Permission Granted

by David Allen Sullivan You do not have to choose the bruised peach or misshapen pepper others pass over. You don't have to bury your grandmother's keys underneath her camellia bush as the will states. You don't need to write a poem about your grandfather coughing up his lung into that plastic tube—the machine's wheezing almost masking the kvetching sisters in their Brooklyn kitchen. You can let the crows amaze your son without your translation of their cries. You can lie so long under this summer shower your imprint will be left when you rise. You can be stupid and simple as a heifer. Cook plum and apple turnovers in the nude. Revel in the flight of birds without dreaming of flight. Remember the taste of raw dough in your mouth as you edged a pie. Feel the skin on things vibrate. Attune yourself. Close your eyes. Hum. Each beat of the world's pulse demands only that you feel it. No thoughts. Just the single syllable: Yes ... See the homeless woman following the tunings of a dead composer? She closes her eyes and sways with the subways. Follow her down, inside, where the singing resides.

Toddler can reach his cups in the drawer and work the fridge's water dispenser. Makes my life much easier.

I have a drawer in the fridge of just toddler-friendly fruits and veggies. He can get to it anytime he wants.

These jewelry organizers are perfect for organizing baby's stuff. Q-tips, Vaseline, alcohol swabs, Vitamin D, thermometer, etc.

Thanks, ladies!

So I was thinking how nice it musta been before feminism when everyone was a stay at home mom and they musta been more support and community and martinis and such and then I thought Holy Balls - I can quit (being a SAHM). Can you imagine if you had.no.choice? The I bitch slapped myself for my idiocy.