Yesterday I rejoiced
small but joyful changes
in your life, and the hope
of more to come
Today, you are gone
from the world of touch
that made you giggle
In other ways,
had the chance
to touch you, but you touched me
through your mother’s loving,
My heart is bigger
for knowing you,
and I will be moved
to acts of lovingkindness
remembering the light
in your sweet smile
Forever and always,
Eva, I will touch you in my heart,
and be grateful your mother
shared her love of you
My mom found my sister and me walking a block from our house.
I almost laughed as I climbed into her car. We’d walked nearly the whole way home from school already. What good was a single-block ride?
My mom spoke before I could laugh. Her words were so horrible, so incomprehensible, they stopped not only laughter but the whole world around me.
My husband is an assistant director.
I mostly see movies as a chance to catch up on sleep. The movies I do stay awake for are not Oscar-worthy. They feature aliens, zombies, and/or ghosts, and inspire me to create reviews like this:
I enjoy watching the Oscars more than I enjoy watching movies, but that’s not really for the show itself.
“I threw away his pants.”
You what?! my expression must have screamed, for she continued nervously.
“They were such a mess. I mean, they were ruined. Trust me. Poop. All. Over. So I threw them out.”
I thought of twenty different things I wanted to say to my baby son’s temporary care provider, but none would be useful. I opted instead for a simple, “Which pants were they?”
“Just some brown ones … ”
Ugh. Those “just some brown ones” were special to me. My blogging friend Peg had sent them to me for my baby son, Littler J, so that I smiled every time I saw them. “Just” a pair of pants, they reminded me how my “real,” day to day life has been brightened by the caring of people I’ve only met–so far–online.
As I collected my son, I felt saddened by change. My sadness was about more than a pair of pants. Read more…
Loopy with tiredness, my five-year-old son insisted he could and would finish his homework. His assignment: to write numbers 1-100.
He’d been stopped up at 79 for several minutes.
“Count out loud, sweetie,” I told him.
“78, 79, 90,” he replied. He meant it, too.
“Try again,” I encouraged him. “Remember it’s 7, 8, 9, not 7, 9, 10.”
“78, 79 … 49?” he asked, flopping around beside me.
“Can I give you your gift now?” my husband asked me on Wednesday.
“Let’s just wait until Valentine’s Day. I mean, we don’t even usually do anything, so I’m a little confused.”
“Mmm,” he replied.
“I didn’t get you anything,” I added.
This morning, Anthony excitedly asked if it was time for me to open my present.
“Sure,” I replied casually.
“I hope it matches!” he exclaimed. “I can get a new one if it doesn’t. It’ll just take some time.”
Matches? What is he talking about? Read more…