If only I had voice-recorded the silly and lovely statements from the kids in the homeschool group today. But memory will have to do—so let’s give that a go. Eight-year-old Ayasha, bright-eyed and entirely without a filter, arrived with her uncle, who stayed in the car. As she walked in, she announced, “My uncle didn’t think this was the right place because, he said, ‘That’s a whole lot of white people.’”
Last week, Ayasha and her mom came to our house for a visit. While she and Evelyn painted with watercolors, swung on the playset, and snacked, the adults—Dave, her mom, and I—talked about her experience at the Harriet Tubman Museum, as well as her dissertation on unconscious bias and empathy, and other deep topics. Meanwhile, Ayasha had a running commentary of her own. At one point, she gave us a full report on the state of her house: “If you come over you’ll see the living room is next to the kitchen, and that’s a mess. Then there’s the bathroom, a mess. My bedroom is, mess which is next to my Mom and Dad’s bedroom. That’s a mess too.” I just wanted to squeeze her perfectly round cheeks—she reminded me so much of Jim Carrey’s character in Liar Liar.
At the Valentine’s Day party, one of the moms told me I had “perfectly shaped pipe cleaner.” Teetering into dirty joke territory, I just nodded and smiled, approving of the adult humor at a children’s event. Meanwhile, I led six kids through a craft: twisting two pipe cleaners around a pencil, looping the ends, and shaping them into a flower. My attempt was a solid C- to D+, even after practicing at home twice or thrice this morning. Still, everyone was appreciative, so I’ll take the win.
I can’t stop thinking about Perry’s dad. The one I wrote about last summer. The one whose life expiration date has now passed. The family had a “going away” party, built his coffin, and—if I heard her right—not only picked out his burial spot in the backyard but dug it themselves. Today she updated me saying his decline from bone cancer hasn’t been the straight downward slope they expected. Some weeks, he’s sick in bed. On other days, he’s out playing soccer with her son and hauling 500-pound bales of hay, leaving Perry in disbelief and up in arms about it all. I asked her what it’s like for him, to have already outlived his prognosis. She shrugged. “He’s yelling at me about stocks while I’m helping one kid with homework and making dinner. I tell him to make an appointment.”
On another note, Archie’s getting older. I hear his bones creak like an old sofa. The white fur under his eyes is spreading. He’s curled up beside me now, dreaming—his nose twitching, paws running in the air. I worry about the steps at every entrance of our house. When do I start looking into joint supplements? Medications? He’s fine now and probably will be for another year, maybe two. But he’s a big dog, and he’s in the afternoon of life’s day. No matter how much I hate it, it’s true. So, for now, extra pets and cuddles.
I learned about chiggers today. Microscopic mites that bite, their spit irritating the skin so badly it stays red, inflamed, and itching for a month. Thankfully, they prefer long grasses, and my summer plans involve the backyard—the pool, the sandy garden—not wading into their territory.
On a lighter note, I’m excited about my latest discovery: free digital magazines from the library. I knew they existed, but now that my Spanish comprehension is better, flipping through Mexican cookbooks and authentic recipes is a whole new kind of fun. Honestly, my Spanish practice has paid off. I’m light-years beyond where I started a couple of years ago—reading entire short stories with little help and actually understanding spoken conversations.
And with that, I’m calling it a night. I’ll cue the mic back up tomorrow. Take care, Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 