Saturday night I tried really hard to get out of cooking dinner. No, I'm not perpetually steam-drenched, hunched over the stove every night, just looking for one night off. I have just about every night off because Nick cooks most of the time, and when it's my turn, I tap into my arsenal of delivery services.
This is not how my mama raised me.
Saturday night, I did, very begrudgingly, grate carrots and sauté bokchoy and glaze chicken. Nick said, "You don't seem to like cooking." But... but... but, I wanted to defend myself, I know how to cook; I used to cook; I used to like cooking.
For example, kids. Feeding kids for the last 4.5 years has consumed me, no apology for the pun. My obsession with managing their growth and nutrition is totally separate from cooking. It's a mental tally of macronutrients and micronutrients; it's creating the perfect veggie snack plate with every cucumber slice salted; it's composing and blending superfood sm…
Early 1980s, summer smells like pool water and cheese crackers from the vending machine at the city pool. And 7-Up in a can because at least one summer, it seemed like we had endless cases of 7-Up in the porch fridge. (I assume you are familiar with the porch fridge.)
I don't know who took me to the pool (Mom? Grammaw?); I don't know if I wore a seatbelt in the backseat; I don't know if anyone ever put sunscreen on me.
But I know what the combination of pool water, cheese crackers, and 7-Up smells like -- a sense memory 35 years old.
Early 1990s, summer smells like pool water, cigarette smoke, and NO-AD tanning lotion in Stacey's backyard. After the sun set, it smelled like plumeria lotion on hot tanned skin and B.C. Moore's parking lot. I never got close enough to a boy to smell Drakkar Noir.
Stacey's mom is gone since last year, and no one smokes cigarettes anymore. I feel so deeply hurt for my oldest friend to have lost her mother and so disoriented to be in…
Nearly ten years ago, a doctor told me diabetes would kill me, it was just a matter of how soon. I couldn't see the benefit of his ugly, callous prediction. I couldn't see the benefit of being locked into a medical relationship with someone who saw me as a hopeless expiration date. I decided even with long waits and insurance hurdles, it would always be worth it to find doctors who are supportive and try to understand me as a person.
Today, I broke up with
I'm not convinced he's not a good doctor, but he's not a good fit for me. He has been seeing me for two months to help me prepare for another baby, but I don't think he knows anything about me. Our appointments last less than 5 minutes, he gives me vaguely shaming advice to lose weight, "start" exercising, stop being diabetic. He has never asked me whether I exercise, what I eat, what I do to control my diabetes. He has made assumptions about my lifestyle based on my appearance, …