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.

The Insomniac Heart

Sometimes, naturally, I worry that I'm failing you. I worry that my reluctance to clean the bathtub, my hesitation to schedule that playdate, will ruin you irreparably, and that you'll wake up tomorrow, the blankets 'round your ankles, and wonder why I didn't cover you in the middle of the night.

Before you, before both of you, I never thought too much about getting anything right. I took half-ass jobs in half-ass places, cut my own bangs, rolled my eyes. But then you came, and everything grew wings, and there were potted plants and kitchen lights and cats in every window. Possibility was everywhere. And everywhere, too, loomed the potential for failure.

There have been times, if you want to know the truth, when I haven't wanted to get out of bed. When thoughts of pushing trains or playing school or cooking dinner have made me want to curl up and cry. When thoughts of you--of precious, wonderful you--have left me confused and sad and anxious. When, quite frankly, I haven't known what to do.

But every bit of that badness, every ounce, every shred, has stemmed from my wanting to get it right. From my not wanting to fuck it all up. From my wanting to give you all the beauty and joy you deserve.

Anyway, loves, I don't even know why I'm telling you this. It's not as if we've been fighting, or as if I've been feeling depressed about anything, other than the weather; why I'm writing you this letter, at nearly two in the morning, is as much a mystery to me as it is to you.

Your sleepy sighs, when I tuck you in, will make me achingly happy. I'll go cover you now, so that when you wake up tomorrow, the blankets will be where they belong.

The Birthday

The Boy, fascinated by my toplessness. The song of the robin, the song of the wood thrush. Then you, then The Girl, by the side of the bed. The card and the presents. A fox, explained, a bird, explained. The chaos of the living room.

I nag her and I don't know why. Those shoes are two sizes too small, I say. You shouldn't bring that to the restaurant, I say. Her eyes, when I say this, are misty with defeat. With longing. Come here, I say. I'm sorry, I say.

The man at the counter, he gives me a buzzer. First, you'll get a test buzz, he explains, and then you'll get a real buzz when your table's ready. I nod. I take the buzzer. The test buzz, it comes exactly as predicted. But the real buzz, when it comes, is adrenalin and terror and head-rush and mystery.

Sweet potato fries and two mimosas. The crunchy legs of a soft shell crab.

Woods. Minor coastline. The curative properties of bare feet in water.

The groom, drinking a bottled Fanta. His bride, her long train skimming the sand, struggling toward the water.

The children, elbow-deep in the sand, dig a trench that soon fills with water. The Girl, her long skirt tucked into her undies. The Boy, chucking pebbles in all directions.

The needle thinness of the distant bridge. The tanker, moving noiselessly toward the other side.

In the Spot-a-Pot, the heat, the moisture. Her long dress, miraculously, kept out of the business. The hand sanitizer, with a PLUNK, right into the hole.

The joy of being barefoot. Even, and perhaps more so, up the rocky path.

Wonderful, wonderful bottled iced tea.

The highway, the wind, the sad companion. The Boy asleep, his head sweaty and slumped.

Clouds and a salutation of poppies. The children, wild with mulch, wild with springtime, screaming in the friends' backyard.

Peanut sauce. The quiet perfection of peanut sauce.

Strawberry-Rhubarb cobbler and warbly "Happy Birthday." Sunset and candles and little hands and promise. All of this beauty and all of it mine.