Week Ten

3/7: On the radio, a woman says whenever she takes a shower, she feels something like fingers pressing on her "tush" (her word). The problem? She and her dog are the only ones who live there. And she said this happens a lot. She doesn't know whether to be offended or terrified, and is maybe a little of both.
3/8: I have to explain to the babysitter: "I don't usually wear this much eye makeup."
3/9: We are sick and disgusting all day, camped out on the futon while it snows outside.
3/10: I consider how wonderful appetite is.
3/11: Our yard stays covered in snow longer than anyone else's. It's melted on both sides of us already, but G. can still sled in our front yard.
3/12: In the post office, there's this display behind the counter: three poinsettias, an American flag, and a stuffed Mickey Mouse. The man in line behind me smells like beer.
3/13: The crocuses opened. It must be spring.

Week Nine

2/28: We look awkward and silly in our street shoes on Mount Baker. None of us ski. Mom wants to know if there's a better gift shop, and no, the clerk says, there is not. We are nervous on our feet, Southerners who haven't lived north long enough to trust snow. It's still a hazard, not recreation. We arrive too late, stick out like foreigners. We copy what other people are doing for our photos. "You went skiing once, right?" Mom asks me. "Once," I say. We point out the snowboarders to G., and he laughs when he watches them, already someone else, this kid who is eating pizza on a mountain, who wakes each day among the cedars, who refuses to dress warmly enough for the weather. I was twenty-six the first time I saw the Pacific Ocean. He may never be as easy in the heat as his parents.
3/1: Sometime in the very early morning of this day, I wake up to G. puking. It is the first time, and this has been the joke about me -- will I be able to stand it enough to help him?
3/2: A thicket of trees that looks like smoke.
3/3: A boy at the bus stop sings pop songs in a falsetto. The guy riding a bike barefoot laughs.
3/4: A Pepperworth Plumbing truck passed me on the street. The driver was lighting a pipe with both hands.
3/5: Though I don't have a pass to park here, the security guy just smiles and keeps on walking when he sees what I'm pulling out of the back seat.
3/6: Half the kids at G's school are out sick, and I can feel the next illness coming, can almost see it, like a storm blowing across the water. Ugh.

Week Eight is Late

2/21: The coffee house is like a lodge. We eat muffins at a long table by the water.
2/22: When the babysitter fails to show, the night outside seems to get darker.
2/23: E. is back from Ethiopia, and when I ask how it was she just says, "Good."
2/24: We find the Toys R Us, but it's been boarded up for two years.
2/25: When we ask G. what will happen on Friday, he says, "Presents."
2/26: My mom feeds Girl Scout cookies to the deer.
2/27: Two years ago on this day, at 5am, I became a new mom. Today, I have a sick toddler, and I walked into my house to find my mom, fresh from Tampa, building the biggest sand box I've ever seen in my living room. And that's why this blog update will be late.