Here I am, adjusting my tights.

Tights and I? We have an interesting relationship. I love them, because, well, I am a fan of not freezing my lady parts in harsh Toronto winters. I hate them, because, well, I am also a fan of not having extra nylon and spandex congregate around my mid-section. No, really, this is a problem. I buy the right size for the height and weight. I go to put them on and after some very impressively bendy contortion=like moves, I find myself with extra material that can be pulled all the way up to my nipples. And, as an added bonus, there’s all sorts of extra dangly material down by my crotch as well. Tights are confusing for me.

So, I begin googling who I have to blame for this invention. Must be a man, right? No woman would invent something like this.

And then suddenly I’m down a pantyhose wormhole where the big question is whether or not Peggy’s wearing of pantyhose in the early 60s in that episode of Man Men was too early or just about right. Did you know that before the one-piece pantyhose hit the market (which were indeed developed by a man), women were wearing stockings with garter belts and suspenders attached?

This is what I need! Garter belts and suspenders and stockings! This will solve everything.

Wormholes, man. They suck the life out of me. (Times were simpler before Google.)

Also sucking the life out of me?

My 5:30am daily wake-up call.

Last night I actually fell asleep (before 10pm) while running lines for Emily’s play and while helping Josh study for his French spelling test.

I was only mildly helpful while playing the roles of the Auntie Em, munchkins, the scarecrow, Glinda the good witch and the wicked witch. I tried my darndest to be theatrical (What would Rachel Berry do?) because I think I only came off as distracting and off-putting. “Mama, obviously you need some more Rachel Berry lessons. You aren’t very good at this.” Ah, but that’s why I work on the internet. Nobody needs to hear my impression of The Great and Powerful Oz.

Which is probably why I fell asleep.

I assure you that I was hardly a help in the French department. Even though I live in Canada, I do not speak a lick of French. I can, however, tell you that milk is lait and bread is pain. Why yes, I do know all of my French from the Engligh/French food labeling. Ask me about cereal and honey and crackers and cookies. Go ahead…ask me! But when it comes to the spelling of the French word for fifty? Forget it. I’m hopeless.

Which is probably why I fell asleep.

Perhaps my time would be better spent napping and not, you know, googling very important things like “who invented pantyhose” and “where was the first circus” and “Moon River Breakfast at Tiffanys”

Yesterday, this lovely lady asked: Would you rather have an extra $50 or an extra two hours in your day?

The answer—for me—was obvious.

THE TWO HOURS.

You guys, I need them.

I told her that I would use the time to exercise and to cuddle my kids a little bit more. But, really, I would probably use them to stay afloat—to help with homework without falling asleep, to be able to make it through dinner without an extra coffee, to be able to go out with my friends, to be able to check backpacks, to be able to make sure we have lait in the house.

And maybe to invent some better-fitting tights. God knows that someone needs to. And preferably someone who actually has a vagina.