May 2013
1
Rice.
Fried egg,
sunny, runny.
Sautéed peas keep their snap.
Crispy-gold garlic and ginger.
Splashes of sesame and soya. Feeds
one.
In which my solo time with the boys comes to an end, the family is reunited and I am grateful
Sam made more offers to help in the kitchen than there were days in this vacation. I accepted them all.
Ivan picked a tiny bouquet of flowers and left them on my bedside table where I discovered them hours later, wilted. I put them in a water anyway.
Max reached out to hold my hand as we returned from breakfast at a neighborhood restaurant. It was the first time in, maybe, six years that we’d walked hand-in-hand, and I expect another six or more will pass before he’ll hold it again.
Author’s note: It’s the school’s spring break, and I’m alone with my three boys. This is a diary of our adventures.
In which I weary of being a mother to only boys and decide to protest the home’s testosterone levels by painting my nails red and writing an awful limerick
Mothering boys requires stamina.
Days are all too crammina
with retelling episodes of Doctor Who,
and mapping Mindcraft strategies, too.
By nightfall, I’m completely slammina.
Author’s note: It’s the school’s spring break, and I’m alone with my three boys. This is a diary of our adventures.
