24/7

Sometimes when I'm not expecting Number Two to be looking in my direction, his huge hazels make me jump. They don't blink. There are no lines in the vellum of his eyelids as they open with an intensity to which I'm not accustomed. His whole face--yellowish tan, with undertones of red--is pulled taut by the stretch of two enormous eyes. Nobody else looks at me like that. Nobody else cranes his neck when I am gone, always stretching, always searching, for me. I can see in him the mama's boy, now and forever, when his gaze reaches me but his spastic wiggle won't. In those moments, the smoothness of new skin creases into wrinkles like age. His voice opens to a wail. He wants to hold onto me, but only his neck, and above that a mouth and two great eyes, are under his control. In my arms he is quiet again, and no longer wizened, as if my touch has the smoothing power of a quick caress over a rumpled sheet. I smell the baby mixture of soap and tears and milk on the fluff o...

I've blogged every day so far this month. This is no small feat considering I wrote only 60 posts over the course of the ENTIRE YEAR before November rolled around. NaBloPoMo is designed to help make blogging a habit by motivating writers to crank out posts every day, including weekends, for thirty days. It's great in theory. But the way my mind works, a habit is only worthwhile if it makes me fat and drunk and gives me cancer. Blogging every day? It's like jogging. These are dangerous gateway exercises. Next thing you know, I'll be running a marathon and writing a novel. Seriously, though. I'm way past making promises that I'm going to keep up this kind of prolificity . I didn't even announce my participation in NaBloPoMo this time around, so leery was I of embarrassing myself like I did last year when I flaked out on November 22 and didn't write again for five days. One of my biggest failings is lack of motivation. Admitting it is not my problem--it...

We are a happy family... ...except for Numbr Two, who is surly. "Don't go there. Just don't go there."

My mother woke early this morning to put the turkey in the oven. The Boss padded down the stairs about three hours after that. For a half hour longer, The Partner and I remained in bed, where we heard mumbled utterings from downstairs amidst the aroma of coffee grinds and turkey drip. Without knowing what preceded it, we heard The Boss plaintively state "I'll have to ask my daddy about that." The padding came up the stairs this time, and then The Boss was in our room. The Partner pulled the sheet over his head and pretended not to be there. It's their game. The Boss giggled when I asked her where her father was. She pulled the sheet off him and got straight to the business at hand. "Daddy, nana said today is Thanksgiving, but I told her I had to ask you." I stifled my laughter. I couldn't see The Partner's face, but it's safe to assume there was gloat there. "Yes," he assured her. "Today is Thanksgiving." The Boss was satisfie...

The other day I was sitting on my circular swivel love seat with a child in each arm. The weight of them there against me had to be one of the best feelings in the world. Pillows of faux suede beneath us emphasized the softness of the moment. My legs were laid in front of me on the chair in a bent up sort of "N." My babies were single quotation marks snuggled up against me. It was sweet but unremarkable until Number Two reached out across my chest to grab The Boss's hand. For ten unbelievable seconds, she let him hold her. She, who does her best to avoid any contact with the physical reminder that she is no longer the sole source of her parents' affection. She, who remembers to resent him only when he needs my attention, settling for ignoring him the rest of the time. While I held my breath, she let his grip, strong as silk but less slippery, wind itself around her fingers. Then she shook him off and I exhaled. Her mouth set in a line of distaste. She wiggled her shou...

I saw in my periphery the slow, automated descent of a Cadillac trunk lid and I felt a pang in my chest. Some people feel this when they see newborn babies, or a sunset, or the first of a five course meal being delivered to their table on a tray. Me, I get palpitations at the sight of a 90s-era Cadillac STS with a Northstar engine. I had one, once. Her name was Daisy. She was born in 1993 and showed up in my parents' driveway circa 2000, the year I graduated college. She was shiny then. She was not dented or missing side panels in the way she would quickly become accustomed to once I slid behind the wheel. The leather seats were only beginning to show rear-wear in the driver and front passenger seat when I took ownership. The dashboard arched in front of me with luxurious architecture. She was sublime. I required only two years to drive her into the ground. Each stop on the journey through my milestones--my first job, my first apartment, my first trip halfway across country for a w...

I live in a small, rural town on the eastern side of Connecticut. We've got farms and Big Pharm . We've got elderly residents who've been here for decades and young transplants with money to spend. We don't have a high school or a supermarket. Our local park is a chain link enclosure built around one tire swing and a glorified litterbox in which children like to dig with shovels. We don't have an official post office building. But what we do have is an establishment on the second floor of a shady building in the center of town that recently unfurled a shingle reading "[ Insert name of Eastern medicinal plant here ] Spa and Massage." I would type the actual name, except that it might draw some local Internet traffic I'd rather steer clear of. Currently the business has no Internet presence--via its own Web site or Yellow Pages listing--that I can find. Maybe it's legitimate. I don't want to cast aspersions. But I can tell you that few people I ...