yes, Virginia
darkness in late November comes at 5 o’clock. we four emerge into the damp gloom, make our way to the end of the block where the street is cordoned off. we are bundled within an inch of our lives, ridiculously so given the unseasonal warmth, the threatening rain. little family throngs are gathered already, waiting, clustered on lawnchairs and under blankets. the annual town Santa Claus parade. Oscar has a blinking red nose, a party favour sent long ago by WhyMommy. it is his prized possession: during the long wait, all ants in his pants, he runs up to neighbouring children and adults with upturne

excuses
it is nearly the end of term. the skies grow gray, the days grow short. the exam looms. and for students – hell, for me – dragging one’s carcass  out of bed to come to class gets harder and harder. teachers are a vast repository of entertaining if specious excuses for missed classes. we hear it all: the grandmothers who die three times a term, the mysterious “appointments” that seem to occur at the same time every second week, the belly aches that magically disappear just in time for the afflicted learner to be located lounging in a coffee shop. i’m a bit of a hard-nose about attendance. i expect an email and a de

the fire escape
they were shorter than i remembered. coming home to a three-year-old and a one-year-old is a like entering a fun-house mirror. in your mind, these tiny creatures who whip your sorry ass out of bed at ungodly hours and spend half their waking moments trying to boss you into oblivion just seem…taller, somehow. they are large in spirit. until you burst through the gate at the airport and the impossibly tiny boy who is your big kid hurtles in your arms laughing and you realize his little body is barely heavier than a suitcase. and then, home finally, you come through the door and tiny legs run thump thump thump to meet you and your body s

here it comes again
i lean against a toyshelf that was once a changing table in a playroom that still contains within it an office. a child clambers over me and a sippy cup drips rice milk into the suit i never bothered to change after work, while the other child beats my head cheerfully with a hairbrush. brush mommy’s hair gently, i chirp. she pauses, cocks her head to peer at me, then swats. jenNEE? she inquires solicitously. i beam. gently, i say. we talk, now, she & i. we talk. my brain flits for a moment on a memory of eighth-grade science class and a mustachioed teacher labouring over arcane powders and the mystery of States of Chang

sleight of hand
Wednesday. i am on my knees under the high chair wiping up sludge that was once food for what feels like the twelfth time today even though i’ve only been IN my home awake for perhaps three hours of an already long day. it feels like a yoke, this constant cycle of menial drudge stuff.  it is the thing that weighs me down, frustrates me, leaves me sharp and shrill and dreading the transition from work to home everyday.  in through the door we hustle, dragging shouting children and bags and dirty diapers, to be greeted not with sanctuary but the breakfast dishes. garbage and compost and cat litter to be emptied. laundry to be folded or put away or retrieved from behin