Last night, near eleven, my eldest decided to have a meltdown because his phone was being confiscated. We took the phone because he had violated curfew and neglected to do anything we asked before he left the house. So it was a fair and predictable consequence. He’s sixteen, though, and of a generation that has mentally merged with their technology. Losing his phone is equivalent in his mind to torture. He proceeded to have a full-on panic attack-esque fit which caused a raucous in our tiny apartment late at night. One of the things that came out of that emotional…


This life, this set-up, it’s all a slapdash construction-in-progress initiated by someone who refuses to acknowledge the sharks circling her little vessel, adrift in the sea. I have made a houseboat out of a busted-up canoe and have strung up tiny fairy lights along the roof, though we can’t turn them on because the motor isn’t working by which I mean to say there was never a motor in the first place. Don’t tell the kids that it has been me back at the stern, hand-paddling us along, making engine noises with my lips. I don’t want them to panic….