Rockets

The fireworks, they make me cry. And not only because they remind me of you, of your cool summer smell of bangles and hairspray, of the fact that it's now been three long years since you've gone, but because all of this--the house, just across the tracks, that you never saw; the children, long-legged and sweaty and heavy and exhausted; the apostrophe moon--is so beautiful, so temporal, that I want to pull it up against me, pull it closer, as the sky blanches and blushes and swells, as the crowd howls, as the ashes, caught on the lisp of the breeze, fall in my hair and on you and on everything.

The Post Just After the One That Was Just Before

So yesterday's post wasn't so great, was it? And today's doesn't promise to be much better, what with its grab-baggy nature and all. But will imminent shittiness prevent me from hitting publish? You bet it won't!

And this post--which was most assuredly going to be shitty already--just got shittier, if you can believe it, because fucking Blogger won't let me fucking upload the fucking pictures I was going to fucking upload. What the fuck, Blogger? Everybody keeps asking about the kids, about how big they're growing and whatever, and I can't provide any proof of their bigness, because fucking Blogger won't let me fucking upload the fucking pictures I was going to fucking upload. Like, ever. Like, I haven't been able to upload pictures for weeks. But you know what? I'm not going to let some stupid technical problem turn into a throbbing ache in my ass. Oh, no. If I can't share my photos, goddammit, then I'll just describe them. Because surely, that'll be just as good!

Ready?

Image 1: The Girl. In her green monkey nightgown. Reading, with her bangs in her eyes, last month's issue of Sparkle World. Her fingers in her mouth. A pile of books on the couch beside her. One painted fingernail. The late morning sun.

Image 2: The Boy. Golden, sleepy, in the sand.

Image 3: The groundhog, approaching. The pink soccer ball.

Almost as good as seeing 'em, huh?

And now, since I promised a grab-bag or something, is a random list of crap I've been thinking about:

1. Michael Jackson's death

2. Marriage

3. God

4. How visiting the east side of town (and yes, I know this sounds classist) never fails to make me feel like a better parent

5. Twinkie containers

6. 99 cent blueberries

7. Groundhogs

8. The fact that routinely waking up before six in the morning has actually resulted in my feeling less tired

9. Mortality

10. Hanging baskets

11. Why I wish I were a better, more consistent friend

12. Poop

13. Fried chicken

14. Fireworks

Pretty excellent reading, huh? And thanks to Blogger's inability to let me fucking upload the fucking pictures I want to fucking upload, you can count on plenty more of these kinds of posts to come.

Yay! I know you'll be back soon! And in the meantime, have a wonderful weekend!

The Post Just Before the One That Is Just After

This kind of post--the kind in which you're forced to explain . . . ammm . . . where you've been for the last two-or-so weeks--is always the hardest, most awful to write. Especially when . . . amm . . . you haven't been anywhere for the last two weeks; you've just been avoiding, if we're being honest, writing any post at all. And why have you been avoiding writing any post at all? Well, it's sort of complicated, but what it mostly boils down to is that you've been feeling tired and boring, and that you half-think that nobody--and most of all you--could possibly have any interest in reading about the minutia of your life. Which, in a way, is an odd revelation, given how much you enjoy reading other people's blogs. But then, the blogs that you most enjoy reading do seem, after all, to contain more than minutia. More than mundane accounts of why their writers haven't been writing. More than blah-dee-blah-dee-blah-dee-dee-blah. Anyway . . . I'm back!!! And aren't you glad?

Oh, the other thing? It's summer, you know, and I've really been enjoying hanging out with the kids. Every day, whether we've been lazing 'round the house in our pajamas or riding the MARC train down to D.C., has been fun and deliciously summery. Today we're heading to a local beach with some friends, and I'm very much looking forward to it. Because summer, unlike this post, FUCKING RULES.

You know what else is gonna FUCKING RULE? Tomorrow's post. I don't mean to be self-aggrandizing, but seriously, if tomorrow's post doesn't knock your fucking socks off, then there's something horribly the matter with you.

(And no, I haven't written tomorrow's post yet. But I just know that it's gonna FUCKING RULE.)

You know, Blog, I've kind of missed you. Maybe we belong together, after all.

Weepily Wonderful

Today, then, is The Girl's last day of school. And to say that I've gotten weirdly emotional about this would be more than just a little understatement. I don't know what it is--perhaps the fact that she's growing up so fast; perhaps the fact that I have my period--but I've been a bit of a weepy mess ever since her graduation on Wednesday. And the graduation . . . I've never been a huge fan of Louis Armstrong's "What a Wonderful World," mainly because of its ubiquity, but you get a stageful of kindergartners, all of 'em singing and doing the words in sign language, and oooooh boy, the song takes on a different meaning. Because--sob--it is a wonderful world . . . one that I hope remains just as blessed and blue-skyed for every one of her days.



* Pictures, for whatever reason, refuse to load right now. I'll be back with photos later.

At the Fireworks Stand in Western Missouri

When you go back to the truck, to roll up the windows, the guy at the table pokes a Roman candle at his son. "Look at this," he says, "Can you believe it? It's bigger 'n a nigger's cock." "Dad," the boy hisses, looking right at me. The storm, all rusty and far-away and broken. The boy's face, red with acne and indignation and sun.

Mommy's Little Badass

This, it turns out, is what a broken arm looks like. Or, to be more specific, this is what a broken arm looks like on the world's most ridiculous child. Tomorrow, after what will no doubt prove to be a titillating trip to the orthopaedist, he will have his cast. In the meantime, he will have his splint and his silly, smiley outlook.

Only this child, with his Hey, Misters and his grape lolly, could make going for an interminable X-ray fun. Only this child, with his shaggy hair and his I would take a sticker, but I kinda hate Mickey Mouse, could make sitting in three waiting rooms anything less than awful.

My kooky boy. My kooky boy. I just wish you'd be a little more careful.

The Children

The children, when they want my attention, call me Hey and Yo and Miss Lady. And when they don't give a shit, which is most of the time, they toss pistachio shells on the ledge of my chalkboard and write FUCK all over their binders.

"It's not that we don't like you," she whispers. Her watermelon gum. Her assignment on the floor. "It's just that you don't yell or nothing, so we know that we can do whatever we want."

Two boys. Around and around and around the desks. "Knock it off!" I yell. "I mean it!" I yell. The others, laughing and heckling.

At lunchtime, I walk over to Eddie's and pick up a California Roll and a Snapple. I eat in the classroom--the hot, green classroom--and wait for 12:30, the dreaded slam of lockers.

Mr. Jenkins, the one they all love, the one who, years ago, robbed the 7-11, stands, his arms crossed, outside the classroom. When they see him, they sit down, they get quiet, and we all look, as if it means anything to anyone, at the list of vocabulary words I've written on the chalkboard.

At the evaluation, she doesn't sit. She leans against a file cabinet. "I mean, I'm sorry," she says, "but I don't understand it. You're the adult. You're the teacher. You're the one who is in charge." I nod and say I don't understand it, either. I sign on the line where she tells me to sign.

Out in the parking lot, the Taurus won't start, and the snow is falling harder and harder. I dig through the trunk for the scraper, for the jumper cables, before I see them coming across the field.

Some are running and some are throwing snowballs. Some are making angels in the frozen grass.