are you there, dog? It's me, kerensa

I am packing up their things, preparing for remodeling and switching of rooms. Some things are easily thrown in a bag for donation, garbage... the random McDonalds' toys, plastic and tacky and resplendent in their blatant gare, Walmart brand button ups, in 1997's plaid, the errant pieces to a puzzle long since solved and tossed. But then I come upon the treasures, the pieces I never even began to fantasize about in 3rd grade, when the dreams of babies began to creep into my mind. The American girl Bitty Baby, rife with accessories, and outfits, lace and pastels. The Eric Carle slippers, shaped like one Hungry Caterpillar, the tiny porcelain teat set, meant for a budding princess, but wasted on a wild three year old boy with sticky, lustful fingers. I touch each of these things, remembering birthdays and Christmases past, when paper was frantically torn, and voices enthusiastically embraced each piece. I think of pigtails and Thomas the Train pjs, and bold lights on a tree cling

It is dusk, and a faint sliver moon is awakening in a clear sky. In the distance, children are hunting fireflies, and embarking on the start of summer vacation as only children can do. Sounds of balls hurtling through air that is sparked with possibility, echo across the ball field. I am on the precipice of 16, the future not yet etched into my skin, invincibility in my every breath.When he stands up to bat, tiny hairs on my arms stand up, and a sport that was once not even a thought in my mind, is suddenly all that exists in the moment. He has baseball arms, and baseball arms seem like home. He looks up in the stands, and his mother waves, thinking he is looking at her, but I know that it is I he seeks. When the ball connects with the bat, the sound fills the space of the world. Nearly two decades later, the smell of the cut grass at the field is enough to erase the minivan, the extra pounds from numerous pregnancies, the laugh lines, the mortgage and the knot of stress that rests i

Those of us who have a loved one who suffers from depression, we know the color gray. We know how easily a day can go from technicolor to gray in a single phone call, a downcast look, a sigh. We know that the only other helplessness that is even slightly akin to this, is that which we feel when our children are sick. We think that if we could only make the right meal, say the right thing, plan the right event. We think if we could only smile that much wider, it would become infectious, and all would be all right. We tell ourselves that this too shall pass, but it passes like molasses, and we wait. Brave faces galore in public, nothing can be as it seems. How is your sister, your husband, your uncle, your friend they ask innocently. And you feel your face crack into a thousand pieces as you smile brightly and declare them to be fine. You hear the click of the wheels on the grocery cart as you walk away, and the only way you know how to keep walking without falling, is to align your step

We take it for granted. At some point, between the ages of 10 and 15, we get our first periods, and for those of who avidly read Judy Blume, we begin counting down to that day from an early age. When it arrives, we quickly come to the conclusion that the nickname "the curse" was aptly given, and begin to wonder disdainfully if Margaret (of the Are You There God fame) was a little out of her mind for her eager anticipation. Our mothers either alert the media with fanfare about their babies becoming women, or they are like my mother, who simply said "there's some stuff in the cabinet." I prefer Claire Huxtable's approach, taking Rudy for a carriage ride in the city, allowing her to play hooky, and if I were only a little more liberal, would appreciate the symbolism of the sip of red wine discussed in How to Make an American Quilt. As we get older, we learn to swim while we have it, how to dodge messy situations, and how to buy tampons without furiously blushin