This is the cake you bake for your kids’ uncle. The one who’s not technically blood, but definitely brother. The one who never skips the occasion to send a handwritten letter from miles away, who shows up on Christmas morning with a cardboard box bigger than your car. He who cheers on every loose tooth, every climbed tree, every deep end dive.
I’m no stranger to the immense personality crisis Mother Nature endures throughout an Indiana spring. This year in particular, our entryway has danced between parasols and parkas more times than I can count. Sundays spent chattering on a back porch, kids swinging wildly on a hammock chair, popsicles at the ready. Monday morning? Snow, and
As it stands, I’m not much for honey. But you know what I am one for? Honey-whipped cream, in a cold metal bowl fresh for the whisking. Taking turns getting elbow cramps with a daughter, both faux-complaining, knowing all the well we’re better for the wait.
This is the story of a girl who was hungry.
Everything, is all. This month alone: A casket kissed. A baby lost. Hot stage lights and a Gruffalo mouse. Sprinkles on a sundae. Smoke in our hair, fevered cheeks. Buttercream licked from the whisk. Last week, a blonde six-year-old tapes paper elephant ears to a headband and tosses herself down a set of stairs. The
A husband travels for work. He swaps car seats under the moon, leaves a love note on the coffee beans. Kisses sleeping eyelids. Makes his side of the bed. Tosses a duffel bag over his shoulder, reminds a groggy wife to refill the dehumidifier, water the plant. Don’t forget the fish, OK? Set an alarm
All has been quiet. A small boy with a fistful of action figure cake toppers weaves between piles of folded towels, sheets. It’s laundry day. It’s been laundry day for six years over here, is what a girlfriend said to me recently. (Same.)
I want you to give you back to me, he yells from his crib. The toddler is fighting an afternoon nap; I’m trying hard not to lose. I want you back, he whimpers. In my bedroom, Bee and I listen with our ears pressed to the monitor, waiting quietly for Scout to settle so we