The First Cut Is The Deepest

49 Weeks

Turns out tonguing the back of a Metro North train seat, even for a half second, is as loaded with as many germs as your phobias can imagine. Ren is battling his first cold he picked up somewhere in Apple de la Huge. Only this one is real. He had a runny nose a few months ago and we almost took him to the hospital. The Parent Colored Glasses see every tooth bursting through and spraying blood across the walls. I'm not normal.

Even though our house music is now coughs and shushes, especially at two o'clock in the morning, Ren wakes with a giggle or a happy attempt at a new word. This kid is an inspiration with a capital "P" for positive. For his next cold I promise to be more calm, remember his smiles, and take the drama to bed much earlier every night. I'm so tired. Like I don't know my own world tired. Ren might feel crappy but he still jogs to church, rakes leaves for the aging neighbors, and donates blood to cancer riddled reindeer every other day. All without coffee. I don't know how he does it.

Call Me Mr. Brainwash

48 Weeks

To: "Grayson Morley" <****y@**.com>
From: "Jennifer Skura" <j**a@**.com>
Sent: Friday, August 28, 2015 11:04:54 PM
Subject: Re: NYC....

I love Reoccupied so much. Thank you.

ODDDDD that I am sitting in an NYC hotel room right now. Ren is asleep in a crib by the safety windows and Greg in the bathtub full of heavy chlorination. I haven’t been back here since April 2014 and I lived here from Dec 2000 to Jan 2013. I feel like I’m home tonight, even in a hotel, and reading your piece felt just right. And of course made me think about my family in Texas even though I haven't occupied any real estate there in years. (I still relate warmly to the Christmastime pullout couch however.)

Your words are perfect. Even your writer’s bio. Can’t wait to read this in The New Yorker.

De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da

47 Weeks

I haven't finished any of my writing. I haven't papered the bedroom or repotted the plants I left on the porch. I haven't made a hot dinner, done the laundry, or changed the sheets in two weeks. The last weed I pulled was up to my arm pit. I haven't answered an email in six days and I haven't returned a phone call since my birthday last year. I bring work home from the office at night and carry it back there again every morning. I forget to feed the dog at breakfast and when I kiss my husband I barely look at him.

I'm in love with a tiny, little bald guy who puts sticky fingers up my nose, pees in the tub, and calls me "ATSH."

Hindsight is Plenty Plenty

46 Weeks

Almost exactly nine years ago I met Greg Skura. Shortly after, we spent months together rehearsing a Václav Havel play with an exceptional team of collaborators. Many nights and weekends doing our favorite thing with our favorite folks and all while falling in love. It was heaven. We never looked back.

If seconds after I laid eyes on Greg in that audition room, future me tapped me on the shoulder and said, "You're going to marry him, move to the country, and have his son." I would have said, "I know." I just did. And even though our favorite thing has devolved into visiting farm animals on our days off, it's still heaven.

Greg... he probably would have told future me to calm down and get some rest.