Category: Jack
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We barely get our coats off before Papa declares Thanksgiving officially open—not with a prayer, but with a fart joke so loud it rattles the cranberry sauce. The boys collapse in laughter, Mimi mutters something about “raising animals,” and I’m just grateful someone else is keeping them entertained while I scope out the pie situation.…
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Twas the night before Thanksgiving, at Mimi and Papa’s lair, Not a parent was stirring—because frankly, they weren’t allowed there. The stockings weren’t hung, but the freezer was stacked, With popsicles in colors that science forgot to track. Jack and James nestled, not snug in their beds, But bouncing off couches, with sugar in their…
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Mom says she doesn’t make the rules. She says it all the time. Like when I ask why I can’t have ice cream for breakfast or why I have to wear socks inside my shoes. “I don’t make the rules,” she says, shrugging like she’s just some innocent bystander in the universe of rules. But…
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I found Jack crouched behind the laundry basket like a tiny predator in mismatched socks. His eyes locked onto Pookie’s dish—half full, undeniably pungent, and radiating the quiet energy of “DO NOT TOUCH” reserved for outlet covers and mystery substances found beneath the couch. And yet, there he was. My son. My bright, bold, bizarre…
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It’s cold. Like nose-hurts-when-you-breathe cold. Like “Mom made me wear long underwear” cold. But I don’t care. Because it’s Friday. Football Friday. And I’m at the Oak Harbor High School game with Dad. He’s wearing his big coat—the one that makes him look like a sleeping bag with arms—and he keeps saying stuff like, “This…
