There is a boy with dark brown hair . . .
And so my nine-year-old discovered the word the other day. On the subway: a young woman, thoroughly exasperated by her fellow rude subway riders . . .
“Mommy, can we go to McDonald’s?” Hazel asked in her piping voice. . . .
I woke up at 1:00 a.m., when Jimmy had a bad dream, and at 3:45, when Sarah peed in her bed, and when my alarm went off at seven I got up and stepped on a lego and by mistake Jimmy got toothpaste on my last clean pair of pants, and I could tell it was going to be a terrible, horrible, no good, really crappy day . . .
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 . . .
JR often watched TV with Grandma—either he would watch his cartoon or educational programs, or she would watch HGTV or a tattoo competition series . . .
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? . . .