Waving Not Drowning

Man, I don't know, he answers every question with a question, makes me crazy. Cryptic little bugger. What do I do? I mean, he's her kid, not mine. I'm not a parent, not even close. No clue where to begin. Half the time he makes wanna turn tail and run the other half  I'm stunned speechless. I swear, one minute he's a genius, makes me feel like I'm lost in space, totally wise beyond his years. Filled with these zen koans, for crying out loud. Spilling out of him like a beat poet on mushrooms, so easy. And funny. Holy wow. Cracks me up. Then the next minute he's screaming blue murder or crying or whining or gets weirdly quiet and it just, you know, it unnerves me, man. I don't know what to do. I mean, he's a kid, right? I'm the boss. Or at least I should be but he gets me tied up in knots and wrapped around his little finger. I am done for. It melts my heart and fries my brain and when he doesn't come round for more than 4 days I'm sick wit...

As she walked through the kitchen she took a look at the pile of breakfast dishes in the sink, sighed, doubled back to the circular red mat, rolled up the sleeves on her thumbed yoga jacket and threw on the tap. Do them now or deal with them at the crack of ass in the morning. Why she didn't do them this morning confounds her since she found the time to read 300 pages of her book while searching for knee high brown boots online and cruising recipe blogs for cinnamon twist churro-like donuts. Those are priorities. Dishes, pffft. Unexciting. Until 8 pm rolls by and Kerri realizes how much of the day she's pissed away. Anxiety creeps in like a parachute deflating on top of her, swallowing her whole. Gotta do more, gotta be more. That's when she clocks the teapot, barely warm, filled to the brim with the after dinner herbal digestive tea she boiled off an hour earlier. At least she can drink lukewarm tea. Tepid coffee, not so much. Either ice cold or steaming hot with a thick c...