this is a page for

Browsing Tag: conversations

No Matter What

All of our biggest conversations happen in the car. We were on our way to gymnastics, deep into a Depeche Mode song, when Quinlan asked me to revisit a story I’d once mentioned about a boyfriend I’d had when I was younger. “Mom? Did he throw you into the lake?” It took me a moment before I realized what she was talking about, then immediately swore to always downplay any single story I told her again from there on out. “No, no, honey. That boy never THREW me into a lake. We were in a canoe on a lake, and he was teasing me by rocking the boat over the deep water.” “And that’s why he didn’t become your boyfriend anymore?” “Well, not because of just that. But I was upset because he knew I was scared. But there were more moments after that when…” I couldn’t think of a way to explain it. “He wasn’t mean. I just started to feel bad about myself when I was around him. Like, sad.” She seemed to understand what I was saying. “So I knew it was time for him to not be my boyfriend…

Oops

Look, it was just supposed to be a quick trip to get pumpkins. David and I had had a crazy-busy weekend (because normal families spend 3 1/2 hours at a time in Lowe’s, right? And normal women venture out to replace one light fixture in a bathroom and decided that they’ll repaint and re-appoint every single fixture in two? And buy new pendant lights to put in over the kitchen island while they’re at it? DAMN YOU, LOWE’S, you beautiful place. You ate our money), and we didn’t do the fall-weekend-pumpkin-patch visit like all of Facebook tells us to. So I called my mom yesterday morning and told her that I was going to zip the kids down to our local farm market for a bit after school to play and pick out their future jack o’lanterns. She was up for it–David has seen my mom more often than I have these past weeks, so I think we needed some fall-Monday-pumpkin-patch bonding time–and off we went. They all start with a simple question, conversations like…

A Conversation, Bedtime

I walked past SK’s room last night to find her wide awake, grinning at me from her bed through the slightly open door.  We’d tucked her in almost an hour before, so I was surprised, to say the least, to see that mischievous little smile grinning at me from the jumble of bed sheets and Blanket and still-damp hair around her face.  So I walked in, because to tell you the truth, there’s something about our occasional after-bedtime conversations, when she’s procrastinating and fighting sleep as hard as she can, that are so sweet. “Hey,” I said, crouching down beside her bed.  “You’re supposed to be sleeping.” “Mom,” she said.  I braced myself for a serious question.  Her tone was all business. “Yes?” “I want to wear my pink shorts and flowered shirt tomorrow.” She’d seen them in the basket piled high with her cleaned clothes in the family room. “Okay, I’ll set them aside.” “No.  Don’t move them.  You will wrinkle them,” she said.  “I will…