You wore your brother’s underwear all summer. Kindergarten starts tomorrow and suddenly you insist on wearing those pink panties in the back of your drawer, the ones with the Hello Kitties stamped on the ass.
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A month ago I posted about finding a diary from when I was 12 years old and I subjected myself to reading endless entries about my love for my boyfriend at the time, Kirk McManus.
I Googled him to see what he was up to. (Dr. Kirk McManus does cancer research at an Institute for Cell Biology.) He was probably a keeper.
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For a while now I’ve felt itchy and tethered. As Steve Jobs would say, I need to change something.
So, the vagabond and adventurer that’s been trapped inside of me is being released!
We’re pulling the kids out of school and we’re going to wandering around the world for a year.
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I signed my son up for swimming lessons so that he could start earning those leveled badges that say you can swim (even though, like most kids, Oskar can already hold his own in the deep end of a pool).
As all the other kids were off showing the instructor that they could swim 10 meters in a straight line, Oskar’s eyes were closed, his head bobbed up and down and he performed a 2-minute long drum solo on his flutter board. This, unfortunately, was not one of the skills the Level 2 instructor was testing.
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I have a four-year-old girl who is Frozen and Elsa-crazy. I’ve seen this movie reenacted so many times that we break out into song and dance in the produce section at the grocery story. Let it go, let it go! Can’t hold it back anymore.
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This is a story about Easter. This is a story about making pysanka with my Baba. It was also one of my first published essays as a writer. (Notice the distinct lack of colourful language and f-bombs.)
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I was rummaging around in my old bedroom at my parents’ house when I stumbled across the very first diary I kept when I was 12 year old.
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If you had the chance to talk to yourself when you were 17, what would you say?
I had an opportunity that was as close to that as I might ever get.
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I was sitting in a long, boring, bank meeting today that didn’t require much input on my part, so I thought this would be a good opportunity to go through my purse and clean it out, maybe get to the bottom of the strange odour.
I was so bored, in fact, that I decided to photo-document some of the things that I found – much to the horror of Sherry, the banker running the meeting.
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Rocky was an asshole. He terrorized me for an entire summer. All ten pounds and one foot of him.
My kids and I were talking about how you’re supposed to stand up to bullies. And my seven year old son asked me if I’d ever been bullied. Well, no, not exactly. Not by another kid. But there was this one summer when my life was made a living hell by Rocky the Rooster.
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