If Mark’s wobbly baby tooth was going to fall out, I was fairly sure it was going to happen at camp.
Browsing: Mark in Senior Kindergarten
Mark gives me a weird look, one that says, “I can’t take you seriously as a mother if you’ve never had a freaking marshmallow”.
Thanks to me French upbringing, I’ve been blessed with the ability to say “penis,” “vulva” and “vagina” without giggling or blushing. I can answer any question.
“Mommy! Look what I’ve got! METAL!” “Metal?” “No, medal!” Mark shouts, barging in to my…
To me, Mark’s school is some kind of mismanaged charity with inconsistent guidelines where the presence of kids is an inconvenience and volunteers are always needed urgently because made-up reasons.
Sometimes, I say ONE thing ONCE and it will be remembered forever. Problem is, I never know what will stick with Mark. If I did, parenting would be easier, right?
It takes me a second to realize that Mark snuck into my bedroom again. I smile.
Mark’s big questions always come out of the blue—even though I’m pretty sure he has been thinking about them for hours—and they often start with an assertion statement.
On a quiet Sunday last fall, my in-laws decided that Feng and I had failed at parenting again. The situation was serious—at the ripe old age of 5, Mark couldn’t swim.
Feng and I froze. I looked over my shoulder. Mark was standing outside, by the door, his hand….
On December 1, Feng and I had a combined fever of 80ºC, and suddenly, writing to Santa was no longer a priority.
“All done with your Christmas shopping?” the salesperson asked cheerfully as Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer started playing for the 275th times.
Alright. Maybe Mark doesn’t speak French. And yes, maybe it’s my fault.
Picture me, a cake box on my open left palm, my right hand clutching three strings attached to three large balloons threatening to fly away at any moment in the cold breeze.
I can’t remember a bedtime routine that didn’t include a quick check on the date and a promise that yes, one day it would be October 12.