The September he started first grade, my son cried every morning.
“I dew wheat.” I never knew the power of words until my two year old asked to “do it.” Those two little words sent dread flying through my body.
Time is relative, so Einstein told us. I am sure he was right—I’m not really qualified to contradict one of the world’s greatest scientists—but motherhood has taught me that distance is relative, too.
At just the tender age of three you joined a century-long conversation about the shortcomings of women’s fashion.
Last week was the third consecutive book of the week with which school sent my son home to practice reading and the family it’s about is black.
I liked cooking meat over coals outside on the patio barbeque for the taste and the smoky flavor and of course less kitchen mess.
Little scientists my ass! Left alone for a few minutes and they managed to do this.
I unload Amelia from her car seat, gather her snack and water cups, and zip them away in the diaper bag. I place her sunglasses on her face and ask, “Who’s ready for a fun day at the zoo?”