TRACY MANASTER

Unashamed confession: I have wept, openly, at one hundred percent of the Pixar films I’ve ever attended. And yes, I cried this weekend at Finding Dory. But unlike the Toy Story tears that honored the inevitability of change or the Inside Out tears at seeing the imperfect tween I used to be so perfectly mirrored, the Dory tears had a bitter immediacy, coupled with an unbecoming acknowledgment. I am jealous of a pair of fish. Because Jenny and Charlie, Dory’s parents? Should be

Since setting is important, I'm going to tell you about my house. It overlooks the river and, on clear days, four mountains. We bought it for the acre-ish of yard for our then-hypothetical progeny to go benignly feral in. We mowed. We pruned the fruit trees. We put in raised beds that yielded even more phallic than usual cucumbers. And then we had said progeny. Twins. Our two-for-one recession special. The equation of keeping two tiny humans alive plus Marc's job plus my job

My inbox this morning featured a recommendation from Amazon that I buy my own book. I didn’t. I have a copy. I have dozens, actually. One time my children asked if they could use them to build a pavilion for their stuffies (I love a vocabulary that includes both “pavilion” and “stuffies”). Instead of going for the all powerful one-click purchase, I over thought: Were there others out there waking to the same siren call of You Could Be Home By Now? Given the early morning-ness