Ginger Snapped

Each morning, you stand by the window watching your boys until they're on the bus or picked up. You watch them leave your circle of safety and hope for the best. You can't know what that day will bring. Nothing, maybe. Or maybe a bomb threat. Maybe a math test. Maybe a lockdown drill. Or maybe a real lockdown. But on this day, there is something different. A rally. A walk-out. A demonstration. Your oldest son asked if you'd call to have him dismissed and bring him downtown to attend the demonstration. You want your voice to be heard, and even more, you want your son's voice to be heard, so you call the school, you pick him up, you drive downtown. You don't know what to expect, but the reality makes you weepy. A crowd of teenagers, many carrying hand-drawn signs stand gathered in front of the church, chanting. Adults congregate around the edges. A band plays, keeping time for the chants. Horns honk as their drivers show support. One man in a truck wags his fi...

On your bedside table sits a photo of two little boys: a blue-eyed dark-haired boy wearing overalls and a brown-eyed blondie wearing stripes. They stand on a screened-in porch that looks dark as night because of the trees surrounding it. Their eyes are bright and their cheeks are full. They are adorable. They are darling. They are delightful. They are childhood, joy, confidence, and light all rolled up into small bodies. They are the face of little things, the agglomeration of drips and drops of little efforts poured into a seemingly bottomless vessel. But it's the little things that count. It's the little things that nearly pull a mother down into the abyss. The endless brushing of little teeth, of washing little hands. The recurrent tying of little laces and buckling of little overalls. The ceaseless cutting of chicken or buttering of toast or peeling of carrots. The relentless singing of songs and reading of books when a mama is so tired that the words don't seem to ...

Words, words, words. Normally you would post a photo today. A photo of some place you'd been, some place you'd lived, some place you found beauty or pattern or shape or color. But today is a day for words. Today you will finish a draft of a third novel. It's a good novel, a funny novel. It is not finished yet, but it's getting there. And you want to finish it, so today is a day for words. You will sit at your desk, working in twenty-minute spurts until the bus comes delivering the gingerbread boys, and you must stop. You will sit, rewriting the ending, deleting and adding and tweaking as the snow comes down outside, swirling through the treetops, landing on pillows of snow. And all will be well, for the end is near.

From the earliest days of married life, you watched from the window as the Gingerbread Man left. You watched him as he left to walk to class. You watched him as he got in the car to drive to work -- the Honda, then the Subaru, then the Saturn, then the Ford. After the Ford became scrap metal, he biked to school. Four years of biking year-round in Michigan -- it's no wonder you watched him back then; he might have returned to you as an icicle. When degrees were granted and school was finished, you watched him drive away in the Toyota as he went to claim the other side of the desk at the university. Sometimes, you watched him commute again by bike, though not in winter. You've watched all these years, catching a last glimpse as your love went away for the day. Coat on, a skip in his step, car door slammed or a bike helmet clipped on. Sometimes he sees you and smiles and waves. Often he doesn't, and you watch unobserved from the window. When you've watched until th...

When the hiccups strike, there is one tried and true remedy that you use: your husband. You go to him and he wraps his arms around you and you feel calmness washing over you. Your blood pressure drops. Your breathing deepens. You relax, and the hiccups go away. Tonight the youngest gingerbread boy sat by your side as you read to him. He hiccuped. You suggested he get some water. "But I can't reach the glasses. Can you do that thing? That hug thing?" So you open your arms and he settles in, chest to chest. You can feel him relaxing as you hold him. The hiccups disappear. But you stay that way, enjoying the feel of his bean-pole body against you for a short time. Love is the best defense against hiccups.

In a rare departure from insomnia, you slept last night, and you dreamt that you woke up. It was later than you would have liked. You went to a grassy hillside to wash your hair, shampoo and conditioner at the ready. You kneeled down, flipped your hair over your head, then carefully poured a pitcher of water over it. When it was all wet, you reached for the shampoo, but it was gone. Water dripping into your eyes, you peeked under your curtain of hair to look again, but there was no shampoo, and there was no conditioner. You called your sister's name, shouting it with irritation. "What did you do with my shampoo?" She clicked her tongue. "Nothing!" Then she flounced away to finish getting ready for school. In the meantime, water was dripping down your back, and it was 8:15 now. You didn't have time to wash your hair anymore, but what could you do? Your hair was all wet. "Mom!!! Where's my shampoo?" Your mom came, and with rightful indign...

Yesterday, you and the Gingerbreads hopped in the car and drove south. You had plans of traipsing through a museum and introducing the gingerbread boys to the famous Russian Faberge eggs. Which you did. It was lovely, and the eggs were magical. And then it was time to leave, which is when the fun began. Rain, rain, and more rain. Heavy rain. There was a strange sound coming from the rear passenger tire, like something was caught in the treads. The Gingerbread Man checked it, but saw nothing. Ten minutes later, you'd got yourself a certified flat tire. The Gingerbread Man pulled off the highway, and as every good father should, made the gingerbread boys participate in the act of changing the tire. Except the tire won't be changed. Car jacked up, lug nuts off, donut at the ready...but the tire won't budge. The Gingerbread Man hammered at it with the wrench. He tugged. He lowered the jack. He hand-tightened the lug nuts and drove on the flat, hoping the weight of the...