The dog days are here. Yesterday, I passed a trio of towheads sitting cross-legged on a grassy front lawn, electric blue popsicles dripping down their chin, elbows, knees. Bikes piled haphazardly in the driveway, garden sprinkler a flurry.
My 10-year-old self loved many a summer days – air slick with freedom, elbows slick from cherry popsicles. An entire universe whirling by from the banana seat of my lustrous purple Huffy. Cicada symphonies. Gingham feasts. Chlorinated hair. And then, I grew. From inches higher, the neighborhood creek seemed far less adventurous than the latest
We’re a snackin’ family, is all. Pre-parenthood, my visions of mealtime were saccharine at best. Small heads gathered around a table, small hands folded in prayer. Three courses at the ready, three times daily. We’d pass bread. We’d bless the cook. It is this, on rare occasions, but mostly it is not. Mostly it is
Early this week, Bee fell ill with inexplicable fevers, midnight shrieking she couldn’t shake. Doctor’s visits, a 911 call. Night terrors, it was diagnosed. Common for her age, it was said. Our instructions: cold compresses to the forehead, a tepid bath, fluids. While water seems a small attempt to rush the wild vacancy from her
Hair, of all things. I’ve never been blessed with a sense of consistency in the beauty department. As a child, my own grandmother often failed to identify me in family photos due to a near-constant rotation of (admittedly terrible) hair choices: the leave-in Perm, the impromptu bangs, the great Sun-In overdose of 1994.
This week, the bulk of my daily conversations with friends, family, neighbors have been swollen with current events. We circle around kitchen tables and stretch our own small theories, thin solutions, blistered understanding. We clash. We talk ourselves tired. After a long while, everyone agrees to one thing and one thing alone: It’s complicated, but
Of all the raised eyebrows we garnered from our former HGTV.com show, the DIY sauna brought forth the most questions, hands down. Where’d you put it? How big is it? How does it work? And mostly: Why on earth?
Well yes, the 6pm thing. Your questions: How do you manage to get to bed by 6pm on weekdays? How does it work? What does it look like with kids? When do they go to bed? When do you see your husband? And so, some answers: