What, No Matter Your Age, You never Say to Your Mom and Dad

Mom (to The Girl): Please don't put that alien in your mouth.

Dad: Yeah. That's gross.

The Girl: It's just fun to suck on. It's chewy.

Mom: Maybe so, but it's still gross.

The Girl: You know what? Tomorrow, instead of going to school, I'm gonna stay home and suck this guy all day.

Mom and Dad: GASP

Wear and Tear

The black loafers, the ones with the red piping, that you bought, from your bed, just days before. It was the middle of the toe--not the tip, as you'd expect--that broke through. I still wear them, but the rain seeps in, and my toe, like a puppet, pops in and out.


The Tiffany bracelet that still smelled of you. The silver beads, sprung by a rambunctious toddler, rolling across the bedroom floor. Her face, when it happened, was grief and panic. I held her in my bed, promised her waffles, and cried.


The bug-eyed sunglasses. Snapped, I presume, while I dug for my keys. Broken in the pocket of my down-filled coat.


The little plaid dress with the strawberry tassel and the little white shirt with the puppy on the front. Both outgrown a long, long time ago.


The lime-green sweater. Moth-eaten and stained.


Me. Pale and cold and not sleeping. Up and wanting to dial your number, to ask you what you think of Amy Winehouse, to see your face.

Snippets

What the dentist says: Your son's face, it's like the face of a doll, like a face you'd see in print ads. I wonder if they make boy versions of those American Girl dolls. I wonder. Because if they do, really, this kid could be the model.

What The Boy whispers on a Saturday morning: I love you. I love you so much. I love you more than trains, and I want to smell your shirt. I love you best of all. Let me tickle your tummy.

What The Girl moans just after her shower: Mom? Hello? Ever hear of using a dry towel?

What the Hamilton Tavern manager says as we're enjoying our beers, after we've just dropped, like, $140: I don't mean to rush you, but we've got a lot of people waiting for this table, so . . . .

What the friend's baby says in our kitchen: Meow.

What I say: Come on. Come on.

Phoenix

First came the snow. The dreary snow, the snow that you'd hoped would make you happy. You put so much stupid stock in that snow, in the whisper and flicker of it in the porchlight, that when it didn't pan out, when you still were unhappy, there was nothing to do but what you would've done anyway, so you sat on the sofa and watched it fall. And it fell, and you stopped sleeping, and your hands, after careless days without mittens, cracked and bled one night on your pillow. You lay on that pillow, neither sleeping nor dreaming, thinking only of old age and death and recession, until the lights on Joppa Road grew paler, grew blander, until the sunrise leaked in through the pines, through the grey. And then the children bounced in, with their lunches and buses, as the woman next door swept the snow from her car. It wasn't much snow, and it cleared away quickly. It was bitterly cold, but of course you got up.