Because I don’t post enough Bean photos lately.
(Someone dropped my camera. It broke. Sadface. I’m getting a new one soon. It’ll be shock-proof. Until then, there’s Facebook.)
Never forget.
I’ve known about Grenada’s underwater sculpture park for years, but I’ve never been.
Until I saw this photograph, I had no idea what I was missing.
BRB, signing up for SCUBA lessons.
(Source: Jason deCaires)
(Source: National Geographic)
“My mommy is not afraid of anything. Not of the dark, or dragons or even monsters.”
I felt tears in my nose and had to bite my cheek when I heard (from my mother) that he said this. Because Mommy is oh-so-very scared of oh-so-many things. Sometimes I worry that he senses my fear, and that it hurts him. But I guess he doesn’t, and he isn’t; that I’m getting this right, mostly, and that my boy feels safe, which is what matters above all.
Once every five years or so, we remember to take a family portrait.
It went so well, you could punch me in the face right now and I’d just smile sweetly and ask if you want to talk about it.
I just renewed my domain name, thereby officially admitting that - despite all grumbling threats to the contrary - I plan to internet for at least another year.
blanddiva11 asked: You have been given a chance to date 5 famous men who are no longer alive. (They are alive for the purposes of this inquiry).
Which 5 men would you pick and why?
River Phoenix, because I loved him when I was ten. His was a great talent. Also, he was once on a(n airline?) magazine cover in which his unretouched zits were clearly visible. Middle School me really dug that.
John F. Kennedy, Jr., because I have a thing for troubled yet charismatic eternal boys and because if he’d been with me the day he died, we’d have flown commercial and he’d still be alive.
Ernesto “Che” Guevara, before Cuba but after The Motorcycle Diaries, because the dude was *soulful*. He’d perfect my Spanish and I’d convince him to keep writing and pursue non-violent political revolution.
Jimmy Stewart, because Vertigo is one of my all-time favorite films, and because he oozes a normalcy that I lack and crave. Or at least the appearance thereof, which is good enough for me, because he could teach me to fake it.
I’m hard pressed to pick the fifth. Christobal Colon, so I could keep him in Italy? Cary Grant, because he’d know what to do with my hair? Charles de Gaulle, so I could yell at him about Algeria? Baudelaire, because he’s the original monarch of overwrought purple prose? Thomas Jefferson, because I’d encourage him to make more explicit certain points in the U.S. Constitution?
So many men, so little time.
Last Thursday, we flew from Grenada to Miami, then onwards to New York. My dad picked us up and drove us to my uncle’s house in Connecticut, where we met up with my mom. The next morning, more than 24 hours after we left home, we finally made it to our final destination: Amherst, Massachusetts. By Friday night, we found ourselves invited to our neighbors’ graduation party, scheduled for the following day.
Bean spent Saturday morning helping them decorate their caps. Then he covered his new bike with glitter, donned a blonde shaggy wig and grabbed his banjo, with which he tunelessly regaled his new friends.
“You’re alright,” they informed me, “but we LOVE your son. Can we keep him?”
“Make your own,” I retorted, (sorta) sagely.
We all should make friends so easily.
