An e-zine about spaceships, aliens, science, memory, motherhood, magic, and cats.
The three-year-old who pronounces ‘Christmas’ like ‘breakfast’ is trying to carol: “Merry breakfast, merry breakfast wherever you are!”
We’re starting Christmas in my house early this year. We need it.
The tree is up. The kids are under it. Garlands EVERYWHERE.
My grandmother spent the last week of her life trapped in a nightmare. This morning I closed her eyes.
Bonding with my three-year-old over how Kermit is our favorite muppet.
‘Christmas’ sounds like ‘breakfast’ when my three-year-old says it. Thus: “We can have the breakfast tree and put breakfast lights on it!”
In car at hospital, trying to make myself go in to see my dying grandma. Feel like I’m ten again when my other grandma died of Alzheimer’s.
Printing out manuscripts to take to my writing group is way harder if I get distracted while they’re printing and don’t notice that the paper has stacked too high, causing the pages to start curling up and then flopping down in reverse order, until there’s too many to do that so they start flipping over the other side of the printer to the floor, and then they give up entirely and jam the thing up, leaving me with a jammed printer and a whole pile of out-of-order pages in varying degrees of crunch-ed-ness.
My three-year-old likes to bonk heads goodnight.
My old white dad just explained to me why he opposes Roe v. Wade because of Dred Scott while referring to the “War of Northern Aggression.”
He’s got his racism and sexism tied up in a complicated bow. Continue reading “And That’s a Wrap on Having a Father”
“You know, people my age, when we think of Christmas songs, we mainly think of Jingle Bells.” — my nine-year-old, apparently speaking for her generation
All the political parties should agree to only run women candidates for president next time around.
I feel like I’m trapped in the climactic scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark but also surrounded by Weeping Angels. Close your eyes. Don’t blink. Continue reading “Tidbits from a Time of Survival”
My betta fish is happy. It’s a warm day, so he’s jumping and darting about his tank. Full of energy; full of joy; swimming and being a fish.
This is what pets are for — to be small and cared for, concerned with controllable, fixable things — like whether the house is warm today.
It gives me someone in my life whose world I can make perfect and joyous, just by doing something simple like turning up the heat.