Rackle is the name my pain-in-the-ass little brother has insisted on calling me for the last decade. I don’t know where he got it from, but somehow it’s kind of turned into the go-to name for me in my family. Don’t tell any of them, but I kind of like it. It’s pronounced like “tackle,” but with an “R.”
Rackle is a tea-drinking, chicken-loving, Corner Gas-watching woman with an attitude problem. My husband added that last part. Apparently wanting to do everything my own way means I have an “attitude problem.” To be fair, it may have had more to do with the way I told him I didn’t want his help last time than actually wanting to do it my way. I apologized (I think).
I’m a go-getter, when I’m not weighed down by a 14-and-counting pound breastfeeding baby on the couch. Well, I’m practically always weighed down by him, but the rest of the time I can at least walk around more easily. I let my dog sleep in my bed when my husband is away because what he doesn’t know can’t get me in trouble. I’m a DIY-er, with an embarrassingly messy dining room table that I wish I could blame on Pinterest, and I often forget to take my dog for a walk. I tackle 30-day yoga and exercise challenges, but I do them sporadically (like, I forget three days so I have to catch up those three days in one). Oh, and I have ADHD-I, in case you hadn’t guessed yet.
I really and truly love life, even though sometimes it’s the worst.
And now I have a blog!