Turn up the heat: Creative Loafing’s Fiction Contest is back and I’m one of the judges
Deadline is December 22nd – here are more details:
The theme for the 2012 contest is “Heat.”
Incorporate the theme any way you like — temperature, tension, firearms, fever, track & field, sex… the choice is up to you (and your characters). Deadline for submission is Dec. 22, 2011 at 5 p.m.
The top 10 stories will be chosen by our judges: Jeff Parker, Director, MFA in Creative Writing, University of Tampa; Catherine Durkin Robinson, columnist for Creative Loafing and the Tampa Tribune; and David Warner, Editor in Chief of Creative Loafing. Both our judges and our readers will choose a first place winner from the Top Ten, with $500 going to the judges’ winner and $250 to the readers’ choice.
Winning entries will be published in print and online in Creative Loafing on Jan. 5, 2012.
Click here for the submission guidelines and entry form. Good luck!
UPDATE: The judges’ top ten favorites have been chosen, and now it’s your turn to vote.
FULL COLUMN: Menopause and weaning parties – dandy or desperate?
…from Saturday’s Tampa Tribune.
Whatever happened to just hanging out? I remember when three friends, a keg, and cable television meant one heck of a party. Nowadays, social gatherings are themed and weird.
Some themes are okay. For every Pampered Chef or Smelly Candle Gathering, there is a Passion Party where I learn about love toys and lubricants. It’s like watching NBC. We tolerate Whitney in order to enjoy 30 Rock.
I’m afraid that some themes are beginning to sound ridiculous, including but not limited to: Menopause Parties.
When I heard about this new activity for ladies who lament, I made the same face I make when biting into a grapefruit. My Aunt Mimi put that facial expression into words, “A menopause party? Sounds like getting stoned to death with popcorn.”
Maybe you’re like me and believe once we hit our forties, between peri, the real deal, and post, every day is a menopause party. The woman responsible for this trend goes by only one initial, E, so we don’t even really know who to blame. E calls them Shmirshky parties and wrote a book called “The pursuit of hormone happiness.” What is a shmirshky? E’s pet name for her lovely lady parts. The cover art features curls in the form of a triangle, and her son co-authored the tome.
I don’t know whether to applaud her nerve or throw up a little in my mouth.
Apparently the party consists of getting together with friends between 30-50 years of age and talking about all the exciting events that arrive with middle-age. Nothing gets me in a party mood like discussing hot flashes, heartburn, and legs that resemble a highway map.
I have nothing against gathering with friends and laughing about how a few years ago we had to carry a sweater with us at all times and now we need ice under our armpits to get through Shul, but an entire evening devoted to dry skin sounds depressing.
Maybe as bad as a weaning party.
“What’s a weaning party,” you ask?
This is when women, and their children, celebrate the end of breastfeeding. When my twins were done nursing, I celebrated with garlic spaghetti and some Chianti. Most of my friends weaned their babies at a year with little or no fanfare. Maybe our husbands honored the event with a hoot and holler because they no longer had to worry about a squirt in the eye if they got too close.
These days, weaning parties are for kids who stop breastfeeding right around the time they’re applying to colleges.
The argument is that weaning parties go back centuries, to the time when Abraham celebrated his son’s parting from the breast. Do we really want to use my religion’s founders as justification for any event in this century? We no longer condone slavery or relationships between children and adults, outside Happy Valley, Pennsylvania, so I’m not sure a weaning party is a good idea either.
We don’t need such excuses to have fun with friends.
I think I’ll stick to my keg of beer and cable television. Is anything good on tonight?
FULL COLUMN: “As a rule, people smell” and other things I learned on vacation
…from this weeks’ Creative Loafing.
My family and I spent Thanksgiving week in New York City, enjoying the sights, sounds, and, in Husband’s case, $25 pastrami sandwiches. Our kids are in those important preteen years and I want them to appreciate museums, musicals, and how to avoid diseases on the subway.
I try to make every vacation a learning experience and wrote a scavenger hunt for them with items like our Book of Mormon ticket stubs, a Central Park leaf, and those cool zip-tie handcuffs the NYPD are giving away near Wall St. They got stuck at “a quiet and polite Yankees fan” and immediately lost interest. I was fine with that because I realized we all learn more from watching people than from anything else.
For example, parents who truly absorb and reflect during museum visits always have out-of-control kids. Good parents can certainly enjoy exhibits and nude sculptures with children in tow because we’ve learned to Glance and Grab. We get five seconds with that amazing 19th Century satirical cartoon because if we take all day, Junior will land a misdemeanor charge for groping the naked Venus statue.
Stand outside The Dakota, where John Lennon was murdered, and prepare to be mortified. We didn’t allow our children to point or take pictures because something has to separate us from those tourists from Missouri.
Police officers at a pizza joint don’t find it funny when you ask to take a picture of them peppersprinkling their slice.
We rented a Manhattan apartment and the kids enjoyed city living for a week, despite zero personal space and 25 minutes to get from freezing to lukewarm water. I would have enjoyed the apartment more if my hair fit inside the guest bathroom.
My mother joined us, as she’s always wanted to see the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. She could have saved a few thousand dollars in cab fares and headaches by dancing in the mosh pit at a Suicidal Tendencies concert.
On the morning of the parade, we arrived at the starting point a few hours early. With thousands of spectators already lining the street, we picked a less crowded spot near the subway. We realized quickly why no one had chosen that spot before us. Every ten minutes, we feared for our lives. Only when one guy plowed through the crowd with a stroller did I feel safe, because the crowd turned on him and left the rest of us alone. Somehow that stroller wound up in the air and landed on a side street. When it fell apart and there was no baby inside, only granola bars and bottled water, I could breathe again.
Two grown men with press badges shared an emotional breakdown. Through tears and buckets of snot, they called their editors and begged to return to Wall St.
While the crowd crushed us flat against a storefront, Husband loudly announced, “We should have gone one street over where they’re giving out free coffee and Book of Mormon tickets.”
But these were New Yorkers. They would not be fooled.
When the parade started, the crowd continued to grow. We were surrounded by Persians, Hispanics, Swiss tourists, and a few folks from Jersey who pushed us at least three miles from where we started. We encountered a real pregnancy scare as a result of that parade.
By some miracle, Husband is not.
We learned there’s nothing wrong with watching the parade from a comfortable living room without nervous mothers yelling, “The balloons are coming!”
“So is that homeless guy in the corner,” I finally replied to one of them.
I only wish I’d been joking.
When a crowd cheers louder for cars getting towed than for the Kermit balloon, something is wrong. I’ve never seen two Jewish kids happier to see Santa Claus than my sons at the end of the parade.
After the week was up, we made it home safe and sound, disease-free and with newfound respect for suburbia.
I know what you’re wondering.
Yes, The Book of Mormon rocked. And my mom is still speaking to us.
FULL COLUMN: Giving thanks
…from last week’s Creative Loafing.
In a sluggish economy, during a birthday month that means I’m one step closer to adult-diaper-wearing years, it’s easy to focus on the negative. All I have to do is watch our leaders happily ensuring that everything gets worse, in order to make the president’s re-election that much more difficult. Or I can listen to Herman Cain brag about raising more money thanks to unearthed charges of sexual harassment.
Turning on the radio doesn’t help. The other day, I realized with a certain amount of horror that I’m not fully prepared to live in a world where Desire by U2 is considered classic rock.
Yet I refuse to give in to heartache and despair. I found at least 10 things that don’t suck about my life. During Thanksgiving dinner next week, when one of your older relatives takes his teeth out of a glass and suggests thanking God for something specific, feel free roll your eyes.
Then borrow one of my ideas.
10. I have to do the obligatory, “Thanks for my health and the health and safety of loved ones.” Nothing makes me feel more like an ungrateful bitch than hearing stories from others about tragic health issues, childhood diseases, or missing limbs. I can still wipe my own ass, and no one is asking me to wipe theirs. Therefore, I will smile and give a “what what” in the name of gratitude because not everyone can say the same.
9. Rice cakes. Old CW: They taste worse than cardboard served with a side of dog tongue. New CW: They are not only a delicious and low-calorie alternative to bread, but they take on the flavor of whatever I’m eating it with. Kinda like tofu. And Johnny Depp.
8. (Tie) Employment. No one should be allowed to sing, “Take This Job and Shove It” for at least three more generations. If you have a job, a real job, with benefits and health care, I don’t want to hear a single complaint. Have you looked around lately? There are lots of people who would give their eye-teeth, as well as some really nice crystals and a couple of Phish vinyl records, to say the same. Sure, we may not be doing what we’ve always dreamed of. I’m not working at The New York Times, for example. But I’m not getting laid off because assholes stopped reading newspapers either. I make an honest living without foreclosing on homes for Bank of America. I’m thankful for that.
8. (Tie) Friends. They are the family we choose and keep us strong. They don’t remind me about all the things I did in 1975. They don’t remember bad hair years when I bleached what I couldn’t comb down. They love me despite the fact that I brag about my kids. I cherish them. They are better than stock options or capital gains.
7. My life partner. No, I’m not talking about Merlot. I’m thankful I married the funniest man on earth who doesn’t mind my sensitive skin and support stockings. Represent.
6. Since September, 650,000 people moved their money from a bank into a credit union. F*ck you, Wall Street.
5. I’ve never said “What it is is,” “let’s compare apples to apples,” or “soup to nuts” out loud.
4. I’m no longer a sales rep.
3. Tim Tebow. He believes in the miracle of gay reparative therapy. He believes a woman should bear her rapist’s baby. He defends this world view with Bronze Age folk tales and Jesus. I’m thankful because it reminds me that although I’m not handsome or worth millions, I can drink an entire can of alphabet soup, bend over, and sh*t out better life-affirming values. Thanks Timmy!
2. My children have not tried drugs, even after four months of middle school.
1. I do not need to sue anyone because of Paxil birth defects, vaginal mesh implant mishaps, or discomfort brought on by unusual anal bleeding thanks to faulty ass cream. Yet.
FULL COLUMN: *Happy* Holidays
…from yesterday’s Tampa Tribune.
My friends are already complaining about the holidays. They loathe the inevitable weight gain, spending sprees, and parties with people who are drunk and hostile. Let’s skip over the diet advice and austerity measures. We don’t need another protest on our hands! Instead, let’s focus on the intolerable people in our lives.
Why do we hang out with them?
Maybe we think our presence at gatherings will improve careers or trust fund options. Perhaps being alone is too scary. Maybe we tell ourselves, “I’m required to put up with his drunk ass because we came out of the same vagina.”
Years ago, I was hospitalized with a bad case of C Diff. I had one of those epiphanies. Near-death experiences often trigger life-changing moments. Some people find God. Others dedicate their lives to the poor. I decided the time had finally come to end some relationships, specifically with shoulder pads and a couple of in-laws.
That’s right. I kicked people to the curb, despite shared bloodlines or fondness for stout beer. It’s that simple. I now spend my time and energy with people who are kind and loving. People who see the best in me and themselves.
I’m encouraging you to do the same.
This decision might shrink your inner circle, but you will feel a huge amount of relief walking away from cruel and unusual people. Unload nasty siblings, in-laws, acquaintances, and long-term friends. If dad regularly belittles and ignores you, cut him loose. If old friends repeatedly exclude you from events, then tag you in pictures as the garbage can, kick ‘em out. Sister is icy cold no matter how nice you are to her kids? There’s the door.
We shouldn’t put up with jerks just because we might need a kidney one day.
They will inevitably scoff and say, defensively, “I refuse to worship you!” or “You don’t want to be around me because I don’t agree with you all the time!” Don’t bother explaining there is a happy medium between hater and enabler. They don’t get it, and never will.
If someone decides to take on the role of cranky bitch, fine. But there’s nothing wrong with choosing to side with positive energy, decency, and kindness instead.
When did people get so mean? Misery, sadness, and a lack of good quality undergarments are to blame. Perhaps folks aren’t mean as much as they’re unhappy. Remember that scene in The Big Chill when Meg Tilly says, “I don’t know that many happy people. How do they act?” That was the late 1980s, before retirement meant living with grown kids who can’t find a job. Times are much tougher today. Perhaps we should allow loved ones to take out their frustrations on us.
No.
It feels good to stand up for yourself, you should try it. Let cruel people contend with themselves in prisons of their own making.
Living a healthy and positive life isn’t possible while we’re surrounded by negativity. Smaller circles are better circles, especially when renewed love vibes bring in others of the same persuasion.
Don’t be so attached to anyone that you’ll put up with abuse.
Conflict makes for great movies and books, but real life is more tolerable as a comedy rather than drama. Life is rough enough without a mom rooting for your demise, a “best” friend judging your every action, and a brother-in-law sending passive aggressive text messages. I get hate mail from strangers and attend little league practice with my kids. I’m aware not everyone’s a fan.
But only fans should be allowed inside our lives. For the holidays and beyond.
FULL COLUMN: 5 things to think about regarding the Penn State tragedy
…from last week’s Creative Loafing.
My family is from Pennsylvania, and includes several Penn State graduates. When I first heard that former Assistant Coach Jerry Sandusky was charged with sexually abusing eight boys, and the abuse seems to have been ignored and/or covered up by Head Coach Joe Paterno, and other administration officials, I immediately felt rage and anger. As a mother of two pre-teen boys, I cannot imagine how anyone could witness such abuse, or hear about it firsthand, and then not act to help or avenge the victims.
Here are 5 things to think about in the wake of such a tragedy:
5. It’s not the first of its kind. From the beginning, the creeps at Penn State took their cues on how to handle this situation from the Catholic Church. When people are deified, whether in sports or religion, they believe they can do whatever they want.
Remember the Boston Red Sox and a similar scandal a few decades back? Donald Fitzpatrick, a clubhouse manager for the team, was charged with sexually abusing at least twelve young boys. When allegations surfaced, Tom Yawkey, Red Sox owner, protected Fitzpatrick and refused to get rid of him.
Arrogance and violence go hand in hand with organized sports, so when professional athletes are arrested for victimizing women and animals, is it any surprise that some of them hurt children as well?
When we take fallible human beings and bestow upon them a godlike status, let’s no longer pretend the consequences aren’t devastating. Men in sports, or a priest’s robe, are not deities. They are people, like everyone else, and the extraordinary power they are given does harm to everyone in their path.
And how about those students, rioting over Paterno’s firing? They weren’t angry about child rape. They weren’t angry that Paterno didn’t do much of anything to stop the abuse. They were angry that he was fired as a result.
Perhaps you need to live outside Happy Valley to know that a) Scrapple isn’t a food group and b) Paterno should have been arrested and charged with a crime for not going to the police.
4. Let’s stop saying the boys were molested or fondled. If the charges are true, these young boys were raped. To say otherwise is dismissive and insulting, like saying the Nazis detained some Jews. Honor the victims by telling the sad, awful, and horrible truth. It’s the least we can do.
3. If the victims were girls, this might have ended differently.
Can you imagine anyone seeing a girl sodomized and not raising hell? At least two men, on two different occasions, witnessed atrocious acts on a child and walked away. We need to get to the reasons why grown men wouldn’t act on behalf of young boys.
2. Homophobia might be at least partly to blame.
Sometimes the locker room seems like the last safe place for public slurs against gay people, besides the set of a Brett Ratner movie. A 2009 survey showed that sports reporters believe homophobia is disturbingly prevalent in sports, especially among old-school jocks.
Joe Paterno has a history in this area. When he was athletic director he hired Rene Portland, a controversial and abusive women’s basketball coach, who made anti-gay slurs in the press during her tenure at PSU. Paterno helped to cover up policies that pressured lesbian players to keep their sexuality a secret.
Training Rules, a 2007 documentary, charged that Portland made her players’ lives a living hell, all thanks to an irrational hatred and fear of gay people.
Perhaps these crimes were so shocking and shameful to the grown men who knew about them, they allowed themselves to be scared into a submissive silence. That needs to end. Let’s demystify homosexuality, encourage understanding and acceptance, rather than just tolerance, and refrain from using homophobic slurs. This would lead to a better world for everyone, and a safer one for kids.
1. Parents should use this opportunity to educate their children.
Pedophiles go after young children who come from troubled homes, are often left alone, and are in desperate need of love and attention. I don’t give a good goddamn how busy you are — keep a keen eye on your kids.
Let’s learn from this. That’s the least we can do.
FULL COLUMN: “Take off that bra, you’re only eight.”
…From last week’s Creative Loafing .
Children have always been curious about adult roles. When I was young, my sister and I often played a game called “Grown Up.” We would dress in our mother’s clothes, say the rosary, and use words like “disappointed.” We poured tea and pretended to be more mature than any other six and seven year-old in the neighborhood.
Children still play grown up today, but without the benefit of pretending.
French Vogue recently featured a ten year-old in sexy photos while Real Madrid signed a seven year-old to its professional soccer team. Here in America, reality programs like Dance Moms and Toddlers & Tiaras feature young children displaying aggression that would embarrass a Wall Street tycoon. ESPN features young boys crying and distraught during its annual coverage of the Little League World Series.
All around us, children are dealing with complex emotions and circumstances that would land most adults in therapy or jail. Mental health counselors see it every day.
Patricia Dunn-Fierstein, a Licensed Social Worker and child therapist from Tampa, has been working with children for over 30 years. In some ways, she believes kids are required to take on more today than in the past. “I’m seeing a lot of anxiety in the culture about success and that anxiety is trickling down to children,” she said.
She sees this even in her youngest patients. Many modern homes build master bedrooms quite far from where the children sleep. Anxiety starts there, with toddlers having trouble throughout the night.
“Move into the guest room for a few months,” Dunn-Fierstein tells her parents. “We weren’t meant to be miles away from our kids. Other cultures would be aghast.”
The alarmingly high rate of divorce certainly doesn’t help. According to Dunn-Fierstein, overworked parents might not understand or be capable of helping their kids. So she sees a rush within these children to grow up way too soon.
Jean Anton, a Licensed Mental Health counselor working with kids in Hillsborough County for over 25 years, has similar concerns. She identified traumatic divorce, as well as negative images in the media and technology, for forcing kids to think about things they might not be ready for emotionally.
“Boundaries between childhood and adulthood are blurred,” she said. “There was a recent news story about nursing dolls for very young girls. Encouraging them to emulate that part of motherhood is different from a child seeing her mom nursing in a natural setting.”
The company releasing this doll in America, Berjuan Toys, heard from lots of moms worried that a nursing toy will speed up the maternal instinct in their daughters. Hormone-infected cows are already giving ten year-olds breasts and menstrual cycles; they don’t want European toy companies making it worse. But one blogger pointed out that a breast milk baby doll isn’t much different from buying toy guns for boys.
The blogger has a point. Maybe we shouldn’t be encouraging adult roles at all.
Here are some suggestions for keeping children young both in mind and spirit.
- Set loving and rational boundaries.
- Stop obsessing over school performance and periodic shifts in academic grades. Focus on what children are exposed to emotionally that they can’t yet handle.
- Seek help for your troubled children while they are still young and habits aren’t quite so ingrained.
- Find age-appropriate movies and magazines, monitor computer use, and fight the urge to compare. Each child has strengths and weaknesses that should be celebrated and addressed without concern for anyone else. Websites like commonsensemedia.org can help with guidelines and suggestions for books, television shows, movies, music, and video games. Watch television shows or games alone and then decide for yourself what your children can and cannot tolerate.
- Communicate with caregivers, babysitters, nannies and other family members. Everyone in your life should be aware of these boundaries.
By the time our children reach the end of high school, if we’ve raised them effectively, they’re going to make pretty good decisions. Parents often remark that time flies and before they know it, their kids are gone. Let’s stop rushing it.
FULL COLUMN: MissRepresentation
…from yesterday’s Tampa Tribune.
My husband and children sat with me on a recent Saturday night to watch a program we recorded about women’s portrayal in the media.
Cue the obligatory Natalie Merchant soundtrack followed by yawns and complaints.
But wait, much to our surprise, MissRepresentation, a documentary premiering on Oprah’s channel, OWN, was actually quite good. My boys and I were enraged and enlightened, while ultimately feeling inspired to keep the conversation going.
My kids don’t consume much media. At almost twelve years of age, they are not allowed to watch television, use computers for anything other than homework or play video games during the week. And yet they are still, even with such limited exposure, a reluctant witness to the objectifying and belittling of women.
Some things we didn’t know before watching MissRepresentation:
- Newspapers often report that male leaders tell, inform, and instruct. For example, “Senator Rubio said…” or “Governor Scott told…” When reporting about female politicians, reporters sometimes use different words, such as, “Representative Castor complained…”
- Since Representative Boehner became Speaker of the House, he’s been on the cover of 5 national magazines. During Nancy Pelosi’s entire tenure as Speaker, she wasn’t on one.
- 2010 was the first time women made no gains in Congress.
- Depression among teenage girls has doubled from 2000 to 2010.
- The more women are focused on their looks and appearance the more likely they are to suffer from melancholy and feelings of worthlessness.
I wasn’t halfway through the documentary before I recognized myself as part of the problem. Although I’m an enlightened woman, raising sensitive and amazing young men, I still fret about wrinkles. I’ve had cosmetic surgery. I’ve posed for pictures in robes, bathing suits, and less in the name of happiness, self-satisfaction, fundraising, or “harmless” publicity. I’ve objectified myself over and again. I value the importance of wit and intelligence, yet color my hair every 6 weeks. I often degrade my appearance if I think it’ll make someone laugh.
I can justify each instance, yet it still makes me part of the problem.
Miss Representation points out that when women are objectified, attacking them is easier. With violence against women and even young girls on the rise, we must ask ourselves what we can do, right now, to make a difference:
- Tell young girls how smart they are, not how beautiful.
- Let our boys cry and express emotion without shame.
- See movies written and directed by women, featuring strong female characters, on opening weekend, especially Friday nights.
- Boycott products that promote misogyny in their ads and commercials.
- Ask your children after a movie or television show, “What if that character had been female?”
- Don’t walk by a mirror and degrade your appearance. Young people are listening.
- Teach our sons to appreciate strong women, rather than feel threatened by them.
There are plenty of ideas. Miss Representation will re-air on OWN November 12th at 11AM. If your sons or daughters are over the age of ten, I highly recommend watching it together as a family. Continue the conversation.
FULL COLUMN: Carpe Dayum, my 11 year-old son’s first date leaves him more experienced than I was at 23.
…from last week’s Creative Loafing.
This was an innocent date, the kind where everyone eats ice cream and no one yells, “No means no!”
She asked him to a sporting event with her family.
Wrap your head around that for a moment. I’m sure when my Nana fought against discrimination to work outside the home this is exactly what she had in mind: An evolved world where bold young girls proposition her great-grandson before his testicles have even dropped.
I suppose that’s unfair. Emily* is a polite, straight-A student who plays violin and soccer.
At first, Husband and I agreed that he could go. I called Emily’s mom and we discussed details. She sounded as confused as I felt.
“Did you read the note your son gave to Emily?” she asked.
My stomach lurched. I wrote notes in middle school. They almost always resulted in counseling sessions because someone threatened to press charges.
But then I remembered he’d read the note to me.
“Did it mention Carpe Diem?” I asked.
“Yes,” she happily sighed.
My son has a fondness for Latin. In a perfect world, this would make him un-datable.
“I told Emily that it was a beautiful note,” she continued. “I can’t believe he’s only in 6th grade. I never got a letter like that in 6th grade. Or 7th, or 8th, or 9th either. I don’t think I ever received a note like that.”
I almost asked if she needed a moment to get herself together. Don’t get me wrong, the letter was sweet and kind. It sounded like my son. We raised him to think and read and lay off the red M-n-M’s. But here he was, barely into middle school, and already winning over Mom, just like his dad a few decades earlier.
I sure hope he makes it past college before getting someone pregnant.
After hanging up the phone, I immediately had second thoughts. Usually, Saturdays were date nights for me and my husband, not our kids. We’d get my drink on while the boys stayed with my parents; our only concern being which curse words my dad would use to describe Eagles fans and liberals.
“Does this mean I can date Annette*?” Oldest asked.
Annette has been Oldest’s “girlfriend” for the past year. This, too, is an innocent relationship. They don’t see each other outside school or have uncomfortable conversations about birth control. They barely hold hands.
“No,” I said. “Annette’s a nice Jewish girl and won’t go out with you until you get your first Mercedes. We’re safe for a while.”
“Emily is a nice girl, too,” Youngest said. “Even if she’s not Jewish.”
“I have nothing against shiksas,” I said. “I used to be one.”
On Saturday, we drove to the drop-off point. Emily looked like a young Tatum O’Neal from Paper Moon, without the saucy attitude or impending drug charges, and her family seemed perfectly sane. We all tried not to acknowledge how awkward we felt. Finally, after a few pleasantries, Emily’s mom whispered, “I’m so not ready for this.”
Youngest didn’t look uncomfortable and I smiled, knowing he’d be polite and respectful before returning to me in a few hours, if this family didn’t go crazy and sell him to Mexico.
I cried a little on the way home, passing venues where I’d taken my babies on outings and pushed them along in strollers — it didn’t seem so long ago. In the end, Oldest loved being alone with us for a few hours and Youngest came home safe and sound.
The next day, he rode his bike into the asphalt. The kid came home bravely with a bloody knee, walked in the house, and called, “Mom!”
I walked downstairs to find him crying. He needed some mommy love along with Neosporin and a few bandages. I wasn’t happy he cried, just that he still needed me.
For a little while longer. Seize the day, indeed.
Halloween with the Robinsons
My boys are regulars on their school’s morning program, where Youngest writes the copy and Oldest reads it. Topics are usually related to sports. Until this past Friday, when they were invited to perform and showcase other talents.
They’ve been raised on the Beastie Boys, so it shouldn’t come as any big surprise when they chose to rap “Pass the Mic.” I mean, it’s a whole lot better than “Hey, Fuck You” or “Professor Booty.”
At least until high school.
They put together a costume ensemble that’s more Run-DMC than B. Boys, but you get the drift. My favorite part? The end when Oldest whispers, “Peace in the Middle East. Free Tibet.”
Should make trick-or-treating in South Tampa a goddamn delight. Beginning to end, they come by it all honestly.
Disproportionately blessed...
Catherine Durkin Robinson
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