Handprints on windows. Fingerprints on the fridge. A pair of wet socks in the sink. Cereal bowl and spoon sitting on the couch. The smart TV shows THE AMAZING WORLD OF GUMBALL to the dog. She’s curled up in a big pink blanket, surrounded by a dozen stuffed animals, and has a purple bow on … More summer vacation
You’re not parenting. You’re giving in. I’m not sure if it’s laziness or delusional behavior, but the way you’re doing it is wrong. Unless your kid can pull herself up by her bootstraps and make herself better because of some intrinsic values given to her by God, magic, or happenstance, she’s probably going to repeat … More Parenting 2019
I’m too old to get weird, I suppose. But that’s what my core is telling me. Write. Meet with people. Travel. Wear whatever feels right. To me. I want to spend hours reading, thinking, meditating. I want to reach another level of fulfillment without going the standard way of religion or wakefulness or any of the other scripted horseshit ways people seem to go. … More the urge
I remember being six and standing in the cheese line at the fairgrounds with my Mom and brothers. It was a beautiful, bright day. There was so much light around. I remember the light so well. All of us were wearing hand-me-downs or Salvation Army specials. There was more than cheese, of course—“provisions” is what … More a little lift
I heard a voice tonight. The kids were in pajamas. We had just said our family prayer and were playing tic, tac, toe, hit me high, hit me low, hit me three times in a row, buddy got hit by a UFO and what I heard was ROCK and so I played rock and … More our son’s last race of the school year
As I write this, my daughter appears. She’s made me a drawing.
To dad fum Oogie, it says.
There is a sun at the bottom of the page and a sun at the top. There is a flower growing out of the sky and a flower growing out of the ground. In the middle of the page is a giant, smiling frog. … More a girl draws a picture
When I was a kid, just seven or eight, and it was bitter cold like this—the wind killing our cheeks, icing our eyes, and easing through even the most solid surfaces of our double wide—I woke every morning to the sound of Dad crumpling and rolling newspapers to light a fire two hours before the … More actions speak louder than words