If Rudolf Dreikurs had not died in 1972, I might be in prison today . . .
Moments after another Bears turnover, Ben comes wobbling down the hall wearing his mother’s fuchsia stilettos . . .
Assistant Pre-school maven cupped a hand around her mouth and stage whispered into the hood of my parka . . .
Beautiful spring day in Ohio. Laundry room in the basement. Hanging clothes on the inside line from the dryer so they won’t be a wrinkled mess. My son, as usual, hungry for a snack. How does he always know when I don’t want to be interrupted in the middle of a task? . . .
Potty training is a bitch. It should be easy, right? How hard could it actually be? . . .
We had recently moved and were delighted to find a babysitter across the street and a few doors down. Allison was about fourteen and lived with her dad, who had told us that his wife had recently passed away . . .
She flies to her room with that awkward run that’s typical of children under three. It’s the the quick thump-thump-thump of her feet on the hardwood floors that makes me smile. Colette was a late walker, so that kind of purposeful movement, even if done in anger, amazes me . . .
Captain America is cupping my son’s balls this morning.
Yes, you heard me right. Captain America—in full uniform, arms out wide, shield in hand—is spread across my four-year-old’s nuts as we speak . . . because when my son woke up this morning, he walked into the living room, frank and beans in full display on top of his pajama pants. When I inquired about this oddity, he said his pee-pee hurt and begged me to fix it. Of course I agreed to help. What’s a mommy to do? . . .