Tag Archives: children

I call him love

I was hollow, once

still am

just knock, knock, knock

call out and you’ll hear yourself

for days behind my ribcage.

 

except I’ve been building

something special

in my quiet, novice way

dragging my tools to the

old shed out back in the rain,

plugging away in the half-light.

 

I call him love,

I keep him on a shelf

imperfectly painted green,

or turquoise,

 or maybe the exact shade

of some body of water from

some time I can’t really remember.

 

He’s by the only window, love

where the only ray of sunlight creeps in

and he grows and grows and grows

and sometimes we talk, but he’s still learning

and I know love loves me like I love him.

 

 

 

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all that we cannot change

my son chases sunrays that filter in and

dance across our living room floor,

and my heart is heavy.

 

in all those late-night conversations

let’s have a child, let’s move mountains, create miracles

there was a should we? that lingered on my husband’s lips,

always.

 

life, I said. it happens all around us. it stops for nothing.

not even for the darkest of days.

we still love, we still create.

 

we chase sunrays,

shape happiness with shaking hands

 

drive cars and drink wine and laugh

and laugh and laugh

 

and then we cry for all that we cannot change.

 

but then we sigh, take another sip, compose ourselves.

hug our children and whisper I love you and watch

our favorite television shows and drown out all the badness.

 

I touch my son’s cheek

I dream of his future

still, I regret nothing.

 

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Dear Future Child, Don’t be an ungrateful asshole.

Look how cute and cuddly this guy is. Ugh.

Look how cute and cuddly this guy is. Ugh.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I was small, my parents took me to see the Ringling Bros. I was just like any other kid at the circus: eyes wide, ass barely in seat, popcorn in shirt, hands stretched out and flailing for every cheap souvenir that appeared within view. I am an only child, and as stereotypical as they come. I was a brat then, and though it may be hard to admit….I am now, too, even though these hands are now reaching for expensive lipsticks and shoes instead of stuffed animals.

I asked for a lot each Christmas. A ridiculous amount. A novel of a list that included both my parents and Santa. But no time of year could escape my greedy grasp. I wanted it all. Now.

So when we scooted into our circus seats and my parents presented me with an adorable stuffed tiger, instead of calling out a grateful “thank you” I twisted my face into a disappointed grimace and said “THAT’S NOT WHAT I WANTED”.

This horrid behavior haunts me to this day. Seriously. I just talked with my mother before sitting down to write this post, and when I told her of my years old regret she laughed at me. The woman I so carelessly scorned so long ago laughed at the memory of my inconsiderate behavior. The laughter didn’t make me feel any less shitty, however.

What’s more, after whining “THAT’S NOT WHAT I WANTED” I proceeded to tell them what I did want: a stuffed elephant with some sort of plastic circus performer riding on its back. Really? How was I going to cuddle with the elephant with some cheap, plastic doll attached to it? The tiger was the better of the two souvenirs, obviously. But my feeble mind could not comprehend that.

So what did they do? They took it back and bought me the elephant, and I was satisfied. I was deeply, selfishly, disgustingly satisfied. And I forever regret it, even though my mother thinks it’s funny now.

And with that, I have this to say.

Dear Future Child,

Don’t be an ungrateful asshole….like your mother.

Love,

Your Future Parents

Like this, but picture some Barbie knock-off on top.

Like this, but picture some Barbie knock-off on top.

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How do you make a tissue dance?

dancing tissue

Come ooooooon. I know you know. I also know you still pick your nose, when you’re alone (or you think you’re alone, AKA in your car where everyone can still see through the windows yet you think you’re under some sort of invisibility cloak), trying to reach that stubborn one that just can’t be removed the socially acceptable way, blown from your snout directly into a tissue that is then balled up and shoved into the pocket of your khakis.

As I sit here, still in my Grinch pajama pants and one of Joe’s green t shirts, my love greeted me with a good morning kiss and then looked me up and down (obviously drinking in my beauty), when suddenly he parted his lips and uttered,

“You’re in all green! You look like a big boogie!”

Thank you, for that (mature) “compliment”.

So after I told him to shut up, I got to thinking about little kids, and how they’ll pick their nose no matter who’s looking; they own that shit, they dig for that buried treasure like it’s nobody’s business, and to them, it isn’t.

“F*ck off man, I’m pickin’ my nose here. Oh, you’re gonna keep lookin’ anyway? Here, I’ll EAT it then. How ya like that?”

noah-picking-nose

Now I can honestly say (from what I remember) I never ate my boogers as a kid. They just never looked appetizing to me. Do children do this for lack of a better place to put them? If you don’t  have a tissue they can be pretty difficult to get rid of. It’s like that little piece of plastic shopping bag that rips off and sticks to your finger, and no matter how violently you wave your hand around in the air, that thing won’t come off. 

My solution as a kid? Wipe it under your seat. I know what you’re thinking, I’m disgusting!

But I like to think I was a genius. Ahead of my time, I think. Under couches. Under the car seat. Hey, at least I had the courtesy to wipe it where no one would notice. If my mother is reading this and never knew, I’m sorry. Don’t worry, you won’t find anything under your current vehicle or couch cushions. Those items I used as my personal giant tissue are long gone.

But hey, nowadays I do it the grown-up way and blow them into a tissue, or wipe them into a tissue if they’re difficult to get at. I even wash my hands after. And I’ll only do this while driving if it’s dark outside. I have manners.

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