24/7

It's no secret that The Partner and I have different attitudes toward sex. He can take it or leave it, while I prefer to take it. He often goes a week-and-a-half to two weeks without showing any interest. Then, suddenly, the testosterone begins to flow. This time it coincided with a deluge of another kind, and the story that resulted is such a sad but illustrative commentary on the state of my sex life that I cannot help but relay it to you here. *** I had just climbed into bed for the evening. The Partner called the dog downstairs for her evening constitutional. I heard the door open. I heard the door shut. I heard "Goodbye" from The Partner's AOL session and I heard him let the dog back in. They both padded up the steps toward bed. I had an inkling that The Partner might be interested in a little romp in the hay. It had been long enough that even he should have been getting antsy. But then I heard the bathroom door shut, and instead of water spilling over a toothbru...

I was in the kitchen when I heard a sound like a little miracle from the living room. It was a 9 month old belly laugh lurching out in spurts at the prompting of a three year old. Not the least of the miracle was the fact that the 9 month old part of that equation had just popped two teeth--simultaneous eruptions of exactly the same height and width in the center of his bottom gum--the night before. It was a labor of love impossible for him to sleep through. He had been a Teething Mimi for the past 24 hours, during which time there were no smiles. The second marvelous aspect of the scenario was the instigator. The delight The Boss took in entertaining her brother was totally new. Up to that moment, she'd sooner let him choke on a Gerber Puff than divert her attention from the television to notice his windpipe had been compromised. But then she did something that made him laugh. Sequestered in the kitchen, I didn't know what it was. But he did it again, and again. He really laug...

Write a poem. You can do it. It's easy. Don't believe me? Here's a template . I first tackled the exercise on an old blog almost three years ago. For some reason, I was thinking about the poem in the shower this morning. I'm reposting here. Note: You may be interested in knowing, if you get to the last line, that Great Aunt Sonia has since passed . So too have our secrets. Where I'm From I am from Cookie Monster sweatshirts, shrugged on past bedtime. I'm from Dairy Queen and a station wagon. I am from the chain-linked smell of gasoline and grass clippings. I am from dandelion seeds, yellow weeds and petals of "he loves me not." I'm from lilacs for mom on the kitchen table. I am from Marlboro Reds by the carton, by the day; I'm from them living while I sleep. I'm from Faith, Hope and Wisdom, Russian sisters in translation. I'm from pampered grudges with skin soft from attention. I'm from funereal reunions. I'm from shhhhhh and ...

If my parents ever doubt my overwhelming devotion to them, they need only look to exhibit A: I am still living in Connecticut. They are the only things tying me to this godforsaken suburban box where winter lasts for 7.5 months and you can buy a 1000 sq ft split-level for roughly the price of the South Dakota governor's mansion. I'm bitter because it's cold. I get this way toward the end of every January, though my inability to deal with it gets worse with each passing year. I am seasonally affected and dis-ordered. I can't get myself together. I would like to sit in the bathtub beneath a heat lamp and read for the next three months straight, but then my skin would fall off and the authorities would probably take away my kids. Instead, I put on two sweaters and turn on every light in the house. I do the best I can. But my February best is nowhere near good. The Partner and I stay here because of our parents. It's not just that The Boss and Number Two need babysitter...

I am standing at the coffee counter, waiting for my order to come up, when Number Two begins to trill in the soft vibrato that has heralded his ascent from the surly depths. Recently, and as if overnight, the line of his lips curled upward and a voice emerged. He used to give the impression that he was humoring us with his presence; now he's a laughing child. I press the too-sharp line of my nose into his neck. He giggles. I hug him tight and he laughs harder. The air in the coffee shop is as hot and aromatic as a mug of house blend. All the sudden I hear 10,000 Maniacs, and though it could be coming acoustic from the speakers, it's not. It's in my head. These are days you'll remember. Never before and never since, I promise. It would be easy to shake out the sap, grab my coffee, and go. I mean, how sentimental am I? Instead, I go with it. It's not every day that I attune to my own soundtrack, but I hear it now. I'm resting against the long wooden counter in a ...

I think I saw a mouse in the kitchen. I'm going to cry. I've been feeling overwhelmed to begin with; now I'm overwhelmed and nauseated . My phobia of rodents makes it hard for me to function. The only way I was able to return to the location of the peripheral mouse sighting (I can't be sure it was a mouse and not a figment of my imagination, but let's be real--it's five degrees outside, while in here it's a balmy 62, and crumbs abound) was to have my dog, Roxie, go in ahead of me to sniff things out. She didn't appear to sense anything, so I bit the bullet. The dog tried to leave as soon as I joined her. "Get back here!" I shrieked, not only to get the dog's attention, but to make a general noisy situation that would not appeal to vermin. I quickly made my sandwich. Roxie stayed semi-loyally by my side. I made sure to look only where I absolutely needed to. I've known for awhile that we have mice, but the knowledge alone is not the pro...

I've been so preoccupied with Number Two's small size relative to other eight-month-olds that I failed to notice he's still growing. Fast. Photos by Lauren That's not a baby. That's a boy. ___