Category: writing
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The Great Pink Chariot was idling on the driveway, and I, James the Brave (and fully trained in the ways of the porcelain throne, thank you very much), was ready to survey my kingdom. Mom was at the helm. She was wearing her “I’m doing my best” face and a pair of flip-flops that went…
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I ascend my mother. Not metaphorically. Literally. I climb her like a weary mountain explorer scaling Everest, except I am wearing dinosaur pajamas and carrying a candy cane that drips with the sticky promise of chaos. I settle into the sacred nook between her shoulder and her head — the throne of kings, the cradle…
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To the Keepers of the Hot Glue Guns and the Architects of Parental Peril: Stop. Put the felt down. Step away from the “Small-Batch Artisanal Moss.” We are standing on the precipice of a sensory-overload-induced breakdown. What started as a benign fat man in a red suit has mutated into a year-round, high-stakes theatrical production.…
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I will not nap today. I declare this from the hallway like a warrior king announcing war. It is Saturday — the holiest of days — and naps are for weekdays, peasants, and babies who don’t understand freedom. I am none of those things. Mom kneels down and says, “Buddy, you’re tired.” I gasp. Tired?…
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The guest bed had never seen such power.Not during holidays.Not during Mimi’s visits.Not even during that one time Pookie Cat tried to claim it as her winter estate. Tonight, it belonged to Jack and James, two brothers sprawled across a mountain range of pillows like tiny emperors of comfort. The comforter was rumpled just enough…
