I took Bryan to see Louis CK at the Merriam Theatre here in Philly. I scored us second row seats, not including the few rows of folding chairs in the orchestra pit. I could read the writing on Louis’s water bottle: Aquafina. I could see the burnt mushroom color of his eyes.
Christmas. Merry. Happy. Joy. Stress. Angst. Guilt. That hollow feeling in the pit of your stomach. Ah, the holidays. Continue reading
Good evening Fine Reader. I don’t know where to begin. It’s been seven days since my last confession. Today, this day of atonement. Means little more than a full day with the kids to an atheistic Hebrew school dropout like me. Rabble rouser. Inappropriate joker. TMI connoisseur.
Allow me to present exhibit one: sweet fig and goat cheese frozen custard with crinkle-cut French fries for dippin’. Courtesy of Shake Shack, my new favorite obsession, thanks to my dear friend Danielle.
I have joined a new cult. The cult of ballet. Not my ballet. Peaches’ ballet. It happened so fast and now I’m out $300 and I don’t care! Will I turn into THAT mom? Will a deep crease make its home between my eyebrows as I shuttle precious Peaches to class, insist she work harder, outshine all her six-year old competitors, keep her eye on the prize of being chosen for the elite company when she turns ten… Is that the road I’ve just stepped upon?
This morning I drew a picture of the twin towers and a sad face above the date on Spike’s lunch note. Is that bad parenting? Is there a book on what and how much to tell your children about the world? Maybe I will write one.
It’s my calling to keep it real for these kids. They already know about cosmetic surgery, pedophiles and factory farm chicken. Peaches has seen a deer eviscerated. Terrorism seems logical company. But maybe I am screwing them up. Maybe! Ha, what a laugh. A parent not screwing a kid up? Still, no nightmares that I’m aware of. No new drain, dark or insect phobias. Peaches and Spike are getting older, more accountable. More engaged in society. They have a right to know.
It’s happened. It’s finally happened! I’ve been dreaming about it for the past 8.5 years.
I’m kind of falling in love with my son these days. It’s not just because he’s with his grandparents either—for the week, WOO!
A monumental occasion. A rite of passage. Just yesterday, as we heralded the arrival of spring. My beloved Spike said to his mommy, “Fuck you.”