Tag Archives: Jack Patrick

#86 – Where the heart is

I twist around in the passenger seat of our rented car, which Oliver is driving at 25mph past some M1 roadworks, and look at the children. All three are fast asleep, their mouths slightly open. Jack is snoring. If only … Continue reading

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#85 – A trick of the light

Talk about déjà vu. January last year,  all over again. I sit on an uncomfortable plastic chair on one side of a teacher’s desk. On the other side of the desk, in a larger, more padded chair, sits Patsy Traynor: … Continue reading

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#84 – Stages of youth

“No. For the last time, she can’t come to school with us,” I say to Jack, as I lock the front door behind us and start to hustle the three children into the car. “We’re already late. You want to … Continue reading

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#74 – Quarterly accounts

One quarter of the way through the year. Time to check in with those New Year’s Resolutions. In the wee hours of January 1st while being kept awake by the neighbours’ illuminated, inflatable Christmas decorations, I promised myself I would … Continue reading

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#73 – Stuck in my craw (fish)

Beth is in possession of her wooden box again. I, however, am in possession of a new enemy. Ah well. I suppose it’s about time. Last week I met Crystal’s mom, Jodee Addison. In the nursery school parking lot, we … Continue reading

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#72 – Puppy Love

I really don’t want to make this phone call. But I dial the number anyway. The phone picks up at the other end, a child answers, and I’m about to launch into a high-pitched, nervous Hello-is-your-mommy-there routine when I realise it’s not a … Continue reading

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#71 – Bonnie and Clyde go to preschool

Jack and I sit at the kitchen table, surrounded by the Disney Valentine cards and heart-decorated pencils I bought in January. It’s serious business, writing out sixteen Valentine cards when you’ve only just learned your alphabet — Jack, not me … Continue reading

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#70 – A brewing storm

  Jack lies on the kitchen floor in his red pyjamas, legs and arms flailing, his face a puce, wet, dripping mess. He looks like an overripe tomato. “I want Fergus!” he wails, then hitches in a breath for more … Continue reading

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#69 – This dog’s life takes the biscuit

Fergus looks up at me, then down at his empty dish in the corner of the laundry room, then back at me. I could be imagining it, but I think his lip is curling. “No,” I say to him, as … Continue reading

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#68 – Puppy fat

The paediatrician pinches a wad of baby flesh and plunges her syringe into the right thigh of an unsuspecting George. A couple of seconds of silence while George’s bottom lip sticks out and he fixes me with a reproachful stare. … Continue reading

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