Green Snot and Jam

By: Rochelle Rickoff Wilensky

I wish I may, I wish I might

May you, damn virus, be gone tonight.

You’ve had your way

With my little one.

You’ve caused her nose to

Run, Run, Run.

Her snot went green

Her cries won’t bend;

I think our nights

Will never end.

It’s one bad cold right to another.

Will G-d have pity on your mother?

I wipe; I soothe; I sing; I pray.

I beg for yet another day.

Where’s sleep? We need so

Desperately

To rest rest rest

And zzzz zzzz zzzzz.

SMASH!

ZAM!

PUNCH!

WHAM!

I hate you most

Green snot and jam.

“I Got It!”

By: Lauren Spagnoletti

“I got it!”

That’s his catch phrase. Because he does “got” it. He’s a take control, get out of my way, get it done kind of kid. He doesn’t let his height get in the way. He carries around a step stool wherever he goes. When he discovered this work-around, the world opened up to him. Now he could access any snack in the pantry or fridge, and reach the toys that were previously unavailable to him.

Despite the fact that he hasn’t let us sleep in almost 2.5 years, we never knew the brightness he’d bring into our world.

The Prophecy of Pee

By: Rochelle Rickoff Wilensky

It’s Day 7 of potty training a two-year-old. Last night, she refused to sit on the potty 8 times, peed all over herself, slipped in her own pee, fell on her rear, and then screamed like a banchi as I burst out laughing at her. Today, absolutely zero pee even made it into the potty. Telling toddlers to put their bodily waste into a potty as they scream “No! Myself! Library!” is like trying to force your dog to pee outside when it’s raining. The dog – or kid – may lift a leg, but “All done!” is merely overture.

The Ribbit Song

By: Lauren Spagnoletti

I was frustrated to have to calm him for a second time that night, when so many hours lay ahead of us before morning light. But he crawled into my lap and snuggled his head between my breast and arm. He belonged in the curve of my seated body. I rocked him back and forth and inhaled deeply the smell of his floppy hair. “Mama, ribbit song,” he said. Normally I would have refused, in service of our treacherous sleep training ritual. But tonight I sang about frogs on logs, and we both smiled as his eyes turned to slits.

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