it’s them?” she says. “The gang with the artichokes.”
“Yeah, right,” Chris says, in a way that’s not at all convinced. He holds his burger on his lap. “Let’s go,” he says. “We can finish at home.”
She starts the car. The other cars seem to be waiting for her to leave. She reverses, then drives forward. One of the cars also moves forward, toward her left. Chris stares straight ahead. When the car gets closer to them it slows, then comes to a stop.
“Just keep going,” Chris says, but she thinks this could be the wrong move to make. In fact, even thinking about moves is the wrong move. These are probably just teenagers or maintenance men, or someone who’s lost. She stops and puts her window down. “What are you doing?” Chris says through clenched teeth. He shifts in his seat, putting a foot on the dash, then putting it back down.
The driver of the car grins at her. He’s small—compact and ropy. His car is a honey brown that glistens.
“You’re not waiting for us, right?” he asks.
“I don’t think so,” Georgia says. Two guys in the back of the car laugh, and the driver nods as though she’s said something wise. He looks into his rearview mirror, and Georgia looks ahead at the car behind him, which is somewhat blocking the exit. On the other side of the exit is a patch of trees and a Dumpster.
“You sure you’re not waiting for us?” the driver says, and his passengers laugh again, though less so this time.
“Just go,” Chris says, and she realizes her son isn’t nearly as bad as he’d like to be, that jail was just a fluke, a stroke of bad luck, something he’s probably proud of.
Chris is afraid. He thinks they are going to die, and for some reason this gives Georgia a small thump of joy. She is his mommy.
“Hey, you’re listening to the same song as us,” the driver says. Hereaches forward to turn his volume up, and she hears the woman on both radios. Her cries are insistent, firm taps. They blend with the drums, simmering like flavors, building toward something exquisite and exotic yet entirely expected.
“Nice,” Georgia says. “Like a duet.” The driver bobs his head, then says something to the others in Spanish. She doesn’t understand why she isn’t frightened. Maybe residual adrenaline has morphed her anger with Gabe into something like courage or something like apathy or something like hope. She loves when days don’t go as planned, when she’s not on a playground bench staring into space, when she’s not at home watching other people on television making love, drinking pretty cocktails, fighting wars, or asking Pat for a T, please. She loves that her son is afraid and that she isn’t.
She feels the cold air blow through her wet shirt. The driver looks at her again, nodding to the music and tapping his fingers against his lips.
“Good-bye,” she says, but the driver just nods.
“I was waiting for you,” she wants to say to the little man. “I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”
“Go,” Chris says, and Georgia goes on.
Has anyone tried Julie’s Method? We’ve done the diaper countdown, telling her that now no more diapers exist in the world. My husband and I have committed and gone cold turkey. However, we’d like to revisit diapers at night to avoid doing so much laundry, and also we have a wedding this weekend and we’re not sure if the babysitter can handle this. I feel like we would break our contract, but what do you do for night and special occasions?
—Carrie Lee
Yes, I’ve done Julie’s Method. Do not put a diaper back on! That’s the whole point of Julie’s Method. We created a potty song, loaded our daughter up on juice boxes. She was in heaven! We practiced for three days, never leaving the apartment. I strapped the portable to me and shadowed her. I was totally committed. By day three she got it. She poops, she pees, she loves it.
—Amanda Fuller
I agree. Julie’s Method works. The biggest barrier sounds
“Yeah, right,” Chris says, in a way that’s not at all convinced. He holds his burger on his lap. “Let’s go,” he says. “We can finish at home.”
She starts the car. The other cars seem to be waiting for her to leave. She reverses, then drives forward. One of the cars also moves forward, toward her left. Chris stares straight ahead. When the car gets closer to them it slows, then comes to a stop.
“Just keep going,” Chris says, but she thinks this could be the wrong move to make. In fact, even thinking about moves is the wrong move. These are probably just teenagers or maintenance men, or someone who’s lost. She stops and puts her window down. “What are you doing?” Chris says through clenched teeth. He shifts in his seat, putting a foot on the dash, then putting it back down.
The driver of the car grins at her. He’s small—compact and ropy. His car is a honey brown that glistens.
“You’re not waiting for us, right?” he asks.
“I don’t think so,” Georgia says. Two guys in the back of the car laugh, and the driver nods as though she’s said something wise. He looks into his rearview mirror, and Georgia looks ahead at the car behind him, which is somewhat blocking the exit. On the other side of the exit is a patch of trees and a Dumpster.
“You sure you’re not waiting for us?” the driver says, and his passengers laugh again, though less so this time.
“Just go,” Chris says, and she realizes her son isn’t nearly as bad as he’d like to be, that jail was just a fluke, a stroke of bad luck, something he’s probably proud of.
Chris is afraid. He thinks they are going to die, and for some reason this gives Georgia a small thump of joy. She is his mommy.
“Hey, you’re listening to the same song as us,” the driver says. Hereaches forward to turn his volume up, and she hears the woman on both radios. Her cries are insistent, firm taps. They blend with the drums, simmering like flavors, building toward something exquisite and exotic yet entirely expected.
“Nice,” Georgia says. “Like a duet.” The driver bobs his head, then says something to the others in Spanish. She doesn’t understand why she isn’t frightened. Maybe residual adrenaline has morphed her anger with Gabe into something like courage or something like apathy or something like hope. She loves when days don’t go as planned, when she’s not on a playground bench staring into space, when she’s not at home watching other people on television making love, drinking pretty cocktails, fighting wars, or asking Pat for a T, please. She loves that her son is afraid and that she isn’t.
She feels the cold air blow through her wet shirt. The driver looks at her again, nodding to the music and tapping his fingers against his lips.
“Good-bye,” she says, but the driver just nods.
“I was waiting for you,” she wants to say to the little man. “I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”
“Go,” Chris says, and Georgia goes on.
Has anyone tried Julie’s Method? We’ve done the diaper countdown, telling her that now no more diapers exist in the world. My husband and I have committed and gone cold turkey. However, we’d like to revisit diapers at night to avoid doing so much laundry, and also we have a wedding this weekend and we’re not sure if the babysitter can handle this. I feel like we would break our contract, but what do you do for night and special occasions?
—Carrie Lee
Yes, I’ve done Julie’s Method. Do not put a diaper back on! That’s the whole point of Julie’s Method. We created a potty song, loaded our daughter up on juice boxes. She was in heaven! We practiced for three days, never leaving the apartment. I strapped the portable to me and shadowed her. I was totally committed. By day three she got it. She poops, she pees, she loves it.
—Amanda Fuller
I agree. Julie’s Method works. The biggest barrier sounds
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