Category Archives: Under 750

Strange Geese, Space Force’s Lost and Found, and Good ol’ Whatshisname

Creative non-fiction, Humor, Month in Review, Parenting, Surviving Summer Funtimes, Under 750, Writing, , , ,

…Or I Could’ve Just Taken the Week Off

A few weeks ago, I picked up my daughter from sports practice at a neighboring town’s park, which is very much like our town’s park, except with different geese. This is a public park, which means the public is allowed in. That is the problem with public parks.

I had to intervene when a pack tween twerps cheered on as one kid had another kid in a headlock. The second boy’s face was red, his eyes were streaming, and he was silent, which, if you know children, is a sure sign that something isn’t fun. Oh, hello, Trouble. There you are.

It was an easy read.

My “Hey!” stopped almost all of them.

One prepubescent Cobra Kai decided to test his standing with the gods and said to me, “Bro, this is none of your business.”

“Bro” is apparently a word that activates me like some sort of verbose sleeper agent. You can imagine how things went for all of them after that.

It was over quickly, but the kid in the headlock had enough time to walk away, which was really the main thing here.

No tween twerps were harmed in this interaction.

Joke’s on me, though (when isn’t it?) because little did I know that August was warming up in the corner, waiting to see if it could take my household two falls out of three.

All of that was once a Facebook post I left up for an hour before deleting, presumably to protect national security or because I pressed the wrong button. I tried to find it later (deleted posts, archived posts, etc.) but couldn’t. Alas, it’s gone, filed somewhere in the Cloud, or the shelf in Space Force’s Lost and Found where they store embarrassing mom anecdotes. I recreated it here, with slightly more effort than the 0.2 seconds I give most Facebook posts.

I had planned a proper post this week as I’ve been trying to post weekly, but then everyone in the house got sick. Like really sick, where after a few days you think you’re okay-ish then you lie down and wake up 5 hours later feeling groggy and not much better, if not a little worse.

Then I got sick. Which was technically covered under “everyone,” but I tend to assume “everyone” means “everyone else.” I usually avoid household contagion, possibly because I move through life in the equivalent of John Travolta’s bubble in that film. Except my bubble is made of grumpiness.

Here’s how I’m doing: for 5 minutes just now, I was trying to remember that actor’s name. Couldn’t retrieve “John Travolta” but pulled up “Vinnie Babarino” like a coin from behind your ear. I had to Google “Who played Vinnie Barbarino?” to complete a joke that, in retrospect, did not warrant the effort.

Everything’s fine.

Now we’re digging out, staggering toward the end of summer with what feels like 100% potential energy, in the physics sense, like we’re all little balls in a slingshot (Google Search: “What is that v-shaped thing made with sticks you pull back and shoot a ball out of?”)

Big Moves are on my to-do list, meaning working on building community and also giving myself ample space and big chunks of time to work on my novel.

I am mildly loath to get back to it all — the hustle and/or the bustle — because “big chunks of time to work on my writing” is an idea the universe finds particularly hilarious.

Also, can one be mildly loath? MAYBE. You know who could probably pull off being “mildly loath?” John Travolta, but only in his role in Pulp Fiction (Google Search: “What was that movie where the dude who played Vinnie Barbarino played a gangster” — which, incidentally, first pulled up Gotti, and that dude was not mildly anything.)

*EXTREME CARRIE BRADSHAW VOICEOVER* And just like that, this August was much like that tween headlock situation: too hot, too loud, the geese are unfamiliar, somebody’s turning red, and the only thing you can do is yell ‘Hey!’ and hope everyone walks away in one piece with a modicum of dignity.

Bro.

Hopefully, a new piece next week.

Anyway, please accept this in lieu of structural integrity this week:

Twice Submerged

Creative non-fiction, Humor, Life and Other Existential Problems, Parenting, Under 750

The first time the basement flooded, the twins were babies and sleeping unpredictably. The second time the basement flooded, the twins were toddlers and doing everything unpredictably. The first flood felt like a natural disaster; the second, a betrayal.

Before the first flood, the basement was mine, a chamber crowded with paused ambitions and ghost versions of myself. Then came the water, the local infrastructure unable to keep its promise. The base transformed into a mausoleum of academic endeavors, professional files, suspended projects, mementos of a me I barely remembered — proof of a time before my job title was “Mama.”

Movers sent by the utility company kept a reverential silence as they engaged in a liturgical removal of my ruined things, including a waterlogged notebook filled with the minutiae of early parenting — eating, diapers, naps — entered and never referenced again. They lowered their eyes as I peeled the boys’ first ultrasound image from the ruins of a sodden cardboard box.

There was shame in the mess and the loss, in the casual way I’d let things slip. I’d intended to archive everything, a task perpetually deferred. Sleep-deprived months had messed with my memory, threatening to make me my own unreliable narrator. I needed to cache my life. But I was tired, and the basement’s separation from the daily hubbub allowed me to postpone the task.

The first flood washed away the luxury of later.

New carpet, new drywall, a serious dehumidifier, and the basement soon once again all my somedays and speculations. Scribbles, fleeting notes, seedlings of ideas jotted down and shelved for when the twin-induced chaos settled.

Then a frozen pipe burst, unleashing a second deluge vindictive in timing and intensity. Water pooled in the ceiling and came out through the light fixtures onto my notebooks and shelves.

This time, there was no help. I faced the wreckage alone, sorting and tossing debris. With every wet, heavy shift of weight, the floor let out a slow, desperate squelch, causing the boys to giggle uncontrollably.

The twins, now toddlers and agents of chaos in their own right, tried to help. I’m sure I made a “two-by-two” joke to my husband as we lugged things and monitored the boys. They swept through the first floor in their own tide of arms and legs and wild purpose.

We relocated my work-and-dream space to something far from the basement, smack-dab in the middle of the rough-and-tumble of daily life. I have since been constantly accessible, perpetually distracted, and witness to all goings-on.

But at least it’s a dry chaos.

Twice Submerged

Creative non-fiction, Humor, Life and Other Existential Problems, Parenting, Under 750, Writing

The first time the basement flooded, the twins were babies and sleeping unpredictably. The second time the basement flooded, the twins were toddlers and doing everything unpredictably. The first flood felt like a natural disaster; the second, a betrayal.

Before the first flood, the basement was mine, a chamber crowded with paused ambitions and ghost versions of myself. Then came the water, the local infrastructure unable to keep its promise. The basement transformed into a mausoleum of academic endeavors, professional files, suspended projects, mementos of a me I barely remembered — proof of a time before my job title was “Mama.”

Movers sent by the utility company kept a reverential silence as they engaged in a liturgical removal of my ruined things, including a waterlogged notebook filled with the minutiae of early parenting — eating, diapers, naps — entered and never referenced again. They lowered their eyes as I peeled the boys’ first ultrasound image from the ruins of a sodden cardboard box.

There was shame in the mess and the loss, in the casual way I’d let things slip. I’d intended to archive everything, a task perpetually deferred. Sleep-deprived months had messed with my memory, threatening to make me my own unreliable narrator. I needed to cache my life. But I was tired, and the basement’s separation from the daily hubbub allowed me to postpone the task.

The first flood washed away the luxury of later.

New carpet, new drywall, a serious dehumidifier, and the basement soon once again housed all my somedays and speculations. Scribbles, fleeting notes, seedlings of ideas jotted down and shelved for when the twin-induced chaos settled.

Then a frozen pipe burst, unleashing a second deluge vindictive in timing and intensity. Water pooled in the ceiling and came out through the light fixtures onto my notebooks and shelves.

This time, there was no help. I faced the wreckage alone, sorting and tossing debris. With every wet, heavy shift of weight, the floor let out a slow, desperate squelch, causing the boys to giggle uncontrollably.

The twins, now toddlers and agents of chaos in their own right, tried to help. I’m sure I made a “two-by-two” joke to my husband as we lugged things and monitored the boys. They swept through the first floor in their own tide of arms and legs and wild purpose.

We relocated my work-and-dream space to something far from the basement, smack-dab in the middle of the rough-and-tumble of daily life. I have since been constantly accessible, perpetually distracted, and witness to all goings-on.

But at least it’s a dry chaos.