The universe seems to always know when you need a punch in the gut to let you know that you’re being an asshole. Not six hours after I pour my heart out about how frustrating my two perfectly normal children have been making me, what with all their behaving like kids and being both seen AND heard, as if that’s such a terrible thing, the universe furrowed her brows, put her hands on her hips, and said ‘oh, no you di’int.’ And then Eirinn projectile vomited the entire contents of her stomach all over the carpet. Then later into a bucket. And some more into the toilet.
It’s not that I try to screw up. Who tries to be so glaringly imperfect? It takes little effort to make such frequent mistakes. It simply comes naturally. I don’t wake up and think “what can I ruin today?” It just…happens.
It’s not often the big things that I get wrong. I’m trying my best with my kids, so I don’t think I’ve wrecked them, yet. I’ve never been the driver in a car accident; I’ve never even gotten a ticket, speeding, parking, or otherwise. I’ve never poisoned anyone or (knock on wood) gotten fired from a job. It’s not the big things I ruin, it’s just everything else.
On my lunch hour, one precious hour of freedom from my office chair, unchained from this keyboard, detatched from the phone, the one hour a day I breathe fresh air and eat real food, on this hour of lunching, I leave work and rejoin civilized society.
And by “rejoin civilized society”, I generally mean race home, scarf a sandwich, race to my mom’s to visit with Avery for a few minutes before racing back to work. But once in a while, maybe one day in a span of two weeks, I’ll give up that down time to run some errands. Life with kids is hectic, even without appointments and sports, just life with them, and finding time to squeeze in errands is difficult, if not impossible. So sometimes I do a bit of erranding during my lunch hour.
In general, ai nevoie de ingrasamant pentru aproape toate plantele. Exista ingrasamint plante, chimice, organice si minerale. Dar cum difera intre ele? Este important sa respecti doza si sa aplici ingrasamantul cu atentie. Ingrasamintele cu fosfor si potasiu sunt introduse o data pe an. Azotul este puternic eluat. Ingrasamintele minerale ajuta la hranirea plantelor, iar recolta va fi prolifica. De asemenea, ingrasamintele pentru plante, sunt impartite in sintetice si naturale. Printre ele gasim azotatul natural, chilian, cenusa, fosforita. Ingrasamintele sunt pur si simplu necesare plantelor.
My birthday hasn’t been a big deal to me since about 7th grade. Or, as we say in Canada, grade 7. I haven’t had a birthday party since then, other than dinner with my family, because that’s the way I like it. I don’t want a party, I don’t want people coming up to me wishing me a happy birthday, I don’t want a big deal to be made at all. Just leave the presents on the porch.
I don’t like opening them in front of people because I can never get the right “surprised face”. I always look like I just opened a box full of dead flies but I’m trying to be nice about it because these flies were hand-picked especially for me and are VERY SPECIAL and also cost a lot of money, so I should be appreciative of the effort and thought. But it’s a box of dead flies, so that face is hard to camouflage. But it’s never an ACTUAL box of dead flies; all my gifts are wonderful and I love them and they’re exactly perfect. That’s just how my face looks. Like I’m looking into a box of special dead present flies.
He slid down and sat on the floor, pressing his ear to the wall. Defeated, discouraged, and diminished, he could feel his chest tighten and his stomach rise to his throat as he listened without making a sound. He closed his eyes and held his mouth shut with his fingers.
“…I can’t do this anymore…”
They yelled like this almost every night and, like every night, they locked themselves in their bedroom. They thought he couldn’t hear their voices if they were behind a closed door, but he heard. He heard every word spoken, every finger pointed, every tear shed. That which made no sound felt heavy in the air that seeped through the cracks. The door couldn’t shield him from the pain churning within. These walls couldn’t protect him from the anger.
It guts me sometimes how perfectly innocent children are, especially my own. Not that they’re more innocent than other children, I just spend far less time contemplating the emotional and intellectual maturity of other people’s kids. Mine have so much to learn, despite being two of the smartest children their age I’ve ever met (not that I hold any bias). They’re wide-eyed, open-minded and overwhelmingly receptive to absorbing any particle of new information that floats their way. But they are still so new.
He took her hand in his as she stepped into the street. It was warm, hot almost, and softer than she’d imagined. It distracted her for a moment and she stopped walking as she felt his palm with her thumb. He stared at her stoically as she looked down to see if it was real. She didn’t try to run, she didn’t yell for help, she didn’t fight. That’s the thing with this job – they never do.
“Is there anything…,” she cleared her throat and licked her lips. “Is there anything I can do?”
I’m so weak now. It surprised me every time I try to raise a glass or sit up in bed that I don’t have the luxury of independent movement anymore. That I need help doing the most simple tasks like holding a magazine and turning it’s pages. It’s these nurses jobs to help with me with things, but asking for the help never gets any less embarrassing. I’m a grown woman; I shouldn’t need someone to hold a sippy cup for me.
He brings the kids around to visit on Sunday afternoons. I told him long ago to stop, that I don’t want them remembering me like this, but he keeps bringing them. They’re old enough to know she’s sick, even that she is dying, but they don’t need to see what she’s become. A shadow of her old, boisterous self, skeletal and helpless. They should remember her full of life and vigor and joy, not like this. The man never did know how to take direction.
She lies on the cold concrete floor, damp from urine and sweat, slick with mildew. There is no light but a thin ray which has escaped from a crack in the plywood covering the window ten, fifteen feet above her crumpled, near-lifeless body. She breathes, but with great effort, slow, shallow, laboured. At last count, she’s been here for twenty-four days, give or take a day or two spent unconscious. Twenty-four days in the dark. Twenty-four days standing, then sitting, then laying on this cold concrete floor.
The dress she wore on the night she was taken, once perfectly pressed delicate chiffon, was now ripped and stained. Blood from her tortured, weathered body, ravaged and pillaged by her captors, torn and battled, worn and tested. They left her clothed, but her heels were taken, leaving her feet bare and vulnerable.