Author: Jocelyn
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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 feeling like I can lift…
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Twelve Days of Summer with My Twelve-Year-Old: DAY FIVE
On the fifth day of Summer(mas), my middle schooler gave to me: five bike bell dings ———– Byron stood in the lobby of the YMCA, trying to get members to sign up as volunteers for a community-outreach event. He does such things frequently. I am certain his noble works compensate for my tendency to stay home,…
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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 this: “Howzabout you become a…
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Twelve Days of Summer with My Twelve-Year-Old: DAY THREE
On the third day of Summer(mas), my middle schooler gave to me: three hikes through glens ————— We tried. By age four, we had Paco gliding on skis, running kids’ races, trailing the herd on a soccer team. We laid the groundwork for a life wherein his body moved. Then he reached an age where he could…
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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 more visitors during the summer,…
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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 dozen posts, I’ll be recounting twelve…
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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. Discovering a tube jammed with…
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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 fill it from the pot…
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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 the sight of cooking might…
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The Third Floor
Her tears wet my shoulder. I hardly knew her. Three minutes earlier, we’d been standing next to a cement pillar, talking quietly but intensely. Our bodies were close, the conversation intimate. An onlooker would have guessed we’d known each other for years. Yet I’d only spoken to Molly a couple of times before–in the locker room, maybe once in yoga class…