Rings

Dad's wedding ring is far too tight for his now plump fingers. 28 years ago, when his fingers were thin and his ring fit loose, he felt hesitant to even wear the wedding band. He wasn't sure if he could handle the responsibility of keeping something for so long. Who knows, maybe he would discover that the size wasn't ideal or the design a little too plain. But now the ring is a part of him. And Dad smiles whenever I try to pull the ring from its 28 year-old residence, because he knows that though at one time the object felt foreign, his commitment to that ring has been the greatest of his life.

Babies

"And hold your arms like this," Mom curved her arms in front of her, "so that the baby's head is supported. Yep, that's about right." I stared down at my arms, rigid and uncertain. I loved babysitting dollies, or playing the mother role in games of "house". Yet somehow, when the infant was actually living and breathing, I was very intimidated. If I dropped the toy doll, no harm was done. If I shifted my weight wrong with this brand new baby in my arms, I was sure to be banished forever. I winced at Mom, not sure that holding this baby was a good idea. But Mom carefully snuggled the baby, and whispered in a light tone "Would you like to hold the baby?" I hesitantly nodded my head yes, and Mom again whispered, this time to the baby, "Are you ready? Your nice cousin Mandy is going to hold you now. She's very nice. You'll learn to like her a lot." I stared at the blue-eyed bundle, smothered in embroidered blankets, and smiled. I was absolutely terrified. Yet I couldn't help but beam at this little child placed in my arms.

Taco Pie

"Wow. This is really good, Mand. I like what you did to the crust." My roommate stabbed her fork into the steaming, cheesy casserole for another bite. I shrugged my shoulders and said nothing. She continued to rave about how it smelled delicious, as the aroma of melting cheese and spicy meat interrupted the musty smell of our apartment and the sound of sizzling, bubbling grease overpowered the sounds of passing cars. I made some caveman sounding noises in response. I felt guilty. I was being pretentious! Here I was, acting all homemaker like, when in reality I was hopeless even at making mac and cheese. I stared at the taco pie, and pleaded with it to keep my secret. I was a terrible cook. I had ruined every meal my mom had ever patiently tried to teach me. Years of her lecturing always ended in a spontaneous trip to Arby's rather than a home-cooked meal. And one day, something miraculous happened. I tentatively pulled out a casserole from the toasty oven and gasp. Sniff sniff. Mom and I stared at each other with large eyes. We silently lowered our gaze to the casserole before slowly lifting our heads back up. Still quiet, Mom shuffled to the silverware drawer and grabbed a spoon. The spoon plunged into the meal, and then made its entrance into Mom's mouth. Reverence fell among the kitchen. "Mandy. It's--it's good!"
Victory.

Dressed to the Hilt

I "gracefully" walked down the stairs to where my dad sat waiting for Mom and me. "WOW! Look at you! You look so pretty, Angel." Dad, in his suit and tie, stood up from his chair and met me at the stair's landing. I ducked my head and mumbled a "thanks, daddy". But I actually wasn't that embarrassed, I knew that I looked nice in my Christmas dress--black velvet on top, with a forest green satin skirt that made a loud swishing sound with my every movement. I looked like I was dressed for a grand gala, in anticipation for the Nutrcracker Ballet we would be attending. Dad looked down at his watch and shook his head. He mumbled something about mom's definition of "ready in five minutes" being seriously skewed, and then yelled "Teresa Jane, are you ready to go?" Dad and I immediately heard the thuds of several objects falling to the ground, which we assumed were probably brushes and a hairdryer knocked over in Mom's haste to get out of the bathroom. Dad and I snickered a little as we waited for Mom to appear. She was slightly out of breath as she paused at the top of the stairs. "I told you I'd only be a minute!" Mom smiled down at us both as she adjusted one of her earrings before walking down the stairs. Dad didn't tease her back. He just grinned, and nudged my side with his elbow. He looked like he was the luckiest man in the world.

Biology

I stared at the blank page before me. It was still blank. For twenty minutes it had been white, and crisp, and new. In any other context, it would represent hope and opportunity. Purity, perhaps. But I was in my 10th Grade Biology class, and it only symbolized my impending failure.
Mr. Bailey was a great guy. I'm sure if I had gone to high school with him we would have been friends. But he was my teacher, and so the whole witty, outspoken, often inappropriate sense of humor turned me off. It boggled my mind, actually. I mean, all of the teachers at my school were professional. They dressed nice, and spoke with dignity. They demanded respect. Mr Bailey--he demanded pity. I think it's because he was aging prematurely. He was maybe 30 years old, but his eyesight was terrible and his hair grayed and  receded. And bless his heart, he just couldn't deal with it. He was so insecure about it, that he ended up overcompensating in all other aspects of his life. His clothes were fashionable, if not a little flashy, and his vocabulary was infused with phrases that were "too hip" for any of his students to understand. I'm sure he had a sweet spirit, but I just found it repulsive. It was distracting and overbearing, to the point where I couldn't concentrate on any class lectures. All I could think about was what the phrase "cool like a cucumber" could mean, and what it had to do with osmosis.
Which is why I ended up getting a B- in my class--a grade which is definitely not "cool like a cucumber".

Clearance Crazy

"Well, isn't it funny seeing you here?" Mom raised her arms up and embraced the woman my brothers and I only knew as a stranger. The two ladies began to giggle and exchange bits of information about their lives. Their conversation was brief, and as the woman began pushing her shopping cart away, Mom's eyes got very big. "Umm, Mickey!" Mom began to length her stride as she began to pursue this woman. "Where did you get those fans?" she inquired. "Oh, in the home decor section. They're on sale." Mom held her breathe for a moment before nodding her head. The lady stared back at her, but Mom still didn't respond, so the woman went on her way.
When Mom returned to us, we began to ask her who the lady was. "Oh, uh, just a girl. She uhh...I knew her" Mom suddenly was sprinting toward the home decor section. "Oh no!" said the expression on both my brothers' and my face. Mom was going to hit the clearance section. Mother, usually so logical and lovely in every way, became this competitive, aggressive crazy person once she knew something was half-price. We all scrambled to the prized fans, only to see Mom rearranging our shopping cart to house the large, cumbersome rotating fan's boxes. "Do we really need these, Ma?" I tried to say gently. "Of course!" she said, as she continued to place the fans on the rack below the cart. Defeated, I stared at my brothers. For Mom, there simply was no escaping the adrenaline rush associated with sale shopping.
We left the store 10 minutes later with 12 fans.

Not Your Average Kid

Jacob was weird. Physically, he was a misfit. He was a good head taller than most of our class. He was skinny, too--too skinny. I often stared at him and wondered if his mother ever hugged him, because he just looked too bony and pokey to embrace. I felt sorry for Jacob's mom. She was probably really sore. Jacob also had a curly "rat's tail" on the base of his neck, while the rest of his hair was buzzed short. I was intrigued by this kid. I was used to the blonde-haired, blue-eyed little boys who came with their hair parted and their outfits (hand-picked by their moms, no doubt) matching and starched. Jacob wasn't like that at all. He often wore over-sized button up shirts which usually displayed a fire-breathing dragon, skeleton, or thirsty flames. He wore "wheelies",too. The shoes with wheels on the bottom that my mother always said were too frivolous. Regardless of his appearance, he still was rather odd. He often rode his wheelies backwards, in figure-eights, around the class while he sang Latin-style songs. Which was shocking, because we'd only been exposed to the songs from musicals and Disney channel. And just when we were no longer experiencing culture shock from his mariachi music, Jacob would begin dancing. Yikes.

Jacob was aware that he was different from the rest of our grade. How could he not know? I mean, he was the only one who didn't look like he'd stepped out of a JC Penny catalog. But he was proud of this. One day, he told me that he was exhausted. I stared at him with suspicious eyes. I had been waiting for this kid's story since the day he moved in--everyone had a theory about him. Some thought he was full of it, just trying to get a reaction out of us. Others speculated that he had escaped from an asylum. I was still uncertain, but I was determined to find out. "What's wrong, Jacob?" I asked in what I hoped was an approachable voice. He narrowed his eyes, slowly pushed me against a school wall, placed his hand on my shoulder and took a deep breath. "At least he can breathe." I thought to myself. I knew that I'd been holding mine. "The demands..." he paused. I stared at him, suddenly terrified of the truth. "The demands of being a goblin...are just too much."

I never found out Jacob's story. I guess that ignorance is bliss, after all.