It’s that magical time of year again. A gaggle of figurines stand around, waiting. The manger’s cradle lies empty. A tiny wooden baby is not yet born, yet still exists out there. Somewhere. Perhaps rattling around in a dusty old drawer, waiting for Christmas Eve. Or perhaps not. (Originally published
— pussy grabbing trigger warning — OK, let me set the scene for this story: Late 1980s. I was 13, maybe 14, and my family had recently moved to South Dakota, so I was actively trying to make friends. A fair amount of B-rate hair bands blew through the local
Freaky thing my mom mentioned last time I talked to her, which was before Halloween: “The big thing now,” she says to me, “is I have to remember to stay neutral toward your dad.” The ways in which my dad’s care is increasingly like a horror/circus side show , with
— Trrrrrrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiigggggggggggggggggggger warning — — Long ass post alert– In the spirit of getting back to my roots and telling you stuff I’m embarrassed to say in real life (I guess this is like the Halloween edition): I’m starting to believe the emotional fall-out from the fight with my mom
My mom hired caretakers for my dad. Thus far, it has been for one event – meeting me an hour away to watch a child’s athletic competition – but in theory also a dry run for when Little gives birth and my mom theoretically leaves Dad with said caretakers for