journal and he’s drooling on it, so he must be asleep. He looks totally cute and peaceful, and you’d never know he was bawling his eyes out ten minutes ago.
Tuesday, August 14 th
W e saw Dr. Tierney today, and he didn’t ask to see our journals, not even to make sure we’ve been using them. When I told him about Dad’s time machine and Sammy’s psycho snakes, he said, “Let’s talk about you, Josh.” But when I told him that Sammy and I are collecting stories and photographs to make into a scrapbook about Mom, he scrunched his eyebrows together and frowned like that was a completely insane and puzzling idea.
So that confirms my poor opinion of psychiatrists. Except he gave us more journals, and they’re probably expensive. So that’s good.
Sammy loves the Mommy Book, which is what he calls our scrapbook. We haven’t even written it, but in his mind it’s already done. We started collecting pictures for it and planning which stories to include. Sam mentioned some of the less nice things about Mom, like how she yelled at me to stop combing my hair and get outside to the bus stop every morning last year. It must be a strong memory for Sam, because he asked about five thousand times, “Are, are, a-a-are we going to have a picture uh-uh-uh-of Mommy screaming at you in the morning?”
I can’t decide whether to include mean things like that or just leave them out. Maybe I can make them into funny jokes about life with Mom. But they were never funny at the time.
Man, she hated it when I was late for school. She’d go on and on about how we have a bus system so she shouldn’t have to drive me. She’d say, “What if we didn’t have a car?” and all sorts of irrelevant things like that. I only missed the bus twice in the whole year, but she yelled at me every single day to get out and wait for it. It’s only partly true that I combed my hair slowly on purpose to bug her. I couldn’t believe how easy it was to make her mad over something so stupid. She never got mad at other stuff, like when I lost my shoes or forgot my homework. But man, she got mad over the school bus.
At least she got me on the bus, which is more than I expect from Dad. I can see him driving off to work, waving at me in the window while I stay home gaming all day.
He took me to soccer on Saturday though. I scored three goals and we won the game. Sammy cheered, partly in his own voice and partly in his Power Ranger girly voice. It was very embarrassing to Dad, who stared at Sam like he was somebody else’s weird kid. Sammy told Dad he wants to play too, because Mom liked soccer. When Dad said it was too late to join, I told him that our neighbor is the five-year-old soccer coach. Dad said, “No way, Josh. They’d never let a five-year-old be coach.” I think he was actually making a joke, even though his expression didn’t change. That has to be a good sign.
Cheetah dropped by with some photographs this morning. Some happy pictures of Mom at work made me smile and then cry a bit. Cheetah hugged me and cried too. She was soft and warm, and it was nice to hug her.
Her name is actually Chaitan. She wrote it on a photograph of her and Mom. I think that’s a weird name because it’s a lot like Sheitan , which is Persian for Satan. Maybe she’s the devil, and she put the snake in Mom’s car. Except I don’t believe in devils. And she doesn’t seem like a devil. She’s awfully pretty. When I told her I’d thought her name was Cheetah, she said that was a good name and if she were African she’d want that name. So that’s what I’m calling her.
I told her that Ashanti families in Africa mourn people for forty days after the funeral. She said it was cool to know stuff like that, but when I asked her if I was a know-it-all, she said no. That’s good, because a lot of know-it-alls win Darwin Awards.
Cheetah already knew about the Darwin Awards. She said she told Mom about them a few years ago. I guess she’s been working on
Tuesday, August 14 th
W e saw Dr. Tierney today, and he didn’t ask to see our journals, not even to make sure we’ve been using them. When I told him about Dad’s time machine and Sammy’s psycho snakes, he said, “Let’s talk about you, Josh.” But when I told him that Sammy and I are collecting stories and photographs to make into a scrapbook about Mom, he scrunched his eyebrows together and frowned like that was a completely insane and puzzling idea.
So that confirms my poor opinion of psychiatrists. Except he gave us more journals, and they’re probably expensive. So that’s good.
Sammy loves the Mommy Book, which is what he calls our scrapbook. We haven’t even written it, but in his mind it’s already done. We started collecting pictures for it and planning which stories to include. Sam mentioned some of the less nice things about Mom, like how she yelled at me to stop combing my hair and get outside to the bus stop every morning last year. It must be a strong memory for Sam, because he asked about five thousand times, “Are, are, a-a-are we going to have a picture uh-uh-uh-of Mommy screaming at you in the morning?”
I can’t decide whether to include mean things like that or just leave them out. Maybe I can make them into funny jokes about life with Mom. But they were never funny at the time.
Man, she hated it when I was late for school. She’d go on and on about how we have a bus system so she shouldn’t have to drive me. She’d say, “What if we didn’t have a car?” and all sorts of irrelevant things like that. I only missed the bus twice in the whole year, but she yelled at me every single day to get out and wait for it. It’s only partly true that I combed my hair slowly on purpose to bug her. I couldn’t believe how easy it was to make her mad over something so stupid. She never got mad at other stuff, like when I lost my shoes or forgot my homework. But man, she got mad over the school bus.
At least she got me on the bus, which is more than I expect from Dad. I can see him driving off to work, waving at me in the window while I stay home gaming all day.
He took me to soccer on Saturday though. I scored three goals and we won the game. Sammy cheered, partly in his own voice and partly in his Power Ranger girly voice. It was very embarrassing to Dad, who stared at Sam like he was somebody else’s weird kid. Sammy told Dad he wants to play too, because Mom liked soccer. When Dad said it was too late to join, I told him that our neighbor is the five-year-old soccer coach. Dad said, “No way, Josh. They’d never let a five-year-old be coach.” I think he was actually making a joke, even though his expression didn’t change. That has to be a good sign.
Cheetah dropped by with some photographs this morning. Some happy pictures of Mom at work made me smile and then cry a bit. Cheetah hugged me and cried too. She was soft and warm, and it was nice to hug her.
Her name is actually Chaitan. She wrote it on a photograph of her and Mom. I think that’s a weird name because it’s a lot like Sheitan , which is Persian for Satan. Maybe she’s the devil, and she put the snake in Mom’s car. Except I don’t believe in devils. And she doesn’t seem like a devil. She’s awfully pretty. When I told her I’d thought her name was Cheetah, she said that was a good name and if she were African she’d want that name. So that’s what I’m calling her.
I told her that Ashanti families in Africa mourn people for forty days after the funeral. She said it was cool to know stuff like that, but when I asked her if I was a know-it-all, she said no. That’s good, because a lot of know-it-alls win Darwin Awards.
Cheetah already knew about the Darwin Awards. She said she told Mom about them a few years ago. I guess she’s been working on
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