It waits. In January, my sixth-grader missed his first middle school dance. He had really wanted to attend this masquerade-themed party for three local parish schools. I confirmed with his friends' moms that they would be there. He designed a mask made to look like a monster character he has written about for a Young Authors book. I helped him bring it to life.  The plan (top) and the execution (bottom) He was all set to have a great time. And then: the flu. On the Wednesday before the Friday dance, he came home early from school feeling queasy. By dinner time he was dealing with nausea, a stuffy head, runny nose, a slight cough, and a 102-degree fever. He hardly moved off the couch for the next two days. When he asked through a fatigued haze if he could still go to the dance, I had to break the bad news that he could not. Tears dripped down his flushed cheeks. My heart ached for him, because I had wallowed through that kind of disappointment. But mine has an embarrassing story att...

Do you remember what I was like back then, a food stamps kid so out of place among the shiny glass towers and $150 designer jeans and yet you hired me despite the uncertainty in my eyes and my lack of marketing experience but I guess I write a good cover letter and I can still remember how expensive the stores smelled and the Alamo-shaped facade of the building where I cut my teeth and I wanted so much to be as cool as you, so devil-may-care with your tinted glasses lenses and longish hair and gravelly voice and not a one of my business classes ever mentioned how much swearing there'd be in a creative office but not me I never said the right thing, never fit in, never rocked to the easy rhythm of belonging even that summer when most of the building went to happy hour every Thursday and I learned how to drink with all the young up-and-comings in Midtown and Deep Ellum and Lower Greenville and you used to rib me joking asking if you could buy my first and last drink because I'd h...

When I walk downstairs, I touch the handrail on my right as I go. It's not a conscious thought, just a place to grab and steady myself as I take a first step. Neither my grip nor the weight of my hand is strong, and my palm is against the wood for only a second. But after six-and-a-half years, there's a faint yet noticeable spot of wear on the railing from my regular touches. A few inches of dark cherry stain is beginning to rub away, revealing the lighter oak underneath. It's indelible proof of a habit I didn't realize I had, because it had become so routine.  I am here. As a woman, as a mom, I often feel invisible. Clean laundry magically appears in the basket, sinks mysteriously become wiped spotless, permission slips miraculously show up signed and tucked into folders. Little thought is given, even by me, to the things I touch every day.  I recently noticed this mark on the railing and wondered where it had come from, then realized it's me - it's evidence of...

Good evening, DHS alumni, and happy 25th high school non-reunion. Tonight we are not standing under balloon arches, not reliving the "Around the World in One Night" senior prom, not ambling through the lower commons with wonder that we made it out of here alive.  Of course we're not discussing what didn't happen at the aborted 10-year reunion, when too few of us were interested in coming home - or too many of us never left. We're not discussing whether social media or this town, small and rural and cliquish even then, was the death of that get-together. Both can be black holes if you're not paying attention. I'm enjoying not lingering by the punch bowl and not talking about the eerie red eye of the purple and white bronco on the wall - the eye which, after a football win, glowed on the horse head that lacked any curves just like me. I'm not telling you these are real and they're fabulous. It's a pleasure not to walk down the 100 Hall, the 200 H...

L. O., 65, was declared dead February 24, 2016. He was found by police in his rusted10-foot travel trailer which stank of mildew and stale cigarette smoke and was piled with trash, old newspaper clippings, and indecipherable notes written on the backs of Wal-mart receipts. In the absence of knowing what he wished done with his remains, L.'s family opted for the easiest and least expensive route of cremation. Pace-Stancil Funeral Home is handling arrangements, because they happened to be the mortuary on call that morning. Born on March 11, 1950, in greater Cleveland, L. was a graduate of high school and college, though he made no discernible use of his education. He was a veteran of the U.S. Air Force for which he flew large, angry planes over Vietnam. Throughout his adult life his chronic unemployment was interrupted by an intermittent series of jobs, each apparently less skilled than the one before, which resulted in his living in several states including Arkansas, Missouri, C...

Three years ago today I found myself sitting in a darkened exam room, clutching an ultrasound image, crying. Crying so hard the ultrasound technician excused herself to "give me a moment." These weren't tears of happiness or relief, but of a disappointment I was unable to contain: I had just been told that I was having a boy. What kind of horrible mother are you?  you're probably thinking. I wondered that too. For three-and-a-half years I had struggled to have a child, and out of that struggle came a miracle. Yet here I was feeling like what I had graciously been given wasn't enough. I didn't just want a baby . I wished for a daughter . I had some reasons for feeling this way, flimsy though they seem now. First, I don't know (or care) much about things little boys are typically interested in -- dinosaurs and dump trucks and sports, bodily emissions and pratfalls and comic books. What would my son and I bond over? How would I ever connect with him? Se...

Recently, my husband made a confession so shocking that I'm still licking my wounds and figuring out how to handle this newfound bone of contention in our relationship. There we were, having an otherwise acceptable conversation, when he told me he would "be okay" with not getting any more dogs after our two go to that big farm in the sky. It's like I don't even know him anymore. I love dogs. Really, really love dogs. Back when we met, I had my first Boston terrier. He was willful and funny looking and I loved him more than a fat kid loves cake. I made it clear to anyone I dated that the dog and I were a package deal. This guy, however, had never owned a pup and fancied himself the alpha male in the house. When we moved in together, my husband-to-be expressed some concern about how much dog hair would be on the furniture, how much dog poop would be in the yard, and where the dog would sleep at night. I kindly informed him that my dog had been in my bed longer t...

The more I thought about it, the more I felt that this post needed a follow up. See, I had intended to finish it with some gloriously introspective bit about how forgiving yourself is so important, and how it all happens for a reason. Except I haven't forgiven myself, and I generally don't think everything happens for a reason. (And I didn't have any profound revelations during the kid's nap time while I wrote it.) Regarding the former, I took to google and was pleased and confused to find a Wikihow entry on how to forgive yourself . Whether you're trying to hang a picture or seeking self-help to soothe the soul, Wikihow is there for you! This one came with a particularly helpful clip-art drawing of a blissful woman hugging a heart-shaped pillow bearing the word "ME." If only I could get my resentful little hands on one of those pillows, I'd be THIS MUCH closer to figuring out how to let it go. About the latter, however, I have good news. In my ca...

We're going to Minneapolis in a few weeks for a work thing for the Hubs. This has got me thinking... How big is Minneapolis? Because I have an ex-boyfriend who lives there now, and I really don't want to have to slap anyone in front of my child. He's too young to understand, "He deserved it, sweetheart." In college I heard a comedian say, "before you meet The One, you will meet The One Who F's Up Everything." Minneapolis guy is T.O.W.F.U.E. Although I haven't seen him in almost eight years, just the idea of accidentally running into him gives me anxiety. My stomach starts to knot, I break out in a cold sweat, and my head gets a little swimmy. I get this fear frequently when I'm in airports, because you just never know who you might run into at an airport. One time a friend of ours was stared at malevolently by Michael Keaton at Pittsburgh International Airport. He was drinking whiskey by himself. Because 1989 Batman can do whatever the hell...

There will come a time when you walk in the bathroom to find your husband peeing and brushing his teeth at the same time. Here is how you proceed: 1) Freeze. 2) Back out slowly and silently. 3) Calmly and rationally discuss WTF he was doing at a later date. Whatever you do, do not yell, " What are you doing?!? " and meet his eyes in an uncomfortable deer-caught-urinating-in-the-headlights stare. This could severely impair his aim, and that's a mess you'll have to clean up later. This is among the things I have learned since getting married.