The Waitress

            Karen spent hours getting ready for tonight. She washed her hair twice to make sure the smell of French fries was gone. The dress she had worn to her cousin’s wedding last year wasn’t the height of style, but it flattered her figure. Henry said the color made her eyes look like sapphires. She was happy to be on Henry’s arm, but wished they were somewhere else.

            “Excuse me Henry, where is the rest room?” she asked, interrupting a conversation he was having with one of his fraternity brothers. They were talking about someplace called Vietnam. They might have been speaking Latin and she wouldn’t have understood them any better.

            “Do you see that doorway across the room? Go down that hallway and it will be on the left. I can show you if you want.”

            “I’m sure I can find it. I’ll be right back.”

            She weaved her way through the roomful of students toward the doorway Henry had mentioned. A blond girl stopped her.

            “Are you Henry’s girlfriend?” she asked, pronouncing the word girlfriend like it was something unpleasant she had stepped in.

            “I’m his date,” Karen said. “And you would be?”

            “Just another one of his conquests I guess,” she said as her eyes filled with tears. “Maybe you’ll have better luck with him than I did.”

            “What’s going on dollface?” a large guy said. “You look upset.”

            “No. I was just introducing myself to Henry’s date Karen.”

            “I know you. You’re that waitress that Henry was stuck on.”

            “A waitress? Henry dumped me for a waitress?”  Her expression intensified. Whatever was stuck to the bottom of her shoe was even fouler than she realized.

            “Settle down Joni. Waitresses are vital members of society, right Karen? For instance, you could run along and fetch me a beer.”

            From across the room, Henry spotted Karen talking to a girl he had spent a hot and heavy evening with a few months back. Karen’s face was vivid red and her lips were clamped shut as if she were trying not to say what was on her mind. Henry abruptly ended the conversation he was having and headed her way.

            “Everything okay Karen?”

            “I was just asking Karen to get me a beer, since she’s a professional,” Mickey said.

            Henry pulled his arm back to punch Mickey and Karen stepped between them.

            “Whatever you’re going to do, you’ll do it without me. I’m going home,” she said. She turned and walked away leaving Henry with his conquest, his Neanderthal friend, and their opinions.

            I’m linking up with Write On Edge this week with another scene from Karen’s life. This week’s topic is to write about a moment when someone crosses a line legally or ethically. Click here if you want to read more about Karen.

Adam's Ad

This week's Write on Edge prompt was to write a personal ad for one of our characters. I loved doing this prompt. It was a great way to explore my character. I had to think about who he is and what he wants. I may do an ad for Michaela as well. 

Adam's Personal Ad

SWM mid-30’s seeks SF mid-30’s

Who am I? A small business owner who left the corporate world to work for myself doing something I love. I make a good living and I can lift heavy things and fix almost anything that breaks. I don’t believe in Valentine’s Day. If I care about you, you’ll know it every day, not just on February 14^th. I tell the truth and I don’t play games. I watch the Patriots, the Bruins and the Celtics, but I don’t mind missing a game occasionally if there is something else to do. I support the Red Sox because I believe in rooting for the home team, but baseball bores me to death. Yes, I’ve been hurt before. I figure if you make it past 30 without picking up a little baggage, you’ve been living under a rock.

Who are you? Blond, brunette, or red head it doesn’t really matter. I look at the way a woman carries herself. There is nothing sexier than a woman who looks like she doesn’t care if anyone is looking at her. If you spent a couple of hours getting ready for our first date, you’ve wasted your time. I bet you were prettier before you blew the curls out of your hair and put that stuff on your face. If you’re tired of guys who check their Blackberries during dinner, don’t give up their seats for pregnant ladies on the train, cancel dates at the last minute, or are afraid to get their hands dirty give me a call.


You can read more of Adam's story here: http://39forthefirsttime.blogspot.com/p/story-of-michaela.html

Red Dress Club: Tonight?

Today I’m linking up with the Red Dress Club’s Red Writing Hood Prompt. Which was a bit of a challenge for this nice Catholic girl turned soccer mom: “Let's get all steamy up in here and write about sex. But you know us. There's a twist. You can't write about the act. I don't want to read about any heaving bosoms or girded manhood (please tell me someone else giggled besides me). There are so many other possibilities. And I hope you have fun finding them.” I’ve been using these prompts to create a back-story for my character Michaela. You can read previous stories by clicking the tab above marked The Story of Michaela. Concrit is always welcome!

Tonight?

            “Would you like to come in for coffee?” I asked him. The question sounded artificial. This was a new ritual for me. I hadn’t been on a date in a dozen years or so. “Or a drink?” I added as I fumbled with my key.

            “I’d love to come in,” he said. A slow smile spread over his face. This was the first time Adam and I had spent alone. Our first few dates included my kids. Tonight my friend Laverne had offered to have a slumber party for the kids at her place.

            The wine at dinner had taken the edge off my nerves. But it was also making me a little clumsy with the lock on the door.

            “Would you like a hand with that?” he asked.

            I shook off my embarrassment long enough to hand him the key. I’d rather not be standing on the doorstep all night. He opened the door and motioned for me to go ahead of him. I slipped off my high-heeled sandals and walked into the kitchen.

            “Wine or coffee?” I asked.

            “Michaela?”

            “Yes?”

            He pulled me to him gently and held my face in his hands for a moment. “You are so beautiful,” he said as he leaned in to kiss me. We had kissed before, but not like this. This was a kiss meant to lead somewhere—somewhere I really wanted to go. His hands moved down to caress my back. Memories of Peter whirled unexpectedly in my mind. I felt a tear stream down my face ruining the moment. I pulled away.

            “I’m sorry,” he said. “Was I reading the signals wrong?”

            “No. No, you were reading them just right. Adam I’m so sorry. I wanted tonight to be special. When Laverne offered to take the kids I was so excited to be able to be alone with you. But when we kissed…”

“How long has it been?” He asked.

“Peter died almost two years ago.”

“Two years. And you haven’t…”

“There hasn’t been anyone else. It’s entirely possible I’ve turned back into virgin.”

He started to laugh and the tension eased up a little. “It doesn’t have to be tonight. We can still enjoy being alone without me tearing your clothes off.”

“So, you do want to tear my clothes off?”

He looked me straight in the eye, put his hands on my waist and said, “I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through. I’ve never lost someone like you have. You set the pace and I’ll stick with it. I’ve wanted to tear your clothes off since the first time I saw you out running in those little blue shorts of yours. But if you want to wait, I can wait.”

I reached up and kissed him, this time longer and slower. This time I didn’t remember Peter. This time I just thought about Adam—his hands on my body, his lips on mine. He said it didn’t have to be tonight, but as we kissed, I knew it would be.

RemembeRED: Our Morning Goodbye

           This week's RemembeRED prompt from The Red Dress Club was to write about affection. 

Our Morning Goodbye

            It’s a hot September morning. The boys grumble because I’ve forced them to wear “church clothes” to school. They’d much rather be in tee shirts emblazoned with Sponge Bob or Star Wars characters and athletic shorts. It’s the first day of school—only one of two days that I insist the boys wear a shirt with a collar and khaki shorts or pants. The other day is school picture day. I’m sure they’ll grumble when that day comes too.

            I take a snap shot before the boys leave for school and we head up the hill to the bus stop. They race ahead of me, their green and blue L.L. Bean backpacks bouncing along. We arrive with a few other neighborhood families. The moms ask each other about their summers and try to keep the kids from getting grass stains on their new clothes. The kids play and compare their new sneakers.

            The yellow bus comes around the corner. “Here comes the bus,” I call to my boys who have wondered off to investigate the ants on the sidewalk. James jumps up, runs and plants a kiss on my cheek so quickly I can barely feel it and races to the front of the line to board the bus. Owen goes more slowly. He gives me a hug, we kiss each other’s cheeks and he climbs the steps of the bus. He turns towards me and waves. I blow him a kiss. He catches it and puts his hand over his heart then blows one to me. I catch the kiss and place it on my heart.

            We perform this goodbye ritual every day at the bus stop (and again at bedtime). The bus can’t leave until it’s complete. There are days when I am in a hurry or feeling stressed and I can’t help but feel impatient for him to just give me a peck on the cheek and hurry on his way. But I know these days are numbered. Plenty of kids younger than him walk away from their parents without a backward glance. Next Thursday is the last day of third grade for Owen.  How long will my sweet boy take the time to give me a multilayered goodbye? On my better days I remember that our morning farewell is a blessing.

Yesterday morning I had to hurry home to meet an appliance repairman at the house. I was nervous that he would arrive before I returned from the bus stop.

“I’m going to start walking back home as soon as the bus stops.” I tell my boys.

“You aren’t even going to say goodbye?” Owen asks me.

“Of course I’m going to say goodbye. I’ll just have to make it a quick goodbye.”

“We better do it now then,” he insists. He hugs me, kisses me and blows me a kiss. I catch it and place it over my heart.

RDC: What Adam Wants

            This week’s assignment from The Red Dress Club was to write about what our character wants. I’m back to Michaela’s story (you can read previous pieces on the page above marked The Story of Michaela). This time I decided to write from the point of view of Michaela’s on again, off again boyfriend Adam. I thought it would be a challenge for me to write in men’s voices. I’m hoping it sounds genuine and not just what a women think men sound like when they’re sitting at a bar. Con crit is very welcome.

What Adam Wants

            “Hey Sully,” Adam said as took barstool next to his old friend.

            “Well, well, well,” answered Sully. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Where’s the girlfriend tonight?”

            “Shut up Sully.” He turned to the bartender. “Traci, can I get a Sam Adams?”

            “Bottle or draft?”

            “Draft. Thanks honey.”

            “So what’s up?” Sully asked again. “I don’t see you around for weeks and I can’t ask about the girlfriend.”

            “Shit Sully, I don’t even know if I have a girlfriend right now. I just want to have a couple of beers and watch the game. I can go watch it at home if you’re going to be an asshole.”

             “Alright, alright.”

            They sat in silence and stared at the TV for a few minutes.

            “Sorry dude,” said Adam.  “I just screwed up with Michaela and I don’t know how to fix it.”

            “What happened?”

            “I mowed her lawn and she got pissed off.”

            “That pissed her off? I gotta get her to talk to Sheila. That one never stops nagging. I swear her ‘honey do’ list is gonna kill me one of these days.”

            “Right? So I was cutting her neighbor Miriam’s grass. She’s one of my regular customers. So I just did Michaela’s at the same time. It only took me 20 minutes or so. I figured it was a nice little thing to do for her.”

            “I don’t get it. Why did that piss her off?”

“You know she’s a widow, right? She has thing about taking care of everything herself. She said it was thoughtful but she couldn’t let me do stuff like that for her. She said I was a professional and she didn’t want to take advantage of me. She tried to pay me for it.” Adam took a large drink from his beer. “So I got insulted and pissed off and she got pissed off right back at me. I get she wants to be independent, but guys do stuff for their girlfriends. Right?”

            “Let me ask you something,” Sully said. “What do you want from this girl?”

            “What do you mean?”
            “Do you want to settle down with her? Or is she just a little piece of ass for now?”

            “I don’t know. Well, that’s not true. She definitely isn’t just a piece of ass. There’s gotta to be an easier way to get laid than dating a widow with two little kids. We’re never alone.”

            “So if she’s so much trouble and you don’t just want to sleep with her, you must want a relationship with her.”

            “What’s your point?”
            “Does she know that?”

            “I don’t know man. I need to be careful. She’s a widow. I don’t want to freak her out.”

            “Maybe she doesn’t want to be treated like a widow. Maybe she just wants to be treated like a girlfriend.”

            “That’s why I mowed her lawn! To do something nice for my girlfriend.”

            “Maybe next time you should just send flowers.”

            “I’m not a send flowers kind of guy. I’m a landscaper. If I gave her flowers I’d plant her some roses or azaleas or something.”

            “So explain it to her like that. If you were the kind of guy who sends flowers, do you think she’d throw them in the trash?”

            “No.”

            “Then tell her that mowing the lawn is your version of a dozen roses.”

            “What’s going on Sully? I was expecting you to say ‘screw her’ and buy me a shot of JD. Where did the insight come from?”

            “You haven’t been around much lately, so I’ve been stuck home watching Dr. Phil with Sheila.”

            “Damn. Maybe I should buy you a shot.”

RemembeRed: Taking Center Stage

This week's memoir prompt from The Red Dress Club was to write about a graduation. It could be any graduation.

Taking Center Stage

We were twenty minutes early and the church basement was already standing room only. Mothers made sure the graduates had clean faces. Grandmothers were trying to keep younger siblings in their seats. Fathers checked to make sure the batteries in their cameras and camcorders were fully charged.

            “When it going to start?” Owen whined.

            “In about 20 minutes.” I told him.

            “Why did we have to get here so early?”

            “So we could get a place to sit. If we had come any later, there wouldn’t be any seats left. Be patient. James sat through your preschool graduation, not to mention more soccer games than I can count.”

            “I know,” he sulked.

Two years ago it was James who squirmed impatiently in the metal folding chair waiting for Owen to graduate from Children’s Ark Preschool. The school had been a part of our lives for three years. The first time I dropped Owen off, it took me twenty minutes to wrestle James back into his car seat. He was two years old then and it was the first time Owen was going somewhere without him. He didn’t want to leave the school’s brightly colored décor, sand table, play kitchen and indoor play structure. James wanted to stay and play with his big brother and all the other children.

            Our family fell in love with the small program that I stumbled upon while searching the internet for preschools. I had driven by the Lutheran church a thousand times and never noticed the small yellow and red sign that read Children’s Ark Preschool. I never knew that little gem was there. The boys and I visited the school and I had a very strong good feeling that this was the right school for us. It was nurturing without being stifling and stimulating without being overly structured. The children said grace at snack time, participated in a Christmas pageant, and had discussions about the gentle and loving nature of God.

Before graduation.

            The graduation ceremony was in two parts. In the first part the children performed songs about the seasons. Afterward, the children would put on their graduation caps and capes to receive their diplomas. While James’ group sang a song about summer, he kept his fingers in his mouth. To anyone who doesn’t know James, it looked like the nervous habit of a shy kid. But James has never been shy. He has always been happiest in the middle of a crowd of children. 

            “Why is he doing that?” I wondered until I remembered him showing me his wiggly tooth earlier in the day. I didn’t think much about it at the time. He was only four years old. I figured that wiggly tooth would wiggle in his head for a weeks.

            But moments later, he pulled the tooth out and stared at it. At first I was the only one who noticed the little boy center stage who had stopped singing. Everyone else of course, was watching their own children or grand children.

When the song ended he whispered to the director of the school, “Mrs. Rogers, I lost my tooth!” he held the baby tooth out to her.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the director announced. “We’ve lost a tooth!”

James showed off his new Jack-o-lantern grin and giggled madly. His transition from little kid to big kid began center stage to a standing ovation. 

After graduation.

RDC: My Midnight Glutton

 

This week’s Red Dress Club prompt is to write about gluttony—my personal favorite of the seven deadly sins. I love food and drink and had dozens of ideas of how to take this prompt. This is the one that flowed the easiest. I think I've been getting sentimental lately...

My Midnight Glutton

            I awaken at 11:58—just before you begin to cry. It’s become so routine over the past few weeks, I’d probably get up to check your breathing if you didn’t call for me before midnight. I slip into my light blue milk-scented bathrobe and stumble down the hall to the nursery.

            Your cries become louder just as I reach the crib. You feel my arms around you and crane your head forward in search of your next meal. We sit in the old maple rocking chair and nurse. This midnight feeding has become your biggest meal of the day. No longer a newborn, you’re becoming interested in the world around you. The excitement of your big brother during daylight hours fascinates you and you’ll latch on for only a moment or two and then turn away to see what he’s doing.

            I can’t blame you. Owen is two years old and he makes lots of noise and plays with colorful toys. How can a person focus on milk when there is so much excitement going on? Don’t worry Sweet Baby James. It wasn’t that long ago that your big brother was waking me for a midnight snack. Now he can run and climb rocks and kick a soccer ball and finger paint, and blow bubbles. And it won’t be long before you will too.     

As we sit together in the dark room I marvel at how different you are from Owen as a baby. Nothing could distract him until he rolled away in sleepy contentment with milk running down his round chin. I wonder if that is a clue as to how your personalities will be like later on.

            You finish nursing and the look on your face tells me you don’t want to sleep. Sorry pal, Mommy can’t play peek-a-boo at midnight. I put you up to my shoulder and softly sing the Tommy Makem songs I can remember my dad singing to me. Half way through “The Leaving of Liverpool” you surrender to sleep. I lay you down with a silent plea that you’ll let me sleep for a few more hours. 

The boys, circa 2004

RDC: Turning the Tables

            This week’s assignment from The Red Dress Club is: “Aaah...jealousy. We all have it. We all feel it. And now we'd like you to write about it. We'll leave it open: you can write about something or someone you envy, or a time when your jealousy got you in trouble, or maybe how it makes you feel to be envious. Whatever you want.”

Turning the Tables

            I played with the ice cubes in my gin and tonic, trying to keep myself from gulping it down. I didn’t want my brain to be fuzzy when I saw Sheila. Our twenty-year high school reunion was coming and like a lot of people I haven’t thought about in years, Sheila “friended” me on Facebook.

Sheila and I were classmates, but not friends. Back then her shiny black hair was styled into a perfect Aqua-netted poof while my brown frizzy curls were always in my face. Tall and slim but curvy, Sheila looked fantastic in a huge array of Jordache jeans and Benetton sweaters. My homemade and hand-me-down clothes did little to hide my short and boyish body. She was never one of those “mean girls” who pick on other girls, but I always felt eclipsed by her. As bookish as I was, I’d have given anything to get the kind of attention she got from boys back then. When Sheila suggested we meet for a drink, I was too curious to say no.

I looked at myself in the mirror behind the bar. I have a few lines around my eyes, but my hair is still brown thanks to L’Oreal and I’ve managed to keep my weight in check. My wardrobe has improved significantly. My clothes are flattering and classic. I still look bookish, but that’s who I am and I’m comfortable with that.

            “Stephie?” Sheila squeals. “I’d know you anywhere!” She wraps me in a hug that seems natural for her and awkward for me.

            “Sheila, it’s so good to see you.” I tell her. “You look great.”

            She’s heavier than she was in high school, but she’s gained weight in all the right places. A number of men in the bar are checking her out (some things never change). She’s wearing a purple silk blouse that reveals a little of her lacy bra when she leans forward and a black skirt cut to make the most of her curves. We sit and she orders a cosmopolitan and then turns to face me, “Tell me everything. Are you married? What do you do for a living? Have any kids?”

            Wow, in thirty-seconds, she’s shown more interest in me than she did in four years of high school. I tell her about my husband and my work as a researcher and writer. It’s a life that I love, but I don’t want to bore her so I turn the tables before she loses interest.

            “How about you Sheila?” I ask. “What’s keeping you busy these days.”

            She tosses back the rest of her Cosmo and signals the bartender for another one. “I sell real estate and I’m doing pretty well,” she tells me. “I had a few rough years after high school, with Dad in the slammer.”

            “Slammer? You mean, like jail?” I ask stupidly. I can picture her father and his extravagant gifts—a diamond tennis bracelet when she turned sixteen and a red Dodge Daytona when she turned seventeen.

            “You didn’t know about that? It made the papers in the early nineties. You were probably away at school. You name a white collar crime, he got nailed for it—tax evasion, embezzlement, fraud.”

            “Sheila, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

            “I’m surprised your folks never told you.”

            “Well, they don’t like to gossip.”

            “True. Very good people your parents.”

            “I didn’t realize you knew them that well.”

            “They let me stay with them when he got taken away. The government seized everything. I had to leave college. Your parents took me in for a couple of weeks until my aunt came and helped me out.”

            “I can’t believe they never told me.”

            “Me neither.  I stayed in your room. I think they even gave me some of your clothes. I’m surprised you never noticed they were missing.”

            “Clothes were never that important to me,” I said thinking how strange my castoffs must have looked on such a fashionable girl.

            “I know. You were so lucky, you know? My Dad thought that love meant buying me stuff. Your parents taught you that clothes weren’t that important. I can’t tell you how jealous I was of you.”

This is a work of fiction. The only bit of truth is my curly brown hair is still getting in my face and I do love a gin and tonic now and then.

RDC: Sweet Discoveries

            This week’s Red Writing Hood prompt: write a piece, fiction or non-fiction, inspired by this delicious shot. Word limit is 600—I may have gone over ever so slightly.

            I’ve decided to use some of these Red Dress Club prompts to create a back story for the characters that I hope will some day inhabit a novel. I shared my first piece involving Michaela a few weeks back. Constructive criticism is most welcome! Personally, I think the title is a little dorky.

Sweet Discoveries

            Saturday morning cartoons sedate the kids while they eat their Honey Nut Cheerios. I’m  on my hands and knees in the bathroom trying not to gag as I wash the floor. How do three people manage to get a room this disgusting?

            John calls from downstairs, “Mom! Adam’s truck is in the driveway!”

            I smile at the thought of him dropping by and then catch sight of myself in the bathroom mirror. I’m wearing a bleach-stained Patriot’s tee shirt from the 2005 Superbowl that’s a little too tight and faded khaki shorts so old and stretched out they hang from my hips. My hair is in a ponytail and a headband to keep my mop of hair out of my face while I clean. My face isn’t even washed.

            I briefly consider trying to make myself look better but the task seems hopeless. “Besides,” I tell my reflection. “He’s dating a single mom—he can’t possibly be expecting a super model at 9am on a Saturday.”

            I wash my hands and head downstairs.

            “This is a surprise,” I say when I open the door.

            “I don’t mean to intrude,” he hands me a white bakery box tied with a string. “I have a new client who is a baker. She was really happy with my work and sent doughnuts over. I thought you and the kids would like them.”

            “The kids will be thrilled—thanks! Come on in. The coffee’s already made.” I tell him as I lead him to the kitchen.

            “I hope you weren’t in the middle of anything.”

            “Just cleaning. Nothing that won’t wait.”

            Brianna and John leap up when they see the box in my hands. “What’s that?” Brianna asks.

            “Are those doughnuts?” asks John.

            I look down at the box. There is a gold seal that reads Delores’ Doughnuts—terrible name I think. Adam reads my expression and laughs. “I didn’t come up with the name,” he tells me. “I’m just the landscaper not the marketing guru. Yes John, these might just be the most delicious doughnuts on earth.”

            “Turn the TV off and come in the kitchen,” I say.

            I pour milk and coffee and set out three plates. The kids reach for the gooiest looking chocolate doughnuts. Adam notices that I don’t take one for myself. “Aren’t you going to have one?” he asks.

            “I’m not a big fan of doughnuts.” I tell him.

            Adam reacts as if I told him I’m not a big fan of oxygen, “Really?”

            “I don’t dislike them,” I assure him. “I’ve just always felt like they weren’t worth the calories. If I’m going to splurge I’d rather have some Ben & Jerry’s or something fried.”

            He shakes his head and tells me, “These are different.”

            “Different?”

            “They’re gourmet doughnuts.”

            Gourmet doughnuts? I think to myself. Is that like gourmet Velveeta? Or gourmet corn dogs?

            “Try this,” Adam insists. He lifts a shiny pink confection out of the box like it’s a holy offering. “This one is raspberry margarita.”

            “Really?” I begin to cave. I love the combination of raspberry and lime. I guess he’s been paying attention in the short time we’ve been dating. The doughnut is small and the icing is the color of raspberry sherbet with a few white and pink sprinkles. He holds it closer to my mouth and I take a bite. It reminds me of the raspberry lime rickeys my grandmother used to make when I was a kid. So sweet but saved from being too sweet by the sharp tang of citrus. I take another bite. I’m hooked. He’s right. These are not just doughnuts.

            “Well,” he says. “What do you think?”

            “These are amazing,” I confess. “What is that grin on your face about?”

            “You just look really cute with pink frosting on your nose.”

            I wipe it away and he adds, “And you look really hot in that Patriot’s shirt.”

            Well, he was right about the doughnut. Maybe he’s right about that too.

Red Writing Hood: Mankie

This week's assignment from Red Writing Hood is to write about something ugly and find the beauty in it. This piece is exactly 600 words--which is the limit. Constructive criticism is welcome.

Mankie

I pull the Batman sheets off my son’s bed, careful not to include any of his stuffed animals in the laundry. The top bunk is cluttered with creatures from a traditional brown teddy bear to a fantastic green dragon with shiny wings. Amid the plush menagerie is a baby’s blanket. Years ago it was powder blue with soft shiny trim. Now it’s browning with age and gets a little crusty between washings. The satin binding has been repaired many times. My uneven zig zag stitches create small lumps here and there.

When Owen was small he didn’t want a pacifier and he didn’t suck his thumb. He never even took a bottle. For the first few months of his life I was the pacifier and I was getting very tired of that role. Upon hearing my complaints one day, my mother said, “He needs a blanket with a satin edge.”

I couldn’t imagine why that would help. Why would one particular kind of blanket work when every brand of pacifiers on the market had failed? But I was willing to try anything at that point. “We have one,” I told her. “There was a blue blanket like that in the gift basket they gave me at the office.”

She hunted around the nursery and found the blanket. She presented it to Owen as if it was the Holy Grail. He immediately took it in his arms with a smile and rubbed his face against the satin binding. From that moment, the only time he was without that blanket was when I pried it from his hands so I could wash it. My mother was right. He needed a blanket with a satin edge. Apparently, when you’ve raised four children and had ten grandchildren and sixteen nieces and nephews, you learn a thing or two about babies.

Owen squeezed and chewed the blanket as he fell asleep for years. He wore it as a superhero cape. It cured carsickness, nightmares, hurt feelings and insomnia. Owen didn’t use the pronoun “it” when talking about Mankie, he would say “he” or “she”. I forgot to pack Mankie on one vacation—Owen barely slept for five days.

A children’s librarian once heard me call Owen by name and suggested we check out the book Owen by Kevin Henkes. In the book, Owen is a mouse who has a favorite yellow blanket named Fuzzy who goes everywhere with him. A nosy neighbor named Mrs. Tweezers convince Owen’s parents that he’s too old for Fuzzy. They try dipping the edge of Fuzzy in vinegar and being stern but Owen does not want to let go of Fuzzy.

As I read the book to my Owen I could feel him getting tense and holding Mankie closer and closer. At the end of the book, Owen and his mother come up with the idea of cutting up Fuzzy and making handkerchiefs out of it. I should have read Owen The Shining by Stephen King. He would have been less disturbed.

We created some rules about Mankie as Owen got a little older, but I never tried to make him give it up. Mankie lives in the bedroom and can only come out to be washed or taken on long car rides. Mankie is threadbare and stained and smelly, but sometimes it comforts my growing boy. I was given many baby blankets when I was pregnant—quilts and hand knitted blankets and countless flannel swaddling blankets. And there was a beautiful blue blanket with satin trim. I didn’t know a blanket could do more than keep a child warm.

RDC: Normal at the Beach

      This week's Red Writing Hood meme: Water gives life. It also takes it away. Write a short piece - fiction or non-fiction - inspired by one or both of these statements. Word maximum is 600.    

      I've been playing with this character Michaela, a young widow, and her family on and off for a while. I'm hoping some day they'll come to life in a novel. Here is the first time they've appeared in public. Constructive criticism welcome!

Normal at the Beach     

“Mommy! Look at the size of the fish I caught!” yelled Brianna. She led me over to the old pickle bucket that held the day’s “catch”—minnows, tiny shrimp, hermit crabs and periwinkles. One minnow, slightly larger than the rest swam in frantic circles around the edge of the bucket.

            “Wow, Sweetie. He’s huge,” I said. She grinned at me her and eyes nearly disappeared into her chubby cheeks—the last bit of baby fat left on her. Brianna was getting leaner and taller by the day and leaving babyhood behind.

            “Mom! Can you help me?” called John. “I need to build a moat and make the wall stronger. The tide is coming close to my sandcastle.”

            “Can I help too?” asked Brianna.

            “Yeah, come on! We need to hurry,” he yelled.

            We followed John as he ran through the salt marsh back towards the beach.

The rising tide was only five or six feet away from the thick walls of his castle. A moat and a retaining wall would buy his structure a little time. John, our seven-year-old foreman directed us where to dig and where to pile the sand higher.

           

My mother, as usual had been right—it had been a good idea to come here. After this winter, we needed to just play in the sun for a while and try to find a new version of normal.

            “You should go down to the cottage as soon as school is out,” she said to me. “Take the first two weeks of July.”

            “I don’t want you losing out on renting it for July 4^th weekend Mom.”

            “This is more important than some rent money,” she insisted. “You and the boys need a break. They need to go somewhere they can just be kids—play in the sand, eat pizza and fish and chip, see some cousins, get some air. And you need it too Michaela. You’re too thin.”

            That caught me off guard. My mother had always noticed when I gained weight,. I couldn’t remember a time in my life when I was too thin. But then, I had never been a widow before. Barry died in September and we limped through the school year. Sometimes pretending to be a normal family and sometimes not even bothering to pretend.

           

            John piled more and more sand on the retaining wall while Brianna and I dug the moat. “Do you think this is deep enough John?” I asked him. He scrutinized the trench we were digging.

            “Yes,” he decided. “It’s deep enough, but I think we should make it go around the perimeter of the castle wall.”

            I smiled at his intensity and his vocabulary—so much like his dad. I thought about the last time we were all here together. The two of them working side-by-side all morning building a Cape Cod Camelot. Barry had made sure the castle was built further away from the water—something I had failed to do this time. “Come on Mom!” John insisted. “We need to dig all the way around for protection.”

            We got back to work until the moat surrounded the castle. Tired and hot, we rested on our blanket while the water swirled into the trench. The castle was safe from the tide for now.

            “Thanks Mom. Thanks Brianna,” John said. “I couldn’t have done it alone.”

RDC: The List

            I must confess that this piece for The Red Writing Hood meme almost didn’t happen this week. While I had an idea of what to write about early in the week, I did almost no writing thanks to a nasty flu-like bug that hit me and both of my children. Did I mention the kids have school vacation this week? Not the perfect environment to write, but I managed to phone this one in finally. The mission: “Write a humorous listing for eBay or Craig's List. Talk about the history of the items, why they must go.”

The List

FOR SALE:  A list of seven qualified and dependable babysitters. After living in this neighborhood for eleven years, my family is moving cross-country for a new employment opportunity. One of the things I’ll miss most about living here is the list of babysitters I’ve managed to acquire after much trial and error. Not listed are the ones I stopped calling because they fed the children meals of unheated Spaghettios or let them watch The Jersey Shore. I have also left out babysitters who “entertained” visitors of their own while we were out. These seven people are truly wonderful and deserve to keep getting hired. I can vouch for their characters and have made extensive background checks on each of them. I’ll furnish you with a list of their numbers—for a price (I’m hoping to defer the cost of moving expenses a bit).

            The list includes (but is not limited to):

            Jane*  is a grandmother and retired kindergarten teacher who loves children. Her own grandchildren live out of state and she misses them terribly. She likes to baby-sit so she can spend time with children. The children love doing arts and crafts projects with Jane. She works cheap, but doesn’t drive after dark. Have a daytime appointment or need to run errands without the children? Jane’s the one to call.

            Mandy* is a sophomore at Glendale Community College where she majors in child psychology. The kids just love Mandy. She is willing to plays board games for hours and is happy to listen to them chatter on endlessly. Unfortunately, kids aren’t the only ones who love Mandy. She’s rarely available on Friday and Saturday nights.

            Courtney* is a senior at Blessed Sacrament High School and a member of the varsity soccer and softball teams. The kids really like her because she runs around outside with them. I love her because the kids get really tired out when she comes over. She’s going away to school next year. Enjoy her while the summer lasts!

            Carol* is a stay at home mom. She is very reliable and I know the kids are in excellent hands with her. They eat nutritious meals and go to bed at a reasonable hour when she watches them. The kids don’t get quite as excited about her coming over to baby-sit for some reason.

            Also for available for a smaller fee—a list of babysitters to avoid. You can’t be too careful.

*Real names withheld until payment.