{by Varda of The Squashed Bologna}

Do you know why? Because I was tired, too.

So I didn’t make her make an effort, make her rise and dress, put in her teeth. I did hand her her hearing aid, however, to make conversation less about shouting and guessing.

And then I laid down beside her on the big, now half-empty bed and held her hand.

And we talked.

About the little things; about everything and nothing.

I told her how we had just this morning measured Ethan, to find he had grown a full half-inch in a month.

She patted her head and mine, proclaimed us both lucky in our luxuriant curly hair.

I talked to her about Jacob. “He’s still autistic, isn’t he?”

{by Sharone of zizzivivizz}

(photo credit)

The hum and whoosh of an industrial-strength air conditioner have accompanied every exam I can remember taking. They have laid their strains in an insistent ritornello with infinitely subtle variations, little waves and vagaries of sound that can only be detected in a room dedicated to silence, such as this one. Thirty-one heads bow over laminate desks that gleam dully under the unwavering fluorescence of the overhead lights. A deep breath and, with it, the eternal aroma of the classroom: the blue book, which smells, somehow, like other blue books and like nothing else, mingled with the dry, slightly acrid scent of a photocopied essay prompt.

I am sixteen, and the woman at the front of the room is from the University of California, administering a practice placement exam as part of the college preparatory program. At the back of the room sits Mrs. Juhasz, the steely, sharp-eyed Language Arts teacher known for demanding excellence. She is always willing to help me untangle the perplexities I find in the works of Dostoevsky, Dreiser, and the other companions of my extracurricular hours, and yet she has no doubt puzzled over the general indifference with which I greet her actual assignments. In spite of my stubborn determination to work through a daunting personal reading list, in class I am often undisciplined, uninterested, too self-assured and only occasionally earnest, usually preoccupied with boys and friends and the things I will do in two short hours when the final bell rings. But today the prospect of college, of the first plunge into the waiting world, glimmers before me. My stomach will not stop writhing. My fingers are cold, my ears hot. We are told to begin.

{By Jeanne Damoff at The View From Here}

The first time I saw him he was walking on a treadmill. A blond starlet dressed like an old-west prostitute posed seductively in a country music video on the television screen suspended in front of him. But he wasn’t watching the video. He was looking around at whomever or whatever, not furtively, but with blatant curiosity.

When our eyes met, I understood.

Some might call the expression vacant. As the mother of a brain-injured son, I saw it more as open. Unmasked. He had dark eyes, and black hair curled around his ears, and I guessed he was probably somewhere between eighteen and twenty. A slender, silver-haired woman walked beside him. His mother.

The world has labels for people like him. Damaged. Deficient. Broken. Unproductive. More than anything I was struck with the stark contrast between his unaffected expression and the video starlet’s heavily painted facade, and I wondered with more than a hint of irony how many people in that gym would laugh at the notion that his contribution to society might be more valuable than hers.

The encounter touched a deep, knowing place inside me, but it was a seeing and moving along. I soon forgot.

That was several months ago, and I hadn’t encountered the pair again until last Friday, when I spotted them in an area off to the side used for free weights and upper body machines. There were plenty of other things going on. In addition to the general hustle and bustle of the gym, heart-breaking scenes from Japan filled a television screen nearby, and another a few feet away aired clips of a defiant Gadhafi, and on yet another some poor guy rushed through his busy day carrying around a beaker full of green liquid that I’m pretty sure represented the acid in his stomach, but my attention kept returning to mother and son. I didn’t mean to stare, but the more I watched them, the more everything else faded into the background. World events, whirring machines, even my own physical exertion. Soon I was completely enthralled with the interaction of the two.

{By Jordana from Flour Child}

Last night, it rained.

It sounded like magic and love and dreaming and soup and kittens. I put on my fluffiest sweatshirt and cuddled up in bed and watched super classy shows like Jersey Shore and Teen Mom 2. Keepin’ things elegant, you know. I was joyous; absolutely blissful. Until, without any warning, some scary evil malicious malevolent forceful force came over me and I was craving chocolate frosting something fierce.

No amount of Gossip Girl was going to help me and I knew it, so I gave in. But chocolate frosting? Really? I couldn’t just eat chocolate frosting off of a spoon, that’s so unsophisticated. Thankfully, the Heavens have blessed us with chocolate mousse. Espresso chocolate mousse. It’s acceptable the eat that off of a spoon, let me tell you. Basically, when the Queen of England and every Manhattan socialite ever get together for dessert, they eat this. So classy I can’t even handle it!

{by Eddie Carroll from One Pixel at a Time}

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@MiddletonRare | Gnilleps on Flickr
shared via Posterous

{by Brenna at Suburban Snapshots}

10. There are half-full, brightly-colored plastic cups on the floor in every room. Three are in the bathtub.

9. There’s always that one girl, bawling her eyes out in a corner.

8. It’s best not to assume that the person closest to you has any control over their digestive function.

7. You sneak off to the bathroom knowing that as soon as you sit down, someone’s going to start banging on the door.

6. Probably 80% of the stains on the furniture contain DNA.

5. You’ve got someone in your face at 3 a.m. looking for a drink.

4. There’s definitely going to be a fight.

3. You’re not sure whether anything you’re doing is right, you just hope it won’t get you arrested.

2. There are crumpled-up underpants everywhere.

{by Iris Arenson-Fuller from Vision Powered Coaching Visitors Center}

source

Before I truly knew all living things were kin
or that there was a larger menu of sexual preferences
than was served up in my family’s small vinyl papered
kitchen with the orioles and jays staring at my soup

Before I heard the first ugly name on my father’s lips
after the neighbors scurried like tattling roaches

{by Sarah Bessy of Emerging Mummy}

I watched him park his Dad’s Impala, open the door and heave a big gulp of courage before running around the car to open the door for the girl inside. She stepped out, runners first, clad in shorts despite the cool night air and an oversized Hyacks sweatshirt. She was tiny compared to his lanky frame. They were awkward and expectant. Breathless and nervous. I saw them both sneak a glance around, making sure that no adults or witnesses were around. They seemed comfortable with me just sitting at the red light across the street. Because he shyly snaked his arms around her waist, she reached up to lock her hands behind his neck and pull his mouth down to hers. They kissed, sweetly, under the street lamps on 8th Ave for just a few seconds. The light turned green.

I drove the rest of the way home with the window down.
The night was dark and cool but perfumed with the scent of the cherry tree blossoms.

I drove unseeing. I was transported, watching and remembering, holding a memory like a jewel in my hand, turning it over and over. April nights in Tulsa more than ten years ago. Brian and I, slow dancing on the side of the road to an AM radio from his borrowed Chevy Blazer. Him wearing jeans and basketball shoes with a Nebraska Huskers t-shirt, me in my barely-dress-code skirt and flip flops, red hair to my waist and cherry lip gloss carefully applied. Surrounded by warm darkness with the stars like a cathedral above us, faint noises of cars driving past on a nearby road, our feet shuffling, our mouths tasting of coffee from Java Dave’s. Bodies pressed tightly together, wringing love from every minute before curfew.

And then the kisses.

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“YQ” by Aimee Giese from Greeblemonkey | @greeblemonkey | shared via Instagram

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{by Jennifer Doyle from Playgroups are No Place for Children}

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Visit Jennifer at her personal website, Playgroups are No Place for Children.
Check out more of her photography on Flickr.
She’s @playgroupie on Twitter.

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