An italicized passage in Bee’s science book. She and I are weighted under a shared blanket, two dogs snoring at our feet when we read it. Dolania americana has the shortest lifespan of any mayfly: the adult females of the species live for less than five minutes. Is that true? she asks me with wide
What have we been up to, you ask? This. Becoming grown-ups, of both the 4-year-old variety and the 34-year-old one. Trying not to yell at each other. Eating sweet potatoes and kale. Vet appointments, Squinkie towers, reading lessons. Nothing and everything. — Our days have been syrup slow, stretching and sticking into a clump of
Here’s the funny thing about time, for us. We weren’t given a lot from the gate, or at least, it hadn’t seemed like it. As a new bride, I was determined to make the most of what could perhaps be a short marriage. We packed sweaters and books into Rubbermaid bins, stuffed our pillows in
You’re a mother, but you want to be a doctor. You’re a chef, but you want to be a hair stylist. You’re a tattoo artist, but you want to be a writer. You’re a student, but you want to be a musician. You’re a musician, but you want to be a student. You’re a this,
I’m never gonna bite my nails again, Bee says to me over pistachios. I want to channel my mother, to say Never say never!, to offer a teachable lesson, but I choose to crack another shell instead. Yeah? I say. Yeah, she says. — I’ve been thinking about it, I guess. I’ve been thinking about
Things feel disjointed, that’s all. I walk the dogs. I order coffee black. I grocery shop. I answer texts. I chop carrots, find the missing shoe. I order finger paints. I fall asleep. Writer/mother/wife. I wake. — Bee likes to sleep on the floor. On the (rare) days in which she naps, I’ll have laid
You know when you’re at brunch and the waiter talks of their artisan jam? “It’s made from hand-picked organic cherries in Michigan, this tiny little farm off 96, and we infuse it with fresh mint from our herb wall over there and really, you’re not going to believe it. It’s divine. Trust me. Would you
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