I’m back. I’ve missed you.

Though I’ve been dreading writing this first post, after being absent for almost five months. I’ve been torturing myself with which of the many stories that have unfolded since June, I should begin with. Our nature-infused trip to a remote cabin in Maine? Our mega move, from Brooklyn, NY to Brookline, Mass? The startling development that my mouse phobia was cured while witnessing a mouse run across the floor of a tapas bar I recently dined at?

For now, I’ve decided to just stick with a brief update on the state of affairs. Ease you and I back in gently to the gentle, curdled waters of motherhood together.

The boychild is now five and a half (gasp!). He started Kindergarten in September, and witnessing him learn to read and write all by himself is utterly thrilling. He’s as brilliant and challenging as ever. I’m convinced he’s going to be a mad scientist who moonlights as a Chippendale’s dancer. He loves nothing more than to figure out how things work and then twirl his naked bits in front of us, which I find alternately A. horrifying, B. funny and C. good value for money – no Netflix fees or overdue library book notices to contend with.

Baby B, my little 20-month-year-old vixen, is a pure delight who has taken to throwing herself on the ground and wailing like a banshee when she doesn’t get her way. Aside from the odd tantrum, I am constantly amazed at how loving she is. And tolerant. This little girl is definitely game for a laugh. By the way she sits calmly in her toy stroller as the boychild whizzes her around the apartment, almost crashing headlong into every piece of furniture, I’m guessing she’s going to be that person in the circus who consents to playing the human canonball, only to be launched to the top of the big tent, giggling all the way.

Hubby and I are in a good place. All this nature is doing us good. More on that at a later date.

But lest you start barfing at my perfect-sounding life, and lest I start sounding like one of those disgustingly positive Christmas letters, fear not. I am still my old, wicked self.  And my children still vomit and poo all over the place.

In fact, Sunday night, we went to visit some old friends at their gorgeous home in Lincoln, a beautiful enclave about 20 minutes outside Boston that’s ripe with nature and the sound of humping crickets. During a pre-dinner game of vigorous-for-the-mid-forties ping pong, our friend M exclaimed, “Wow, I think I’ve stepped in a piece of shit.”

“Really?” hubby replied, as if it was the most preposterous thing he’d heard all day. “Are you sure?”

And indeed, upon close inspection of the offending brown, squashed, pebble-like mass of stinky, hard substance under our friend’s foot, and upon further investigation of the boychild’s undies, which were filled with several offending brown pebbles, we realized several bits of poo had miraculous escaped the boychild’s Spiderman-cotton-ensconced patootie, only to glom itself onto the bottom of our friend’s foot.

Luckily, our friend is a doctor. He’s dissected dead bodies, for God’s sake.

Therefore, I didn’t feel too bad for too long. Though I did feel slightly worse for hubby who had to corral said pebbles into the toilet bowl while making sure the boychild’s nether regions were sparking clean.

Like I said, I’m back, though conveniently in the other room when it comes to scraping up pebble poops and now I’ll conveniently sign off.

Hasta la vista, babies!