Toddler books. Some of them are nuts, Amen? Just yesterday, I plucked a ripe one from the yellowed oak library shelf and I flipped through the first few pages, then a few more, then finally the end and I still have no earthly intimation of the plot. There was a dinosaur and a cherry pie,
Do I fight with my spouse? You bet I do. — I used to freak out, quietly, in my own mind, when Ken and I would disagree over parenting. It was more important to me that we were united than right, so with every minor disagreement, I’d settle for a compromise. He’d “win,” and I’d
Mom? What rhymes with air conditioner? What about plankton? Piano? — Hey, how’d you sleep? Want coffee? Did you sign the paperwork? — Does plankton rhyme with clankton? Can I stay in my pajamas today? Can I have ketchup? What’s a home study? — Does your mom need the car seat? Are we forgetting anything?
We used to call her the ‘Dance for me’ baby. At two weeks young, she’d look at you with blank eyes and blink, expressionless. Brow furrowed. Eyes glaring. She, the statue. We, the minions. She willed us to entertain her. She lorded over us daily with that steely face and when friends would come to
“I like Dad better than you.” Well, she said it. My fear had materialized in a single statement, and you know, the context of these things matter. I had thought she’d say it in the midst of a lecture, or when I was asking her to do a Not Fun thing that perhaps Ken doesn’t
I am easily overwhelmed. It takes only a perfect trickling of events for me to retreat to the shower for deep breaths and some rosemary shampoo, which is where Ken found me a few days ago – heavy eyes and sudsy hair. It was Saturday morning, and our little trio was home – in the
Bee is 3. We’ve spent the week in tiny, intermittent celebrations – a slice of cake at one grandmother’s house, a trip to the ice cream shop with another. It has been quiet, with joy. It has been sweet. Yesterday, she ran around with the fly swatter for an hour, challenging herself to exterminate all
She wants a treat when we visit the coffee shop. On pointed toes, eyes stretched atop the counter. “Breakfast bar, please.” I won’t always say yes to a breakfast bar, I say. I know, she says. I do. I always say yes to a breakfast bar. — I am crying, on the floor. I am