The tiniest pain
I watch you there, short luscious hamhock legs dangling from the doctor’s exam room bed, glow-in-the-dark tennis shoes kicking off the metal table, that sweet butt of yours crinkling the tissue like holy static. Holy, holy child. You are four, and you are divine. The doctor is trying to hide everything from you, the word “immunizations” buried like a land mine in the sands, as if to trick the clueless foreigner. But I am not the kind of mother that tricks her children, and so I immediately translate for you: “Emma, I’m sorry. It turns out you have to get some shots today. It will hurt but then, very quickly, it won’t anymore.” Doc tries hard not to lo

Help Anissa Mayhew
It’s July, almost 2am. These wretched chunky yellow heels have chewed my feet like jerky and so I’m sliding in striped socks through the lobby of the Chicago Sheraton. I’ve been here since 8am and I’m having the time of my life but I’m exhausted, not to mention slathered in glitter. Turns out I was the only one who took “80s party” details of the evite seriously. I’ve spent the last several hours looking like Madonna and Cyndi Lauper’s love child, an insult sharpened by the point that the other several hundred party attendees are in cocktail dresses. I had fun anyway, but all I want in this moment is my bed. I’m staying i

tickets to the gun show
I’ve always been attracted to the working man, squared shoulders and a set, hardened jaw, spinach-fueled forearms, and calloused hands. It’s not the fear of danger that I like, it’s not some misguided antiquated desire to be controlled or anything like that (very real, I know, hello Twilight fans, gulp)–no. There is absolutely nothing about being dominated, nothing about an angry man, that I find remotely palatable. Rather, it’s the work ethic, the utter capable-ness, and, maybe hottest of all, watching the softness sneak out. I love a good study in contrasts, the thrill of surp

tickets to the gun show
I’ve always been attracted to the working man, squared shoulders and a set, hardened jaw, spinach-fueled forearms, and calloused hands. It’s not the fear of danger that I like, it’s not some misguided antiquated desire to be controlled or anything like that (very real, I know, hello Twilight fans, gulp)–no. There is absolutely nothing about being dominated, nothing about an angry man, that I find remotely palatable. Rather, it’s the work ethic, the utter capable-ness, and, maybe hottest of all, watching the softness sneak out. I love a good study in contrasts, the thrill of surp

Your last post (A love letter, on your birthday)
I don’t know exactly when I stopped writing about you. It feels like it’s been a long time, though it’s not like I ever made it official… it was just an instinct I followed, a dog with my nose hovering a half inch above the ground. I could probably go back through these archives and pinpoint just when, but I never do that and I don’t feel like doing that today. I’d rather sit right here at the kitchen table, steeping in the sweet wake you left when you gushed out of here this morning, a blur of freckles and elbows and anticipation. On your tenth birthday. I know that I used to write about you without apology.  Little things you’d said, or funny things you’d done,