But to that I respond, a) obviously I don’t clean our pantry and b) Herr Husband does a lot of chores. Like all of the laundry. And anything involving cat poop, because like many a smart lady, I’ve ridden that Toxoplasmosis fear straight out of pregnancy and right into the rest of my life. This is particularly unfair as we have a cat with IBS who either can’t or won’t control his bowels. I digress. The truth is, grocery shopping is a chore that I actually love (as evidenced by my apparent uncontrollable glee every time I see organic whole wheat fusilli (6 boxes)), and therefore I do pretty much all of it. So yes, I am to blame here.

And now, because I believe it’s my duty to share my kids’ cuteness once per post, here is a picture of DBB at a recent bowling birthday party.


Look at those shoes! DBB’s tiny bowling shoes, that is. Not HH’s Birkenstocks. Look away from those, I say, look away! (Photo credit: Neighbor friend/triathlete/birthday party hostess). Location: Needham Bowlaway

I think the pic is adorable, but befouled by HH’s Birkenstocks. Now look, I “rocked” (can you rock Birks?) purple Birkenstocks with wool socks in 1994 as well as the next fake hippie adolescent, but that doesn’t make them ok, right? And then ‘Burban Bestie informed me that I was wrong. That Birkenstocks are indeed in style. Oh my. What a lot of learning I have to do. Still, don’t expect me to bust out a pair anytime soon (Full disclosure: I also had them in blue, and in black clogs, and I only finally got rid of them in 2009 when we moved to Brooklyn). But all of my footwear convos with ‘Burban Bestie have made me yearn for the other shoe of my tortured teen years: the Doc Marten. So perhaps you’ll see me stomping around in those instead. And then I’ll really be ready for the apocalypse, what with my hoarded food and steel toes.

Watch out, zombies/angels of judgement. I’m ready for you.

As always,

Deine Hipster Hausfrau

Meet the Newest Member of the Family…

Give away one of my beautiful scales? Never!

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:

Stitch Fix

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:

kids fair LL HH fairWe 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.DBB HH fair

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


Attack Goose and Other Avian Narratives

Herr Husband has been traveling for work a lot lately, so I’ve had solo time with the Kinder. We’ve missed Herr Honey, of course, but we’ve been enjoying ourselves, too. The weather has been good, finally, and I had Lady Wine Night and have done some fun outings with the wee ones.

One adventure we had was at the duck pond I used to visit as a child. Back in the dizz, one could feed said ducks, but today there are signs up informing visitors that feeding the wildfowl is harmful to their health. So the Kinder and I planned to feed only ourselves with a picnic from Volante Farms (a world of yum) and settled ourselves onto a bench near the pond.

Look at that menacing gleam in his eye.

Look at that menacing gleam in his eye.

Enter Goose, white variety. He starts getting a bit close for comfort, so I calmly inform him about the no feeding the wildfowl signs. He gives me a look that says it would be impossible for him to give two goose shits about those signs. The he honks and bobs his head in a creepy cobra fashion. From stage left, enter Canadian Goose, who briefly distracts original goose (OG). They fight, and Canadian Goose decamps. Goose turns his attention to us again, so I throw a woodchip hoping he’ll think it’s food and run away in confusion. This trick fails (although it might work on Lil Liebchen, who appears totally convinced woodchips are food every time we go to the playground). Goose is enraged. He returns to our table, hissing at me and LL, who are seated on the side of the table closer to him. I pick her up and we join Das Big Boy on his side of the table. “The goose wants to steal our food,” he informs me. Right-o, DBB. Goose continues his pursuit and rude hissing and neck snaps. I put the Kinder on top of a nearby picnic table, telling them not to move as I frantically round up our picnic (because gods forbid Goose wins and we inadvertently break pond rules AND forsake our tasty, cheese based lunch !). Although it might be ok if LL left behind a bit of turkey as a thinly veiled threat. Anyway, I sweep up the food and the kiddos and we run to a bench a bit further afield. Das Big Boy was amused by my goose-inspired terror, which means he underappreciated my heroics in rescuing him from Goose rabies.

Goose of doom. Note size in comparison to child. No wonder I was afraid for the Kinder.

Goose of doom. Note size in comparison to child. No wonder I was afraid for the Kinder.

She's number one! Also, that's not a nosering, it's a scab. From her fingernail , not from her playground antics. So there.

She’s number one! Also, that’s not a nosering, it’s a scab. From her fingernail, not from her playground antics. So there.

You also need to know about Lil Liebchen at the playground, where I’m pretty sure she thinks she has some sort of official role. Completely unfazed by children four times her size, she climbs the stairs, selects a slide all by herself, walks over to it, and slides down. And she grins her apple cheeked grin the whole time. Unless you try to tell her that the climbing wall is not a slide. Then she flies into a woodchip hurling rage and makes me look like a bad mother. Actually, people think I’m a bad mother both when she’s adorably dominating the play structures and when she’s rolling around in woodchips, because her slight frame and baldish head make people think she’s like nine months old, and then why in the name of the gods am I allowing her to play so independently? Fortunately, I don’t give a hoot.

Which brings us to our other bird story, which is about who else: Big Boy Owl. He’s become a bit of a depressive. And by a bit of I mean major. Das Big Boy’s recent fascination with the range of human emotion has translated into protracted crying seshes for everyone’s favorite decrepit owl: “I miss Dorian (now recast as his mother). Wah wah. I bumped my nose. Wah wah. I’m hungry. Wah wah.” So today I encouraged Big Boy Owl to take three deep breaths, as I do with Das Big Boy, so we could identify the feeling and make a plan (I got this from an app that DBB enjoys–don’t judge). “But,” Big Boy Owl (as played by Das Big Boy, obvs, I haven’t lost it so much that I’m communing directly with the owl. Usually), informed me after he took his breaths,”I don’t want to feel better. I want to be sad. It’s a good sad.”

How awesome is that? My little dude who has sometimes struggled with negative emotions is now able to see the merits of a good sad. “Ok, Big Boy Owl,” I replied, “That works for me. You should honor your feelings. Do you know a word for a good sad?”

“No,” said the boy/Owl.

From our duck pond adventures. Both kids loved walking on the tree trunk. Das Big and getting bigger and not so Lil.  Lemoncholy indeed.

From our duck pond adventures. Both kids loved walking on the tree trunk. Das Big and getting bigger and not so Lil.
Lemoncholy indeed.

“Melancholy. Can you say melancholy.”

“Melancholy,” he repeated. “Melancholy. Lemoncholy.”

“Melancholy,” he said again. “It’s a good sad.”


And that’s how I feel about my little ones growing up. A bit Lemoncholy.



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