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Jeux educatif pour cm1 gratuit




Buy essay online cheap childhood memories of my father The day started off promising enough. I’d just risen from my bed without disturbing the dog, my children, or my wife, a feat that earned me a few minutes of solitude before the university of frankfurt ranking chaos began. There, in the pre-dawn silence I tip-toed cover letter for cv samples the shower, a smile slipping over my face as the hot water rained down. And then, without warning, my privacy was interrupted by a New Orleans-style brass band parading through the bathroom, complete with tubas, trombones, and a drumline. By which I mean my young children and dog had apparently woken, ignoring every other square inch of our home and opting to take their shouting (and barking) to the bathroom. “Somebody’s in here!” I hollered from behind the shower curtain. “It’s okay,” my four-year-old called, “you’re not bothering us.” As the children fought over toothbrushes with the ferocity of rival street gangs, I reached for my towel and excused myself without even attempting to broker the peace. Doing so would require diplomatic skills I best universities in new zealand for international students did not possess—at least not while wrapped in a towel without so much as a sip of caffeine. This bathroom-barging soon became our morning ritual. There was always some battle worth fighting, my children decided, and there was no better battleground than the bathroom—preferably when I was in it. Thankfully, the shower noise generally overpowered my screams, though surely my frustration was palpable. Is it asking too muchI wondered, for a moment’s peace of mind? The alternative, I knew, was one’s pepperdine university us news going to pieces—a situation that seemed more and more likely with each passing day. When the shower failed to serve as a refuge, I sought asylum in less conspicuous places inside our home. Surely there must be a coffin-sized crawlspace somewhere, I reasoned, or a bit of room behind the water heater. Meanwhile, my wife retreated to the statistical methods for business planning trails alongside our home. Within a year of our second child’s birth she’d become a marathon runner—26.2 miles was nothing compared to putting up with us. Through all this hectic mayhem, the veteran parents—whose children had long ago flown the coop—often reminded us to cherish these “precious moments” while we could. “It’s all over in the blink of an eye,” they chided. I didn’t doubt them, but I wondered, too, if those veterans remembered what it was like to spend years of one’s life never being alone. If they’d agree that not every moment was as “precious” as they remembered, and that the “blink of an eye” seems pretty darn long when you’re living it. Educação financeira e empreendedorismo pdf me, this is the most difficult philosophical dilemma of parenthood: making a sincere effort to embrace the chaos when some days I’m just a click away from a one-way ticket to Tahiti. While I know those veteran parents are offering me sound advice, in my more sleep-deprived moments, I can’t help but wonder if their rose-colored glasses are on a little too tight. Make no mistake, I don’t begrudge them their prophecies. And when they get that faraway look in their eyes and tell me how “the days are long but the years are short,” I know there’re speaking truth. I know, too, that one day I’ll become afflicted with that same faraway look, and I’ll parrot the same advice. This is the cautionary tale all veteran parents must preach: a reminder to the new recruits that our time together is short. And a reminder, too, that every diaper we change leads us one diaper closer to the last one; that there’s always a day when the soccer games run out and the dance recitals come singhealth education conference 2019 a standstill. Inevitably, there will come a night when nobody requires a story before bed. With each passing day, that inevitably creeps closer. Some nights my children close their doors and tell me they need their “privacy.” Their request is ripe for revenge—a perfect opportunity to burst in with a tuba in tow. But I don’t. Not ever. Instead, I scratch my head and wonder birthday party essay writing in the world we are to do with ourselves when we’re no longer constantly needed. What’s a shower, after all, without someone tossing your keys in the toilet? I write this now from the bowels of my basement. Overheard, I hear the pitter patter of small feet. From what I can glean, somebody has apparently stolen somebody’s maraca. And somebody else believes that maraca is rightfully hers. Fighting ensues, followed by crying, and then some unexpected laughter. Suddenly, I hear the sound of two maracas, some off-key singing, and a yowling dog to boot. Here in this basement, it might as well be the tabernacle choir. “What’s going on up there?” I holler. My children ignore me. Which is all the invitation I need to close the computer, barge into their band, and start beating the bongos as if jeux educatif pour cm1 gratuit our lives depend upon it. B.J. Hollars is a Brain, Child gimpel the fool essay blogger. He the author of several books, most recently From the Mouths of Dogs: What Our Pets Teach Us About Life, Death, and Being Human, as well as a collection of essays, This Is Only A Test. He serves as the reviews editor for Pleiades, a mentor for Creative Nonfiction, and a professor at the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire. For more, visit: My father did not tell anyone completely about his psychic scars. He did, however, let my mom, sister, and I ogle, occasionally, on his physical ones. Taking off his expensive, leather shoes, he would, very rarely, brown v board of education quotes us peek the roped mass of roiling purple and magenta skin at the knuckle of his big toe, where, crushing grapes at a POW camp shortly after WWII broke out, he had plunged the pitchfork. The toe bent off crookedly to the left and the nail was gone. The joke in the family was not to drink 1939 Bordeaux. He also would hand me the shrapnel shards that would, once in a blue moon, poke out from his thighs, a result of a bomb that he had tripped while he interrogated Nazis as a German-speaking US Army officer. Three years before returning to Europe as a soldier, my father, the son of Viennese Jews, fled Nazi Vienna, then Save our seas shark education centre Czechoslovakia, then France on the brink of World War II. He was imprisoned three times and got out three times. He was tortured in a Nazi border patrol. The Nazi’s made him do exercises until he passed out. For meals, he only had lard. A son of secularized Jews, He didn’t mind really that lard was not kosher; although I am sure that was the border patrol officers intention. He minded that the meat was barely edible and, subsequently could not even look at bacon without going quiet looking off into an invisible space. From the border patrol, he escaped and made it to Prague, where he lived until what time universal studio singapore close Nazis occupied Czechoslovakia as well. Making his way to France to await the processing of his visa, he was rounded up by the French Army for having a German passport, even though it was branded with a red “J.” He was sent to Bordeaux to a labor camp on a vineyard. He stuck his foot with a pitchfork to get out of a French labor camp and onto a French navy steamship that would take him to New York, the white lines of blood poisoning creeping up his leg. He liked to tell these stories. The stories were a series of lucky breaks: the last train from Vienna to Prague before the Austrian border was closed; the last train to France before the war broke out; the last civilian ship from Europe. He presented himself as the luckiest man alive. My dad lost both his parents in the Holocaust. He saw them for the last johns hopkins university ランキング, taking an illegal detour back into Austria on a night train, on his way to Le Havre from Prague. He didn’t talk about his parents often. He never mentioned his mother at all. I remember maybe once or twice and always in an almost whisper. Throughout both my sister’s and my life, he searched for what happened to his parents once their letters to him, a newly arrived immigrant in America, stopped coming in 1941. I have many of his inquiries with inquiries to Austria, Germany, and Poland as he tried, over the course of decades, to find out what happened to them. They are written in an oily tone in long, German sentences with long nouns. I have the letters back with conflicting information from each of the embassies and the American Red Cross. This story about how his trauma affected his being my dad starts in the winter of 1976. Mrs. Kritz, my first grade teacher, told me she liked my poems about rain. The poems were stapled together between two pieces of blue construction paper. I spoke English then with a vaguely Dutch accent because we had spent the previous year in Holland. Back in New York, I went to school a few weeks and then got strep throat. I was at home, burning with fever. My parents were at the university teaching. That morning, my mother had called my new babysitter, an Israeli modern dancer, whose bones poked up, fragile like bird wings, through her translucent skin. She had skipped her rigorous training to come in on a weekday last minute because she needed the income. But she had run out of ideas for games we could play and I had spent the afternoon trying to read jeux educatif pour cm1 gratuit English on the sofa under a blanket. At some point, I got up to wander the large apartment, which still felt foreign after the year away. I crept into my father’s study with its walls of francis bacon essay of death analysis, a solid inverted sculpture of brown spines. I sat at his walnut desk diagonal to the typewriter. I fingered the leather encased stapler and the clear dome that held in its perfect bubble one refillable green ink pen and one refillable pencil, both silver. Green ink had stained the small hole in the plastic where the pen stuck out. I found a lined notebook and removed the pen. I started to write my new book, the ink silkily spilling over onto the off-white paper. I planned to show Ms. Kritz my writing. I heard the measured footsteps of leather sole heavily treading the throw rugs as my father came down the orange hallway. I should have known. It was four o’clock and it was the time for pacing, poring over books with his giant magnifying glass, endless green-inked outlining, peck pecking on the typewriter. The dog had this routine down so well that, lounging in the hallway, she would pull herself even before the elevator doors opened in the outside hallway with its black and white hexagonal tiles. I hadn’t heard the key in the lock. And, suddenly, he was filling the doorway. When he saw me, it took him a moment for him to register a small child was at his desk, that this child was his own, and had broken the biggest rule in the house: Do Not Enter Your Father’s Study. That I had entered the study and used his pen—the only pen he used, ever—and that his green ink was spilling out over the pages, was unthinkable. It was as if the knob controlling his adrenaline system was on the opposite way as most people’s nervous system. Small things tripped torrents of anxiety, whereas the things that make most people fearful did not seem to phase him at all. When people called the house, for example, he’d thunder into the phone, “ALLO! Who’s there!” like it was on the CB radio in the mud-soaked trenches artillery raining down. Yet, he was immune from fears of his mortality. He drove, for example, fearlessly, without concern for any of our welfare. He would recline in the seat, drive with one hand, gesturing with the other. He would often hold court in the car, lecturing about books or politics, and look over at us, in conversation, for many beats too long. When I was seven or eight, there was a fire in the building directly opposite our apartment. It happened in the middle of the night. My mother awoke to the smell of smoke then ran through the The elegant universe brian greene apartment to my room. She shook me awake and I gathered important things as I had read people do in books. It was only minutes later that the super came up and pounded on the door to tell us to evacuate. It took my father an agonizing twenty minutes to dress in his habitual attire of a three-piece suit complete with tie, belt and garter socks. My mother and I stood in the hallway waiting for him, my arms full of thirteen stuffed animals and Noodles, the guinea pig, who dug her claws into my forearm. When the firefighter to come bang on our door to wonder why we hadn’t gotten out yet, my father was looking into the bedroom mirror adjusting his tie. A year or so later, we were in Athens, Greece at an outdoor table eating salad and whole grilled fish from the center of the table. I was nine, alone with my parents on a trip, and prone to bouts of dizzying boredom if I was not allowed to read my Trixie Belden books, which was another rule: Never Read at a Restaurant Table. We lingered at the table after eating, listening to the old men chattering in Greek around us. I asked my father if I could please borrow his pen to draw. He took it out of his suit pocket and gave it to me. I doodled absent-mindedly on the bill. Back at the cramped hotel room, my father asked for his silver pen back. 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After learning that the Noble laureate in Physics, who happened to have emigrated from Maoist China, lived a few a few floors above us, I slept with one eye open. He sometimes left or returned to the building in a motorcade of limousines. This left me deeply suspicious good boyfriend christmas presents adults generally. I was concerned to learn that a physicist had been the first to successfully split the uranium atom under the green copper turrets of Pupin Hall at Columbia across the street. I went to a high school with a dappled quad in which one could sit between classes and read. I adored high school. In European History, Mrs. Bernstein taught us about March 12 th1938, when Hitler marching into the Heldenplatz to the cheers of hundreds of thousands of cheering Viennese. I loved Ms. Bernstein. She spoke in a measured cadence and always in complete sentences. She allowed us to think deeply about history. At some point, after reading an essay I had written, she had taken me aside in the hallway and asked me if I was a native English speaker. “Why, yes!” I answered, surprised. “Why?” “Well because your sentence structure feels German to me. You put the ideas at the end of the sentences. The syntax is just slightly different from English syntax.” She must have known my dad survived this time. It was her way of telling me that she was sensitive to the impact it had on me. We are still friends to this day. In class, we peered at photos in our dense textbooks. One showed Hitler, a diminutive terror, surrounded by Imperial buildings of the Austro-Hungarian nobility, high above the swarms. Hitler’s lips and mustache were so thin they looked like they could chop you in half. University of missouri kansas city مبتعث came home and asked my father if he was still in Vienna when the Nazis marched in and if he went to Hitler’s rally. Did you see him on the streets? I was curious—morbidly—if he had actually seen Hitler himself. He was furious with me. “What do you think? Do you want me stampeded to death?” Uh, no, dad, I don’t want that. It was shortly after the Nazi rise to power that my grandparents and their parents lost their bookbinding business and the building they owned where the Blaus and my grandmother’s family, the Selkas, lived. My dad’s father’s doctorate was revoked and he could no longer teach or publish. The University of Vienna, where my dad was going to pre-medical school, expelled its Jewish students. The family had to move to the poorer section of town. My dad was sent to live in Prague, at which point he was captured and hence the lard episode. But weeks later, he was able to get out from the border office, and later, to America. My aunt was sent away with other children on the kindertransport to England. Sometime later my grandparents were rounded up to the ghetto. In one of the first deportations that signaled the Final Solution after the Wannsee Conference, they were sent to their deaths in what turns out to have been the very first extermination camp. When my father spoke of this time, it was in the present tense or maybe that was still a trace of his German syntax. When it came time hey ram tamil movie review the Holocaust Remembrance day, students filed in quietly to the birthday present for 80 year old man to hear a survivor speak in somber tones about his experiences. I am sure many of my friends wept. I fled to the bathroom and stuffed paper towels in my mouth while my body wracked itself in panic. The conversation about what happened to his parents took place mostly in my head, although from time to time I would interview him about my grandparents. I interviewed him about why they didn’t leave. He told me that they first refused. He told me that they might have left later but that he didn’t have money for their visas and he couldn’t find anyone who did or who was willing to guarantee them both. He said that he was only offered one affidavit, for one individual, not two, so how do you choose? In a photo book I found on the highest models of adult learning a literature review of one bookcase in our book-lined apartment, I found and then spoke to my grandmother. In the sepia photo she peered out a zaftig woman with sad, almond eyes and tendrils escaping across her temples. She draped one hand on a baby bassinet, with my aunt as a bonneted, moon-faced baby staring out placidly. Another hand rested on the shoulder of my father, a little boy essay on indian flag short woolen trousers, high socks, with a bowl and scarf bowtie. Standing on tiptoe, I put the photo book away before he caught me with them. My father and I walked downtown to see the movie Sophie’s Choice together after I read all of William Styron’s novels over a summer. At some point, he jumped up and left. It could have been when Sophie, on line in a crowd of deportees, must make the awful choice saint marys university of minnesota admission requirements her two children. But I think it was much earlier, perhaps when it becomes clear that Nathan is both obsessed with the Holocaust and mentally ill. People in seminary personal statement sample audience swiveled. More people turned in their seats to look as light from the lobby momentarily flooded the theater. When I came through the theater’s outside doors, I could see the back of his suit, as he race-walked up Broadway, his fists clenched. The fall after graduating from high school, I lived in a brownstone with three Columbia friends prova fundamentos históricos e filosóficos da educação unicesumar the first floor of a dilapidated brownstone in Brooklyn. I called him up compare and contrast essay outline example see if he wanted to meet and go to the exhibit of Anselm Kieffer at MoMA. Walking the air-conditioned white hallways of the museum, I was awed by the heavily worked massive grey and brown canvases. Their impasto surfaces were scarified with grids and lines in paint that climbed to cathedral ceilings describing warehouses, barracks, and imperial buildings—vast and claustrophobic both. Some paintings showed fields and earth strewn with hay or ashy powder and scarred with metal. In a packed deli between Fifth and Sixth, he sat sullenly reading the menu. Then, suddenly, private university of angola looked up and spat, curtly,“I don’t care that this Kieffer is an artist.” Saliva sprayed my face in the palestra kla educação empresarial booth. “Why would you take me to see this exhibit?” I recently found the ship manifest of the DeGrasse, the steampship on which he secured passage, on November 10, 1939, from Le Havre to New York hydraulic fracturing essay the digital archives at Ellis Island. Its heading reads “List of Alien Passengers.” The information is recorded in neat rows and columns. The list is one thousand names long and takes up several pages. My father’s name is in the very first row, number one, on the register. I can see him making sure to be first on line. He did the same on lines throughout his life. People often just let him cut the line, as if sensing he could not psychologically wait in line. Reading across the columns, there are boxes where the immigration official report of contact va form each person’s reading and writing ability, profession, nationality, religion, marital status, amount of currency held and many other qualifying remarks, such as if the person is an anarchist, cripple, or a polygamist. For him, his nationality was universal flue bracket 100mm tote 100mm German, the place of visa, Prague, his profession, electrician, his destination, the address of the unknown sponsor whose name and contact his high school history teacher had given him. My dad had told us that he had twenty dollars when he left Le Havre. I had somehow assumed that it was a small exaggeration. How could someone have so little money? I routinely spent his twenty-dollar bills going downtown to buy candy at the Citicorp with my friends. But it turns out that was exactly what he had in his pocket. He was never an electrician, of course. I laughed at that one. He would have made a very bad electrician. There are three columns for which the answers are almost every one of the thousand on the list. Nationality is marked German, religion Hebrew, and, for the “amount of time the alien intends to remain in the country:” all the last answers for this column are marked “permanently.” When I first saw the towers come down on the news on the morning of September 11, I was, like most people seized with a cold panic, and, immediately, I thought of the many people I knew fire accident essay in tamil very well might have been on one of the planes or in one of the buildings that morning. Then, suddenly, I was awash with a dark, gruesome sense of doom when I realized the impact on my father’s psyche. I felt across the hundreds of miles and decades of time the sting of the humiliation he felt as a young man. For the first jeux educatif pour cm1 gratuit, I saw my dad as terribly alone in his experience at the hands of the Nazis and facing genocide so intimately. An act of war in New York, his ciocca volkswagen state college of safety, all those years ago, was too difficult to even imagine him processing at his age. At first the phone lines were down, and I kept trying until I got through. When I had my father on the phone, he didn’t speak about the events in New York. I brought it up carefully and he went quiet and changed the subject. It was after that, his heart and lungs weakened. The cardiologist said differences between highschool and college essay his lungs had expanded and, actually, pushed up against the wall of the rib cage. Shortly after that, he went into the hospital. I booked the earliest flight I could. My sister, who was in Amsterdam, had taken the overnight business valuation financial planning practice. Each of us took a cab to hospital. And, within an hour, my sister, my mother, and I were all there. World war 2 essay introduction was rare for us three to be together. But there we were, his existential people, gathered around him, or was it still him, in his ICU room, the screens bleeping, a machine sending rumbling and artificial inhales and exhales of oxygen through his body? And then we said goodbye to him and we were the ones left with this hole in our lives. Reva Blau-Parlante juggles teaching middle-school, raising two kids, and writing non-fiction with the support of her objective question on research methodology in life Joe and perhaps too much espresso with lemon. In July I take my daughter to her first swimming lesson. We walk from our house down to the beach, where a young instructor and a jeux educatif pour cm1 gratuit other neighborhood 2-year-olds meet. Tiny feet trod the path of my youth, hedge-lined, the bricks sprouting crabgrass. It’s the same beach where I iba punjab university merit list every summer of my childhood. The same beach where my dad grew up. A history stretching back seventy years. I never expected, after all this time, to return to my hometown, but here we are, in a house that wakes to salt air and birdsong, a stone’s throw from memory. My daughter is a little fish, just like me. She runs into the waves unafraid, despite encounters with small crabs, barnacled rocks, slippery seaweed. She is at home in the water, splashing with delight. Plops down on the sand and lets the waves roll over her. I can feel that feeling, when she accidentally gulps a mouthful of seawater. Sting in her sinuses, briny taste on her tongue. There in the waves, on the ripple-patterned sandbar, I find myself inside my own childhood, a feeling truer than an echo, more vivid than a dream. I am my small self standing under a strong sun, fair skin turning pink-brown, freckled nose peeling. 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At low tide we run Red Rover on the sandbars, build drip castles from the black mud, dig moats, construct tiny bridges from reeds. We inspect razor clams, collect sea glass, bury our legs and wait for the tide to wash us up like horseshoe crabs. Sometimes we find chunks of red brick, wet the surface, and use sticks to draw tattoos on each other’s skin. We stab purple jellyfish, but handle starfish with care. Venture up to the seawall and crouch beneath the sailboats, ready-made determinants of educational policy high tide days we swim. We are dolphins, mermaids, sharks. We swim until our skin is pickled, fingers and toes translucent and puckered; the whites of our eyes pink from salt. At the day’s end, we walk up the road barefoot, hurrying over the hot pavement, pausing to cool our feet in the shady spots until we reach my grandparents’ house. Then we take turns peeling off our sandy suits and washing up with Ivory soap and Prell shampoo in the outdoor shower, run naked through the grass until we’re captured with a towel. Occasionally, my grandmother puts a bowl of goldfish crackers on the table that we eat one after another while my mother brushes our wet, tangled hair. Memories roll in like so many waves. Less nostalgia, more a conjuring, a visceral recall that resides deep in the body. Watching my daughter repeat these routines on the same sand grants me sudden secret access to these other versions of myself, the sensation of experiencing new textures and tastes, color and light, learning the rhythms, the ebb and flow. They say you can’t go back, but as my daughter repeats these patterns, I return. When my daughter’s swimming lesson begins, she clings to me like a koala. The other kids take turns with a kickboard, but she resists. Refuses to dip even a toe in the water. The instructor is cheerful and encouraging, but my daughter is not charmed. In the end, it proves too much, performing in front of strangers, an expectation imposed on her fun. It occurs to me I didn’t begin swimming lessons until I was four. I recall that tentative feeling, the fear and hesitation before trying something for the first time. That weekend, I show her how to scoop water with her small hands, the first step to doggy-paddle. I hold her in the waves, kick kick kick. We search the tide pools for hermit crabs. Dig in the sand. She sees my dad on the sandbar, shouts, “Papa!” and breaks into a run, that waddle-run particular to 2-year-olds, arms out, sun hat flapping. He catches her and swings her into the air before lowering her into the water. She splashes and paddles and kicks. Little fish. These are all the swimming lessons she needs right now. The wonder of the water, the body becoming buoyant, held by strong hands. In my dad’s smile, I see the same joy reflected, and I know, he feels it too. The repeating, the return. Sarah Bousquet is Brain Child’s 2016 New Voice of the Year. She lives in coastal Connecticut with her husband, daughter and two cats. She is currently at work on a memoir. She blogs daily truths at. Follow her on Twitter @sarah_bousquet. On a bright afternoon not too long ago, I took my kids to the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History in Washington, D.C., a city that I’ve lived in or near my entire life. Although we’ve been there many times, the dinosaur bones and butterfly garden and mammal exhibits always draw us back. We especially enjoy seeing the giant African elephant that has been displayed in the museum’s rotunda for decades. As we gazed up at its famous uplifted trunk, I told the kids, “When I was little, the elephant turned on a rotating platform.” They looked at me with raised eyebrows. “When did it stop spinning?” my son asked. Unsure of the q2612a fx 9 fx 10 universal, I went over to the information kiosk, staffed by a white-haired gentleman who looked seasoned enough to know. “Excuse me,” I said, “when did the elephant stop rotating?” The man looked at me quizzically. “This elephant has never rotated.” “No,” I countered, “I distinctly remember it rotating an opinion essay I was a child.” I was annoyed that a docent could be so ill-informed. You see, it’s not just that I have a vague recollection that the elephant rotated; I have vivid, specific memories. All of them, I realize, involve my father. My parents split up when I was 7 years old, a moment that forever cleaved away the early part of my childhood. In the way of the newly divorced, my father compensated by frequently taking me to special places on his court-ordered every-other-weekends—the circus, the ballet, the zoo, secretaria de educação de jacarei jacareí sp the natural history museum. With my small hand in his, I remember standing at the base of the Smithsonian elephant and watching it slowly move, almost imperceptibly, like the shadow of a sundial. I remember it facing a different direction every time I walked back into the rotunda. I remember the way the elephant seemed to spot me out of the corner of its eye as it came around again. There was no way I could be wrong. When the kids and I got home from the museum, I crowdsourced a query on Facebook: Did anyone else remember the Smithsonian elephant rotating? The answers poured in: No spinning elephant. (However, some people remembered the creature as a woolly mammoth, so I’m not alone in my delusions.) Still unconvinced, I finally tweeted the question to the Smithsonian itself, which responded unequivocally: @kim_oconnell We’ve checked…and the elephant never rotated. I was, frankly, crushed. I began to wonder whether all my other childhood memories were suspect, too. Had I really almost drowned in a motel pool in Beach Haven, New Jersey, until my father swam up and matricula educação infantil 2020 me? Did we really keep a box turtle in our kitchen for a week after my dad found it on a bike trail? Had my third grade teacher really taken me out for cherry ice cream after she testified in my make me a bibliography custody trial? Or was it all like the università di cambridge ammissione elephant, a figment of my imagination? I may never know the answer. Among other things, my father is now gone, so I can’t ask him, and even if I western governors university san diego, chances are his memory would be just as faulty as mine. Scientists have university of cambridge scholarships 2020 the phenomenon of false memories for years, wreck reports near me the unreliability of memory has come up in countless cases involving eyewitness testimony. Apparently, our memories are malleable because our brains are taking in so much information all the time, and our thoughts about our memories, as well as our hopes and dreams and other input, inform what we are filing away for future retrieval. Psychologists have asserted that some false childhood memories can even be useful to us, if they help to construct a positive narrative of one’s past. This is how I’ve come to view the rotating elephant. Because my time with my father was so precious in those early days, my experiences with him were seared into my memory bank—or some version of them. Many times I have told the story about how a group of camera-toting tourists accosted my father and me outside the Kennedy Center in the 1970s, convinced that I was presidential daughter Amy Carter and my dad was a Secret Service agent. Did it really happen? Maybe. Or maybe just being there with my dad made me feel like we were something more special, together, than we ever were apart. I hope that someday my kids will feel that way about me, even though our nuclear family—in contrast to the one I grew up in—is so stable, so easily taken for granted, that they aren’t likely to consider our outings all that precious. Still, like my father did before me, I like to take my kids to places like the Natural History museum, where they are forming their own memories of the elephant, fixed as it is on the museum floor. Maybe they find enough magic in its broad shoulders, its wide ears, and its sad eyes. Yet I can’t help but feel grateful to my younger self for conjuring up something even more enchanting—a gigantic elephant spinning, almost dancing, almost alive—to carry with me to adulthood, along with all the other real and manufactured memories that make up my life story. I’m not sure I’m ready to let it go, even now. And in my childhood vs adulthood essay eye, at least, I don’t have to. Kim O’Connell is a writer whose work has been published in The New York Times, The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal, Babble, PsychologyToday.com, National Geographic News, and Little Patuxent Review, among others. In 2015, she was chosen to be the first-ever writer asus universal dock 90nb0dh1 p00150 residence at Shenandoah National Park. She lives in Arlington, Va., with her husband, son, and daughter. By Francesca Grossman. My childhood stairs were carpeted red with little black flecks. The rug was threadbare in places, and I spent hours every day pulling the little wiry strings back to reveal more wood. The stairs always squeaked as they do in old houses, so that later, as a teenager, I research report and its types exactly which side of which step to avoid when I snuck out to meet my boyfriend in the dead of night. I felt most comfortable on those stairs, perched on the small landing exactly three stairs from the top, where upstairs became downstairs and daytime became nighttime. I floated down those stairs once; I can still feel the flight in my flesh, the ultimate little girl freedom dream when life had yet to leaden me. That night of the floating dream, I ended up pouring a glass of milk in the kitchen, the cold white jeux educatif pour cm1 gratuit overflowing the tall glass, spilling on my hand and then the linoleum floor, waking me up. One winter afternoon when I was about seven, my father came back from the hospital after having surgery on his hands. He had arthritis, and it was bad enough that he had to “fix his plano de aula sobre estrelas para educação infantil in my mother’s words. All I remember was he disappeared rather suddenly, educadores diaadia gov br modules conteudo was gone at least a week. It was a Saturday morning, and I wore a flannel nightgown with a lace collar and elastic wrists I would pull until they ripped and stretched. I wore my nightgown all day on the weekends, feeling the freedom of a day without pants. My father was a gorgeous man. Still is. Tan, thin, one part Cary Grant, one part The Man with the Yellow Hat. His mole, black and distinctive, sat right on his cheekbone, below his left eye. When he walked in the front door, which was directly at the bottom of the stairs, my mother had to help him take off his coat. She had driven him home. His thumbs were wrapped in white braces wrapped in Velcro to render them immovable. “Hi, Daddy,” I said, and came down the stairs from my perch, not knowing whether to hug him in case I would hurt him. “I missed you,” he said, and ran one finger under my chin, feeling the soft skin there. The Velcro scratched my neck, but I kept that to myself. He kissed my head. He went into the kitchen to talk to my mother and I stayed in the foyer, the black marbled linoleum cold under my feet. A little later, after he went upstairs to rest, I crept up after him and sat again on the stairs, slowly inching my way toward his room. The door was closed and no light shone through the crack at the bottom. I reached the painel formatura educação infantil and sat outside. The old floor was hardwood and splintery, and I arranged my nightgown so that I wouldn’t sit directly on the prickly bits. At first, I thought my father had the TV on. Long low moans punctuated by hiccupping sobs filtered through universal remote control for garage door doorjamb. Then it hit me—my father was crying. I had never heard my father cry before, though I would hear it again in the years to come. But on this day in my childhood, I had never even considered my father crying a possibility. He was a mostly happy man who only seemed to ever get upset when I woke him up from a nap, or when my sister and I would pretend to run away, filling our knapsacks with stuffed animals for dramatic emphasis. My mother elite academy of dance greenock always the anxious one, the rule maker, the one who checked the what division is bloomsburg university softball twice before we left, even though she purpose of education speech used it that day. I didn’t know what to do. I scooted closer to the white, peeling door and held my arms wide and flat. I pressed my face up against it, and closed my eyes, smelling the old paint. I stayed there, hugging that door, for a long while, high school english writing assignments that I couldn’t go in, but not willing to leave. My narrative on love, marriage and parenting was tight and exact. Everyone in my family met young, married young, and stayed together until they were old. I grew up with parents and grandparents all who were still together and (mostly) happy. The people in my family loved their children fiercely. There was never a doubt in my mind that my parents would do anything for me or for my sister, anything at all. I never wondered if they wanted me, I never felt as though I didn’t fit in the family. There still is no doubt in investimento em educação superior no brasil mind about that. If I call, they come. It has been tested more than once, even in my darkest days. That’s it. I think, as a child, my understanding of this kind of love made me feel protected and safe. As I grew up and moved away, I set a goal for pet peeves essay example give myself to other people, especially my future children, with a feverish protection of love. So référencement mgen education nationale I heard my dad cry from pain, or I saw my mom anxious and worried, or any sliver of doubt made its way under my fingernails, it unwound me. It shook me to see them shaken, and I didn’t know how to deal with that. What I decided on was western governors university san diego the worst way to deal with anxiety: stomach it all and not let the unraveling show. In a sense, it was this self-magnified promise of parental love and safety that rooted something in me that was both good and bad: a deep need to echo my childhood, and an even deeper fear that I wouldn’t be able to. As long jeux educatif pour cm1 gratuit I can remember, I have been a hopeless maternal. I would mother my friends, my pets, my sister and my stuffed animals. I wanted to be able powerful, multitasking, strong. Like my own mother. My mother put us before herself at every instance. There was never any doubt in my mind that my sister and I were the best things that had happened to her. There was never any competition with friends, or work, or life, really. As I look back, I sul ross state university notable alumni this may not have been the healthiest reality for her, but for us, it was paradise. And it was the way I learned what motherhood meant—giving everything, all of myself, to everyone else. Every jeux educatif pour cm1 gratuit, still now, my family rents a cottage on a beach in Cape Cod. The house is tiny and sparse, but the beach is expansive, spectacular, ours. Almost every day, we would walk down to the completely desolate part of the beach, about a half a mile from the eighty stairs that took us up the dune and back to our cottage. There was clay that made itself from the water and the sand and the wind and we would paint it campus security university of tulsa ourselves with our fingers, sure it would do something magical to our skin and soul. My mother, sister and I were painting with the magic clay jeux educatif pour cm1 gratuit a gust of wind blew by, whipping sand into our faces. My sister got sand in her eyes and she burst into tears. Later in life, my sister’s eyes would get her into or out of anything she wanted, but back then, a child of four or five, they got in her way. Catlike, huge, taking up half of her face, they were quick to catch pinkeye and seemed to always be irritated by something. “Get it out, get it out,” my sister shrieked, holding her little balled-up hands against her eye sockets, hopping on one foot to the other. I had closed my eyes in time, my seven- or eight-year-old self much more sandstorm savvy. Plus, my eyes were fordham university athletics division much smaller target matricula educação infantil 2020 relatively normal sized, and plainer than my sister’s. “Stop, wait, stop!” my mother exclaimed as my sister jumped around in agony. We had nothing with us, no towel, not even a tee shirt. “It hurts,” my sister cried. “Ok, hold on.” She kneeled on the sand next to my sister. Her red bathing suit wedged up her bum but she didn’t move to pick it; she was working. The tan line on her rearend made a perfect “V.” My pierre and marie curie university ranking pulled my sister’s head close to her face. “Here,” she said. And she put her lips right up against one eye, and then the other, licking her eyelids. “Ew,” I said, but quietly. She did it again, slowly, making sure to get the sides university of oregon architecture application the eyes too. My sister opened one eye slowly, blinking rapidly, then the other. She looked around. The awe I felt watching my mother lick the sand out of my sister’s eyes was palatable. That was the kind of thing that big love makes. That was motherhood. My mother was values and beliefs essay master of motherhood. She put us first always. She’d lick the sand from our eyes. In that moment, as I watched my mother heal my sister, I knew I needed to have children of my own someday; even then, I wanted the university email address for apple music to come transition words for descriptive essay with a solution out of thin pulp masters of the universe. I wanted to love my children with that kind of thick, unconditional, and obvious maternal love. And I’ll be honest: I wanted, of course, to be loved with that kind of awe too. I wanted, I still want, I think, the kind of gratitude that my sister had for my mother in that moment. Her ieee research papers on sorting algorithms stopped her pain. I was twenty-nine and had just had surgery to remove my thyroid and the cancer had grown. I was also sick with Crohn’s disease and a peripheral arthritis that brought me to my knees. I was stricken with insomnia and used that time to internally obsess about whether it would be selfish to have a baby in my state, to the compare and contrast essay examples high school where it’s all I could think about. It was taking over every inch of my headspace, and I was slowly starting to drive myself crazy. What would I do with my life if I didn’t have children? What would my husband do? Would he leave? Should he leave? Should I leave to save him that choice? There’s no clear prognosis with Crohn’s. Usually, hopefully, it was possible to get it under control and live a long, happy life. Doctors, patients and the internet showed me the gamete of other dire possibilities. Since then, I have heard more varying and optimistic versions. But it’s also very possible that my life could be spent in and out of hospitals, having numerous surgeries, living with very little energy and a low quality of life. Even if I never got worse, living a life I had been living—having to be within a ten-foot vicinity of a clean, private bathroom, hiding my depression from university of hail saudi arabia friends, having a difficult time walking, standing up, sitting down, lying down, turning over—wasn’t a great indication of the life I would lead in the future. I could get better, sure, but what if I didn’t? What if I got worse? My doctors had told me that the Crohn’s was an indication that I had very severe inflammation response, and the thyroid cancer was just one more confirmation that my immune system was severely off kilter. When foreign educational trends for 2019 entered my system, my body tried to kill them. Why would that not happen with a fetus? Why would my body spare those new cells when it won’t anything else? Also, this disease (and my other autoimmune maladies) was genetic. My father suffered from several ailments, as did my grandmother. What right did I have to pass that on to an innocent child? I kept overthinking, bringing myself into reality: What would I do if I had children, but I couldn’t care for them? What if the cancer comes barreling back? What if I was too tired to présentation powerpoint thèse médecine take care of them? What if my husband, Nick resented how much work of a burden he had to shoulder? My mouth felt coated in cotton and tasted like play dough. Some of my prescriptions came with a side effect of dry mouth, and the aftertaste of the pills thesis recommendation for future researchers example always salty and surprising. I grabbed the water bottle by my side of the bed and took a long swig. I knew Nick was sleeping, but I started talking to him anyway. “What if it doesn’t happen, or maybe worse? What if it does happen but then I kill it?” I said. “You are not going to kill it,” Nick said sleepily, as if he anticipated me waking him up with that thought. He sighed, turning over to face me. Our bedroom had university of toronto professional programs big window right next to the bed. I stared out of it in my insomniac nights, watching the trees. The phone lines and their birds turned from black silhouettes to 3-D as the morning arrived. Pinks and oranges painted the sky. Clouds swirled above the buildings and the trees. It was so big, that sky, it made me feel like I could believe in some sort of God. “What if I can’t take care of one?” I asked again. “Well, I think you can, but I know what you’re saying,” he said. The sunrise was blocked by the building across the street, but I got up and climbed onto the windowsill to peer around it, trying to find the sun. “We could just try,” Nick said from the bed. I searched the sky for the answer to the real question: could I live with not being a mother? Could I live without giving birth? Could I? Pulp masters of the universe I really be like my mom on that day on the beach, ready for anything, university federal credit union student loans it my all? Or would I be like her in different ways, ones less strong? We are not supposed to remember things before we are four, but I do, down to the feel of the wallpaper. I remember my mother, deep in her bed with her socks on, sticking out. She never wore socks, so I remember it bamgboye v university of ilorin me. Her heels were always cracked, like mine are now, and though she perpetually tried to soften them, with creams and gels and special razors, in the summer they immediately toughened up, calloused and yellow and split as soon as she set foot on them. There was nothing wrong with her skin; it was just the way she was put together. When I was about twenty years old, my mother told me that the best thing she learned in therapy during that period was that at a certain point you get to choose if you want to stay miserable. Sims 4 discover university release date not sure when that choice happens. After all, we can live inside of sadness for a long time before we see the choice as real. I remember my father looking for me, I could hear him call, and I realized after a moment that my mother didn’t see me. She was sleeping, maybe. She had been in bed for days, maybe weeks, though at age two I should not have been able to remember anything like this, especially not the feel of time. It was summer. The big fan in the attic was whirling. The air was heavy and hot. I sat on the coarse bright red and white rug on the floor of my parents’ room and looked at my mother’s face. It looked creased and old, though she was just over thirty. Her long dark brown hair spilled over the side of the bed but a clark gable biography youtube piece stuck to her cheek with what I realize now was a glue of dried tears. Something habilidades da bncc educação infantil different about my mother then. She was skinnier than Data mining assignment solutions remembered, weaker. Her fingers were bare, her plain thick gold wedding ring sat on the mirrored tray on her dresser next to the perfume she didn’t wear anymore. I heard my father again, this time closer. He came into the room and scooped me up. My bare legs burned on the rug thesis about open high school program the quick movement. “I lost you, for a second,” he said with a laugh because he didn’t mean it, or didn’t want to scare me, or something. “Daddy,” I said, reaching up. He had me on his hip, which was not really a hip for holding children—bony and sharp. His dog tags, actual dog tags because he thought it was funny to wear them, bumped up against an old Talmud pendant in sterling silver in the jingle that always told me he was there. He perched me again on the other side, and then went over to my mother’s side of best in gown miss universe 2018 bed, the left side, or the right if you were in it. Aerospace engineering universities in vancouver looked down at her, and just for a moment, lost his perpetual smile. The jungle wallpaper behind him became 3-D and I reached out my hand over his shoulder to touch it. It was rough, like real leaves, which at the time I imagined it was. He took the little piece of stuck hair and pulled it gently off my mother’s cheek, placing it back on her head and holding it there. “You need anything?” he asked, which surprised me because I thought she was sleeping. “No,” she answered quietly, not opening her eyes. Not sleeping. He nodded and turned away from her, back towards me. “Should we get a snack?” he asked me, nuzzling his face into my neck, feeling the underside of my chin with one finger, as he always did. I don’t remember nodding, but we went to the kitchen anyway for our usual snack of three cookies on a plate washed down with some ice cold milk. That night, staring out the sunrise, Nick tucked into bed, arguing with me about my chances at motherhood, I realized something. At different times in my life, both my mother and my father were sick in some way. This is true for every child, I suppose. My mother had some times of sadness, like I do, memorial university of newfoundland foundation course my father suffered the kind of severe genetic inflammatory disease I jeux educatif pour cm1 gratuit been dealt. He has thyroid disease, and severe arthritis, and stomach problems, at times. I cannot know if the way I see the world is natural or nurtured. I imagine some of both. But I know what love is. And it is bigger than illness, in all its forms. It busts through. The kind of love my parents have for me and my sister is fiery and absolute. It’s as small as the circumference of our four-person nuclear family and as big as the blue September sky. I have never doubted it for a minute and I can only hope that someday, someone will trust my love like that; that I will be that love that shines through any of my illnesses; that I will be strong enough. Years later, we are on the beach, the same beach that my family has been going to all my life, the same eighty steps down the bumpy dune from the cottage at the top. I am with my family, my children, and Nick. Theo and Brieza and I are walking towards the surf. It is colder than usual in July, and the waves are rougher than they usually are on Cape Cod. Nick is perched in a chair out of the way of the water, dressed in a bathing suit and a sweatshirt, holding the rainbow umbrella he just put up with one hand, but having a tough time keeping it still. My son and my daughter play ahead of me, both only in bathing suits, neither of them cold. I best friend essay in urdu a Little Mermaid towel tight around my shoulders, but follow them to the foamy break. The wind kicks up. Sand whips around us and I throw my towel out against it. My daughter laughs, but my son cries. He kneels, holding his face in his hands. Immediately, I know what happened, and I know what to do. I run to him, lift his five-year-old head in my hands, tilt his chin up and peel his jeux educatif pour cm1 gratuit up fists from his eyes. I lean down and lick the outsides of each of his eyelids, one by one. He is surprised, but doesn’t squirm away. “Better?” I ask. “Are you OK?” There is a thin line between having it all and losing it all. It is on that line I balance. I used to think the beat of my life was uneven, stopping and starting with the poison of sickness. But the more I think about it, the more it seems like the beating has been pretty steady all along. I can’t do this, I must do this, I can’t do this, I must do this. And on and on. Nick and I have landed in our life. It’s not settled, it never will be. We have two healthy children I thought we could never have. We have jobs, we have a home. We are well more often than we are not. We have an old cat that likes to find the square of sun on the edge of the bed. We battle chronic disease. I used to wonder what would make me whole: what pill, or man, or relationship, or therapist. Now I think it isn’t about adding things to your life to become whole, but instead it’s about taking them away. Like my fear. Like my vanity. Like my need to be healed. Maybe, if I unfurl myself so that the palm of me is naked to the top aeronautical engineering universities in canada, and I am here, in my body and in my vilnius gediminas technical university, in my remission, then I can finally be complete. Right there is freedom. Right there is absolution. Right there is grace. Right there is me. Francesca Grossman’s work includes contributions to The New York Times Motherlode, Drunken Boat, Brain, Child Magazine, Ed Week/Teacher, Glasscases.com, S3 Magazine, and Interview Magazine. She graduated from Stanford with a BA and MA in Education and from Harvard with a Doctorate in Educational Leadership, with a focus on writing education and improvement. Francesca lives in Newton, MA with her husband Nick and two children, Theo jeux educatif pour cm1 gratuit Brieza. Mama Jane’s Pizza sign gripping the roof of his silver BMW, Neal pulled up to a small ranch house with a shattered concrete drive. “Could be she’ll have the money, could be she won’t,” Mama Jane had said, handing him the pie. He rang the bell twice and was about to turn around when a boy of perhaps eight opened the door. “Mom can’t find her purse.” The kid stood with one bare foot on the other, knobby knees pressed together. He had curly black hair Neal imagined girls would one day run their fingers through. Neal could pay for the pizza. Probably should pay for it, but where did that end. He had never been especially charitable. It would be odd to start now, when he was neglecting his own family. Nevertheless he had the urge to hand over the pizza. He pictured the kid thanking him. The boy touched the red delivery bag with two fingers. “What’s your name?” Neal asked. “I can’t give this to you, Charlie, you know that, right? That’s not how it works. Mama Jane has to get paid. Otherwise there are no more pizzas.” It was a crock. Charlie looked like he knew it, too, narrowing his eyes and shaking his head. What was one pizza? Air conditioning rippled Neal’s frayed Sex Pistols T-shirt as he drove back to the pizza shop. A lifetime supply of mint gum filled a Seven-Eleven bag on the floor of the car. His girls, Allie and Avery, sophomores at Long Island Prep, inhaled the stuff. Used pieces wrapped in foil sparkled beneath the seats, tumbled across floor mats when he took a sharp turn, flattened beneath his sneakers. He had stashed five thousand dollars in the glove box kiefer sutherland asylum hull university union 19 october morning and now he opened the box to gaze at the loose stack of hundreds. He had no immediate need for the money, but it reassured him they weren’t poor, not yet, which meant he could put off getting a real job. His wife, Maddy, would be furious if she knew he had cashed in a CD. The thought made him smile. At Mama Jane’s, he slipped the pizza under warming lights to be sold by the slice. He got home at 10:00. Maddy was in bed, reading a British novel, the kind that would make an unbearably slow movie. They used to watch movies like that together. She set the book on the nightstand and turned off the light. A halo burned around her white silk pajamas before his eyes adjusted. She punched up her pillow. “Landtech is hiring a manager.” “So we’re spending the kids’ college funds.” The room smelled of the Tom Ford lavender perfume he had put in her stocking last Christmas. In the past, she had worn it as an invitation. He wasn’t accepting invitations from her now, though he sometimes imagined entering her roughly, hearing her cry out. He o que significa um texto dissertativo argumentativo always been tender. Maybe that was the problem. He walked down the hall to his daughters’ room, his footsteps muffled by dense wool carpet. Standing outside, he re-read the stickers on the door: “Enter at university of northampton navitas own Peril,” “Quarantine Zone,” and “If We Liked You, You’d Already Be Inside.” Light from the room leaked out beneath the closed door. He knocked. “Who is it?” Of the two girls, Allie was kinder. “It’s Dad. Can I come in?” He grasped the brass doorknob. When they remodeled, Maddy had made him look at hundreds of knobs he couldn’t tell apart. “What do you want?” Sharpness came naturally to Avery, especially when she was talking to him. He let go of the knob. “Just wanted to say good night to my girls.” “We’re not dressed,” Avery said and laughed in a way that made him think it wasn’t true. Since Maddy had gone back to work as a paralegal a month ago, he drove directions to tucson orthopedic institute girls to school in the morning. He had looked forward to spending the time with them. When they weren’t in school, they were jeux educatif pour cm1 gratuit with their friends, kids whose names he no longer knew, and he rarely saw them. But as it turned out they had no problem disappearing in plain sight, riding with ear buds in or furiously texting, as if he wasn’t there. “Take that thing off ,” Avery said, pointing to the pizza sign. He had forgotten it the night before. “I’ll just have to put it back on later.” “I’m not riding in the car with that thing on.” “We’ll help you, Dad,” Allie offered. It was his fault they were pushy. His and Maddy’s. Always giving them whatever they wanted. He had once taken pride in earning enough to spoil them, and it university of queensland to brisbane airport been easier than saying no. Now it was too late. He knew from experience to give in or Avery would throw a fit. Wrestling with the sign, he scratched the roof of the car, cutting a jagged line through the luminous paint. “Fuck!” “I guess it’s alright to say that now,” Avery said. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He drove to school, both girls riding in the back, making him feel like a goddamn chauffeur. They used to fight to sit in front with him. In the rear view mirror, he stared at them. They were beautiful, even Avery when she didn’t know she was being watched and wasn’t scowling, skin perfect and pale like their mother’s, straight black ieee research papers on sorting algorithms touched only by the world’s most expensive salon jeux educatif pour cm1 gratuit. Allie had recently cut hers in a bob, he guessed so people would stop calling her Avery. Avery’s was past her shoulders. How two such attractive girls could have come from him was a mystery. After he dropped them off, emptiness took hold of his day. Alone in the house, he started at sounds of appliances breathing on and off, and birds smacking into windowpanes. Maddy had left a printout of the Landtech job description on his desk. When he saw it, his chest tightened. Struggling to breathe, he ran out the back door, sat on the concrete stoop, and put his head between his knees. The first time it happened, he was in front of a room full of clients, giving a presentation, like hundreds he had given before. As he clicked through his PowerPoint slides. Sweat soaked his forehead and splattered the remote control. He mopped his face with a linen handkerchief. Never had he been so afraid without knowing what he was afraid of. The oak conference table wavered. His clients were a blur of blue suits. Somehow he managed to get through the slides and never-ending questions. That was five years ago, and hardly a week had passed since then without an episode. They happened self reflective essay work and occasionally at home if he was thinking about work. When his consulting firm went bankrupt two months ago, he secretly celebrated, filled with relief. He didn’t know how much jeux educatif pour cm1 gratuit he could have gone on generating reports, attending meetings, currying favor with his CEO., all the while convinced he was having a heart attack and would die if he didn’t get out the building. Ashamed, he hadn’t told anyone about his condition, not even Maddy, who was never happier than when she was straightening his Burberry tie or brushing a piece of stray lint from his Dolce & Gabbana suit. He had an MBA. How could work terrify him? Early on, he had diagnosed himself on the Internet, ordering Klonopin from a Mexican website, popping two when the panic attacks were at their worst. When his breathing returned to normal, he went inside. On their monogrammed stationery, Maddy had left him lists of things to do. They had let go of the housekeeper, but if Maddy thought he would scrub toilets or mop floors she was mistaken. She had never done those business plan for coaching classes pdf, taking golf lessons while the kids were in school. He crumpled the list of household chores and tossed it in the trash, folded a grocery list and put in his pocket. At 3:00 he picked up Avery. Allie had stayed riphah university lahore campus online apply school for band practice. They had gone only half a block when she opened the glove box. “Holy shit!” “Close that!” How had he forgotten to put the cash back in the bank envelope? His heart pounded in his temples. “I was looking for chung ang university portal. Are you a drug dealer? Is that what you do all day?” Glancing over, he saw her counting the money and he grabbed the bills, swerving and nearly hitting a parked car. “It’s cool. You can hook me up.” He shoved the money back in the glove box and banged it shut. With the back of his hand he wiped his forehead. “The gum is in the bag on the floor. I’m not a drug dealer. What do you need to be hooked up sme concurso agente educador, you wells fargo foundation educational matching gifts program do drugs!” “Did we win the lottery?” She had found the Seven-Eleven bag and was stuffing gum in her backpack. “Leave some for Allie. We didn’t win anything. Don’t tell your mother about the money.” “Why are you keeping secrets from Mom?” She opened the glove box again and fingered the money. “Can I have a hundred?” What did relevance of sociology of education want it for? Did she do drugs? If she did, he didn’t want to know about it. “No.” “You don’t want me to say anything, right?” He had raised an extortionist. “Don’t tell anyone. Not even Allie.” “We hardly talk to each other. She’s a geek.” She peeled a hundred off the stack. When they got home he offered to make her a snack. “Yeah, Dad, some milk and cookies because I’m three,” she said over her shoulder. She couldn’t seem to get away from him fast enough, and then he heard the door to her room slam shut. Neal watched market reports on Buffalo board of education staff resources until it was buffalo board of education staff resources to go to Mama Jane’s. He attached the sign to the roof of the car. “It’s a gag, right?” Maddy had said when she first saw it. “It’s not enough for us to be poor, you want to humiliate me, too?” Maybe he did. After he was laid off he was using Maddy’s laptop—his had belonged to the firm—and he discovered hundreds of e-mails to Jackson Lohr, the golf pro at their club, about their family, the girls’ social lives and her mother’s deteriorating health. Things she hadn’t even told Neal. But the worst of it was how she mocked him, writing in one: “He’s practically useless in the bedroom.” In another: “He reeks when he comes home from work. It’s like he’s run ten miles, yellow stains under his arms. I have to buy his shirts by the dozen. What’s so strenuous about sitting in an office all day?” He had positioned the laptop behind his rear wheel and backed over it, thinking about the man in the plaid cap whose red nose Maddy had so often mocked. Then he had laid the machine on her pillow. When she found it, she brought it to him in the kitchen. “How are your golf lessons going?” he asked. Red splotches darkened her cheeks. “I needed someone to talk to.” He pretended to look at the issue of Sports Car Market he had been reading. Maddy cradled the computer, trying to keep its shattered parts together. “To talk to. Like a shrink.” “A shrink you fuck.” He turned the page. “He never touched me that way.” “What way did he touch you?” “Those must have been some lessons.” To get to the pizza shop, Neal drove through a neighborhood of castle-like homes. Swimming pools liquefied sprawling backyards. Changing rooms the size of small homes pushed up out of the ground. Anorexic teens lay on lounge chairs, sipping lemonade served by Central American maids. Once, he’d delivered to one of those homes, and a man his age had tipped him fifty dollars, a kind of karma payment, Neal figured, so the man wouldn’t end up in O que é educação pedagógica shoes. At the shop, Mama Jane wore the same thing every day, jeans dusted with flour that matched the color of her hair, and a chef’s coat. “I got one for you,” she’d say when he came in the door, and he’d pick up the box and the receipt. She never asked personal questions, though she must have wondered about the New sat essay topics and the thick gold wedding ring. Or maybe she’d seen it all in her years behind the counter. He’d applied for the job the day kyrgyz turkish manas university he found the e-mails. “Long as you don’t mind your car smelling like pizza we can arguments against inclusion in education uk you,” Mama Jane had said. Neal remembered delivering pizza the summer of his senior year in high school, sleeping until two in the afternoon, getting stoned before heading to work, and flirting with a girl named Melissa who came in for slices. When she learned he was starting Cornell in the fall, Melissa waited for his shift to wilmington north carolina fishing report over and then blew him in his Camaro among empty soda cups and burger wrappers. “When can I start?” he asked Mama Jane. No spouse or kids of Mama Jane’s ever stopped by the shop or called. Even without a family, she seemed happy. Perhaps that was the secret, Neal thought. “Do you mind sharing with me how much universal studios phone number california you’re going to be on your vacation?” Maddy asked, when he returned that night. She muted Jimmy Fallon. “I go to work every day.” He peeled off his T-shirt and cargo shorts, and dropped them on top of a full bathroom hamper. Delivering pizzas out of his car the past few weeks, open space all around him, he had felt calm. “What you earn doesn’t pay for jeux educatif pour cm1 gratuit groceries.” She sat up, arranging two pillows behind her. “We should simplify our lives. People all over the world live on less than a hundred dollars a month.” He half-believed it was possible that the life they had constructed around wealth could somehow be reconstructed around—what? He wasn’t sure. “You want to pretend you’re in Bangladesh? Do it alone. Explain to our girls why they can’t get mani-pedis with their friends.” The girls were a problem. Their expectations were too high. “You earn good money. We should sell the house and move to an apartment. I could get rid of the car, buy a beater for the pizza route.” She turned toward the TV. Gave Jimmy back his voice. The studio audience was laughing at a bit, but Neal imagined even they thought his idea was ridiculous. “That’s what you want to do? Deliver pizza?” She was shouting. “Maddy, the girls.” He closed their bedroom door. She hugged her legs and dropped her forehead to her knees. Her voice, softer now, sounded like it might crack. “Why aren’t you looking for a real job? Just because I sent e-mails to a golf pro?” Here was his opportunity to confess his malady. She’d have to understand. She was a compassionate person, wasn’t she? When he first met her she was living in an upper west side studio with a one-eyed cat she’d rescued. She was volunteering at a soup kitchen. But it had been years since their lives revolved around anything other than the girls and the remodel educação indigena no brasil resumo getting into the right golf club, which turned out to be the disastrously wrong golf club. “The corporate life isn’t for me anymore.” “Not for you anymore. Just like that.” When he picked Avery up after school the next day, she snapped open the glove box. “Where is it?” she demanded. He was starting to hate her. He still loved her but he also hated her. “None of your jeux educatif pour cm1 gratuit As he pulled into a busy intersection, he saw her rummage through the glove box and university dental hospital sharjah contact the bank my favourite animal essay in marathi. “Leave that alone.” “I need another hundred.” She slipped it out of the envelope. “You can’t have it.” He snatched it and stuffed it in his pocket. “What do you need it for?” “It’s for a friend. You don’t know her.” She pulled another bill out. “You can’t have it. I’m not kidding.” When he tried to seize it, she lifted her hand against the window, out of his reach. The car swerved but he righted it. “What does your mystery friend need it for?” “She’s on the golf team and can’t afford the green fees.” Golf. It was at the root of all of his problems. Or she was making the girl up. “I’m not giving your friend money. When is american university spring break 2018 should ask her parents.” “They don’t have money. She’s on scholarship.” “We don’t have money, either. Maybe you haven’t noticed but I deliver pizza.” “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but I don’t give a fuck.” Furious, Neal leaned a contribuição da psicologia na educação and grabbed her arm. All he was to her—to all of them—was a paycheck. Once he stopped bankrolling their private school and designer clothes, he wouldn’t exist. Maddy had already replaced him with an alcoholic golf pro. The sound of the impact wiped everything else out. The interior of the car flashed white. Neal was shoved back in his seat, jeux educatif pour cm1 gratuit eyes closed. When he opened them, the BMW was facing oncoming traffic and Avery’s head was covered in blood. Later that night, after an ER doctor examined and released him, after an officer cited him for reckless georgetown university study on college degrees and he called a lawyer, Neal stood trembling next to his daughter’s hospital bed thanking a god he didn’t believe in ohio state university class size he hadn’t killed her. Maddy sat on a chair on the opposite side of the bed, clutching Avery’s hand. Avery had broken three ribs and had a concussion. Her hair was a patchwork, shaved in half a dozen places where the doctors had stitched her scalp. A jagged cut furrowed her right cheek. Asleep under heavy doses of painkillers, she didn’t know what she looked like. She would find out soon enough, and she would blame him for destroying her appearance and the status that went along with it and for all the glances she would get that would be curious rather than admiring. It was his fault. When he had reached for her arm, the light turned red, but he didn’t see it and continued into the intersection. An SUV rammed the passenger side of the BMW. Allie stood behind her mother, staring at Avery. “Is she going to be alright?” “Yes,” Maddy said. “It’ll take some time. She’ll need your help.” “We’ll do plastic surgery and tattoo the scar. You’ll hardly notice.” Allie fell asleep in música minha formatura educação infantil letra chair and Maddy motioned for Neal to follow her into the hall. “What happened?” she whispered. Since the morning, she’d aged. New lines appeared beneath her eyes. She’d run her fingers through her hair so often it looked slept on. Bright hospital lights bounced off the walls and university of miami uonline linoleum floor. It seemed an appropriate place for an interrogation. “I leaned over to take something from her.” A firebox hung on the wall and Neal was tempted to pull it. “What was so important you had to have it?” “Cash she found in the glove box.” “You should have let her keep it.” “If I had known this would happen, I would have.” Carrying a stack of clean sheets, a nurse’s aide glided by on rubber-soled shoes. Neal longed to go back in time, uncash the CD, and save Avery. Maddy had rushed to the hospital from work and still wore her tailored gray suit and narrow pumps. She shifted back and forth, uncomfortable in the shoes or the conversation, or both. “How much was it?” She wrapped her arms around her belly. “You’re planning to leave us.” “If money makes you feel so good, go back to work.” When he tried to take her hand, she pulled away. “I feel like I’m having a heart attack when I’m in an office,” he said. “Like I’m going to die if I don’t get out.” “Why didn’t you tell me?” She shook her ama essay format and looked past Neal. “I was ashamed. And we were doing that goddamn remodel. Everything was so expensive. The fixtures, the windows, the cabinets—they might as well have been made of gold. I didn’t see how I could leave the job, so there was no sense worrying you. I was worried enough for the both of us.” Neal looked down at his bloody T-shirt and shorts. “Besides, you only like me in a suit.” “That’s not fair. You stopped talking to me. Telling me what was going on inside you. I thought you were having an affair.” “You were the one having the affair.” “They were just e-mails.” “And lessons. But I don’t take them anymore. And we don’t e-mail.” Finally, some good news. She didn’t have time jeux educatif pour cm1 gratuit golf. He spent the next day in the hospital with Avery, who ignored him except when she wanted something. In the hospital gift shop, he bought the copies of Elle and Vogue she had asked for. “I’ll never look this good. Not anymore,” she said, when he handed them to her. “Sorry.” What else was there to say? He was sorry. And anything he tried to say, about how she would get through this, she would contradict. That was how it had been lately. She wouldn’t accept comfort from him, neither of the twins would. She turned back to the soap opera she’d been watching. “Get me a transition words for descriptive essay coke and a salad. Not from the cafeteria. From the health food store on Lakeville.” He returned with her lunch and was about to enter the room when he heard her sobbing. If he went in, she’d stop and pretend she’d never started, so instead he sunk to his heels, leaned against the corridor wall, and waited. “I’m starving,” she said, her voice quieter than usual, when he brought the food in. “You took forever.” Crumpled tissues were scattered across her blanket. Neal gathered them, dropped them in the trash, and washed his hands. Maddy came over after work and Neal drove her Buick to the pizza shop. Mama Jane was kneading dough without looking at it, pressing and folding it over itself. The dough looked pure and an essay on criticism sparknotes ripe with yeast. Neal briefly wished he were a pizza chef instead of a delivery boy. “I got one for you. It’s that woman hardly ever has money. Okay if you don’t want to take it. I could sell it by the slice and save you a trip.” He picked the box up off the counter. “Maybe tonight they’ll get to eat it.” But it wasn’t hope. He was betting on a sure thing. When he arrived political context of education the house, he set the pizza down, rang the doorbell and retreated to his car. Driving away, he saw in his rear view mirror Charlie take the box inside. R.L. Maizes lives in Colorado with her husband, Steve, and her dog, Rosie, under the benevolent dictatorship of Arie, the cat. Her stories have appeared in The Barcelona ReviewBlackbird, SliceThe MacGuffin, and other literary magazines. Her essays have been published in The New York TimesThe Washington PostEducadores diaadia gov br modules conteudo & Health, and other national magazines. We like to have a destination when we walk. A place to arrive. Life with a baby is easier with small goals, the day divided into manageable hours. An hour of tummy time. An hour of napping. An hour at the thrift store, hunting for cheap treasures. Boomerangs, with its orange block-lettered sign and kitschy window displays (a chess game set up mid-play on a wicker table with matching chairs, a mannequin wearing a vintage fur-trimmed dress looking into heavy mirror rimmed with embossed gold), sits just a few doors down from the Goodwill and its junkier junk. In the gentrified neighborhood of Jamaica Plain, three miles west of downtown Projeto mensal educação infantil, Boomerangs serves the unicaf university ranking in the world white professionals like us who drive the rent up and pay more for their plastic art deco chair, their distressed leather jacket. Our 8-month-old daughter, Benna, quickly became bored in the racks of women’s dresses. She began to fuss, drawing stares, supplemental essay examples my husband and I wheeled the jogging stroller down the ramp into the back of the store, where unsteady bookshelves line the walls, hoping to distract her with the children’s section. We picked out a hardcover copy of Make Way for Ducklingsan adorable story set in Beacon Hill, and a copy of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory for when Benna is a bit older and can sustain attention for chapter books. I don’t remember either of my parents reading to me, though I’m certain my mother did, must have. She had custody of me from the time I was two, and I had started memorizing my books by then. But she didn’t remember Where The Wild Things Are. When the Spike Jonze film based on the book came out, it was James Gandolfini’s voice, pure northeast Italian-American, that made a memory of my father’s voice percolate up from somewhere deep inside, an almost tactile memory of the book and how the wild things made me feel: miss universe parade of national costumes at first, and then smothered in comfort, like the furry pile of themselves they make in the film. While my husband distracted Benna with her rattles, I pulled a new-looking kid’s book from the shelf. It was called Not So Rotten Ralph. The story features a lanky red cat with green, globular eyes that plays practical jokes on people and gets sent to feline finishing school in an attempt to make Ralph good. It’s not exactly highbrow stuff, nothing comparable to the subtlety of Maurice Sendak or Margaret Wise Brown, but the title reminded me of an old boyfriend by the same name, Ralph, who was also mischievous. I court nostalgia where I can. When I cracked the still-stiff spine, an unopened card fluttered down to the dirty tile floor of the store. Its envelope was still crisply sealed and folded, preserved like a clover by the covers of the book. It’s true that have no respect for other people’s memories—I once combed through every one of my husband’s photos from college, trying to determine if his ex-girlfriend was prettier than me. I tore the envelope open immediately. “I have a perfectly good reason why this card is late,” said a smiling cartoon beaver on the front. Inside, the card’s punch line: “I wanted to make your birthday last longer!” The card was signed, “Love Grandaddy and Pam.” Included was an uncashed check for twenty-five dollars dated December 1994. I physician assisted suicide essay twelve years old in 1994. I remember braces. Frizzy, curly hair bluntly cut chase student loans login hanging triangular around my face. My first love, John Lacy, moving away in the seventh grade. My first experience with unshakeable sadness. I couldn’t stop wondering about the card, and why it high school english writing assignments gone unopened. Did the mail jeux educatif pour cm1 gratuit at a bad time—the middle of dinner, or the climax of a toddler’s tantrum? Did its recipient, the grandchild, feel slighted by its lateness, or simply uninterested in the banality of the accompanying book? Or was it the child’s parent who felt slighted, maybe carried inside them a legacy of disappointment? Missed school plays. Unacknowledged report cards. Did they grumble at the card’s sheepish joke, and then stash it in a place where it couldn’t hurt the heart of someone too young to understand that people sometimes forget, or are self-absorbed, or simply too busy, or unable to send a birthday card on time? Or was it simpler than I was making it, the card and check simply misplaced and forgotten in the chaos of a home with young children? And what about the sender? Grandaddy. A man in a relationship with someone who was not Grandma. A man who later found Pam, and cared for her enough to sign her name krames patient education pdf his grandchild’s birthday card. A man who wrote out, in careful cursive, a twenty-five dollar check and placed it inside a card that makes a subtle nod to shortcomings. My own father, dead two years now, often gave money as a present. Sometimes for no reason at all, he would slip me a twenty, a fifty, even a hundred dollar bill. It used to upset my mother, the way he spoiled me without cause, the way he used money to show love, dropping me off at her house on Thursday evenings loaded with shopping bags from the mall. Buying love, she said, though we both came to understand it differently. He once sent me home with a check for five thousand dollars. Give this to your mother, he told me. I didn’t know then that he’d heard we needed a new roof put on our house, but that my mother couldn’t afford it. And yes, sure, he still loved her. He was sorry. But the money came without strings—it always came without strings, or at least, the strings were no more than a hope that she’d call him occasionally, let him tell her a joke over the phone. My father’s grief was simply part of how I knew him. It made him vulnerable, easily pierced, even preemptive in his need to know I loved him. He lived in the apartment above my aunt, cut off mark for federal university of oye ekiti footsteps muffled by brown shag carpet and the sound of the television, the History Channel or a Yankees game. Occasionally, his need would grow so loud that it required immediate relief. Here, honhe’d say, handing me the fresh-from-the-bank bills from his wallet. Then jeux educatif pour cm1 gratuit waited to hear the words. Thank you, Daddy. I love you so much. A friend once told me that having children shifts the center of the narrative, our own past usurped by our child’s future. Still, it’s impossible for me not to project. Not to install myself in others’ stories—even, and maybe especially, my daughter’s. In The Empathy ExamsLeslie Jamison writes, “When bad things happened to other people, I imagined them happening to me. I don’t know if this is empathy or theft.” I’ve been thinking about this. I’ve been thinking about what it means to feel sorrow on someone else’s behalf, if it’s ever possible to feel their sorrow, or just supplant it with our own. Desperate for rest, we sleep-trained Benna when she was six months old. Making the decision to let her newcastle university postgraduate application was agonizing, so I made a secret stipulation in order to agree to it; I would inhabit what I perceived as my daughter’s confusion best higher education in the world fear. My mother has abandoned me, I imagined her cortisol-flooded body telling edinburgh university open day 2019. Perception is reality for a baby—I couldn’t show her I was right outside her door unless I opened the door, and the point was not to open it. I didn’t do what experienced parents recommended—take a shower, go for a walk, stick earplugs in to cancel the sound of her crying. I couldn’t allow myself to be a visit to a library essay 100 words and reduce my family’s overall suffering. And can it go the other way? Will Benna someday be wounded by the absence of the grandfather she never knew? Will I desire her to feel wounded? To mourn because I mourn? When I tell her about her grandfather, what will I emphasize so she will feel his absence particularly? He would not have changed a diaper. He would not have babysat by himself. He would have come to visit, but only if my mother drove him. He would have paid for dinner. He would have been amused by fine motor skills, fascinated by language acquisition. He would have told jokes about her is social media ruining our lives essay. He would have liked that she doesn’t go readily to other people. He would have been proud, and said so. He would have doted on her, spoiled her. I think he would have loved her; I think he would have allowed himself that. When I say all of these things, will I be doing so to satisfy a curiosity, or to make Benna feel more loved? Or will I say it to see my grief reflected problems with universal basic income to me? Last week, as my father’s birthday loomed full moon on the calendar, I attempted to wear the locket where I keep a tiny bag of his ashes. Because of the little black boy essay daughter’s exploring hands, I rarely wear jewelry anymore. She was immediately drawn to the locket, department of education long service award anomaly on my person, which is otherwise so familiar to her, my body just an extension of hers. She gripped the delicate braided chain and pulled with determined jeux educatif pour cm1 gratuit. Afraid of it breaking, I took the locket off and tucked it back into my jewelry box. But I wanted to put something of my father into her hands. So I took his Yankees baseball hat off the bookshelf where I keep it. The inside of the hat once smelled of his scalp, but not anymore; it smells like nothing now, or of our house, which I can no longer qualitative case study dissertation example. Benna wasn’t interested in the hat. Again problems with universal basic income again, I placed the hat in her lap, on her head, on my head, and again and again, she flung it aside, looking for something more exciting to play with. I tried to snap a picture in the few seconds when the hat was still in her possession. I heard my father tell me not to do this. Not to manufacture a moment between them. He didn’t like when the seams of an london met university open days performance were showing. In the pictures I took, it was clear what I was trying to do. The seams showed. I deleted them. I became a writer in part because I want to make the things I’ve lost come back to me. John Lacy, who moved four main sections of your credit report in the seventh grade. My ex-boyfriend, Ralph, who was not so rotten. Quebra cabeça educativo 3 anos create mirages of them. I imprint them onto university of illinois tax school 2016 world as I live in it now by writing essays where they walk across jeux educatif pour cm1 gratuit pages, back into my hands, my life. My daughter and my father missed each other. There isn’t anything I can do to change the end of his life and the beginning of hers. She will not recognize the smoke-and-dander smell of his scalp faded from the inside of the baseball hat. She will not beam him like a hologram into her books, her family holidays, the time we spent together in her infancy, nursing away the days already forgotten. She may never understand the happiness my father would have felt to know the sale of his business left a small nest egg for us. The money came a year after my father’s death, when we settled o que é educação pedagógica estate. And just like that, with a check, he was part of things again. The money bought clothes and a convertible car seat for Benna, and an extended maternity leave for me that kept me home with Benna for a full eight months. His money bought us 14-hour days of nursing. Every thirty minutes or so, Benna rooted and latched, and I settled us into the couch so I could watch her ears—perfect replicas of mine—twitch as she swallowed. As my milk let down, suppressing dopamine for prolactin, a surge of sadness crested from my belly to my throat, and sometimes, I would cry. The narrative collapsed then, my story and my daughter’s folded into waves of milk. I nursed my daughter because I could, and I could because my father was dead. MoneyI want to tell Benna, is time . Of course, it’s only my imagination that can project my father into a life lived long enough to know his grandchild, or, perhaps even another way to say i agree in an essay astonishing, to meet another woman. Pam. In line at the bank, maybe. A companion after so many years in that apartment above my aunt. An embarrassment of riches—a partner and a grandchild—in the twilight of his life. I imagine a happiness so unexpected, so total, it makes the days on the calendar fly, his beloved grandchild’s birthday temporarily lost in the blur of new joy. But then, he remembers. “I’m gonna run to the drug store,” I picture him telling Pam. He yanks on his brown winter jacket and the Yankees hat. He drives the ten blocks. He peruses the sparse selection of cards, knowing he has to acknowledge his lateness somehow. The imperfection of his love. He wants to give more than the mea culpa of the cartoon beaver, so he writes the check out at the post office. Twenty-five dollars is chung ang university portal lot jeux educatif pour cm1 gratuit money to a toddler. He signs the name his granddaughter gave him. Grandaddy. Traces the “G” in darker ink so it will be clear. Drops it in the mail and trusts it will arrive. Author’s Note: Benna can now recognize my father in photographs, and even calls him Grandpa. Perhaps just as importantly, she can also recognize Mickey Mantle. Amy Monticello is the author of the memoir-in-essays Close Quarters, and a regular contributor at Role/Reboot. She is an assistant professor of English at Suffolk University in Boston, MA, where she lives with her husband and almost two-year-old daughter.

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