WET SOCKS

I stopped turning on the heating after the recent electricity bill, which was 100 dollars more than the last one. I walk around in five layers, the tip of my nose icy. The children don’t seem to notice and are happy in their usual t-shirts and things.

***

It makes it hard to get out of bed, when the air is so cold. I have to get up, but every time I poke my nose out of the covers, I shudder and dive back in. I crawled back into bed this morning after taking the kids to school, and slept/dozed for another 2.5 hours. Days without classes are sweet, the days I feel embarrassed when people talk to me (as they always do) about HOW HARD it must be to do grad school with two kids, no really HOW HARD, no, we mean it, SO HARD.

***

Wading through the slushy lakes which are now our fair city’s pavements, icy water seeps into our boots. The Golden Boy does not enjoy the feeling and starts shrieking. “I want to kill myself! My socks are wet!” This is his recent chant, picked up from god knows where. Killing himself because he has to read. Killing himself because we have to go, or leave, or something. I tell him that my socks are wet too, and I don’t want to kill myself. This does not console him.

***

The ice and snow on the ground obscure parking lot numbers, and somebody has taken my slot. I try to find the superintendent, and can’t. I leave messages. I park the car in an adjacent shopping lot. Hours pass. I call again. I am given a new parking slot. I crawl-drive around the wet freezing ice-covered parking lot, trying to find the new spot. These are first world problems, I keep telling myself, but I am still cold and highly annoyed.

***

My textbooks and I play the waiting game. There is one on each of the three couches and armchairs. There is one within arm’s reach wherever I sit. I sit as far away as possible, and read internet newspapers.

***

Hundreds of dollars are being spent to help the Golden Boy’s school work. He read “The Blue Horse” and then writes a reading response by himself, without me having to spell out all the words for him. He reads his reading response out loud for me and his aunt, who is a million miles away on a different planet.  We scream with joy, and tears come to our eyes from the beauty and sheer genius of his work. He smiles shyly and proudly. We continue screaming about other things, yelling into the laptop.

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One comment

  1. golnooshwrites

    I loved this post! Why can’t you always write like this? :DDD

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