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Twelve Days of Summer with My Twelve-Year-Old: DAY SEVEN

On the seventh day of Summer(mas), my middle schooler gave to me: seven(teen) birdies a-falling ——————————————————————————- If I were a more protective mother, I might consider having tracking devices implanted in my children. Nothing ostentatious–just a tasteful computer chip inserted into the scalp behind the ear, a quick out-patient procedure with a...

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Twelve Days of Summer with My Twelve-Year-Old: DAY SIX

On the sixth day of Summer(mas), my middle schooler gave to me: respite from my complaining —————————————— It’s a crappy irony, this business of having “been on a journey” with my body and spending four decades figuring out a kind of acceptance, and then, once I get to a point of...

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Twelve Days of Summer with My Twelve-Year-Old: DAY FOUR

On the fourth day of Summer(mas), my middle schooler gave to me: four flaming worksheets containing words ————————— I will not bitch about teachers. Governors and legislators like to rationalize budget cutting by asserting that teachers have it easy. I will bitch about governors and legislators. My rant to them begins with...

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Twelve Days of Summer with My Twelve-Year-Old: DAY TWO

On the second day of Summer(mas), my middle schooler gave to me: commentary on two purple gloves ———————- There’s always laundry to do. At least in the summer, there’s less washing of fleece and wool and more washing of clothing lacking sleeves or full legs of fabric. Then again, there are...

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Twelve Days of Summer with My Twelve-Year-Old: DAY ONE

Twelve-year-old Paco and I have a lot of time together during the summer months. While that fact often makes me want to dig my fingernails into my forearms until they leave half-moons that remain imprinted for half an hour, the truth is that our hours together are generally delightful. In the next...

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DO NOT

My husband is the mildest of men, even in temperament, gentle in manner. He makes his own yogurt, sweetly wrapping the Mason jars with a blankie while the stuff ferments. When the dishwasher backs up and fills with water, he sighs deeply before strapping on a headlamp and going in....

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The Defeat of Crabby Guy

I’m pretty sure my inner crabby person is a male over 80, what with the way he swings in, plops down with an exhausted sigh at the kitchen counter, and acts like I should pour him a cup of coffee because he couldn’t possibly pick up the mug in front of him and...

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Belle of the Bell

It was a square room. The dishwasher lived on wheels and rolled to the sink, where it was hooked up to the faucet when enough mugs and cereal bowls had accumulated. Hanging at the entrance to the dining room was a swinging door–usually propped open, unless there was company for whom...