There are three caterpillars on my daughter’s milkweed plant, one little and two big, covered in yellow, black and white stripes, with four black horns growing from their backs. Their feet look like fleshy teacups as they labor along the slender stems. Milly hasn’t seen them yet. She’s not quite two yet and currently occupied with grabbing fistfuls of dirt in her hand and letting it run through her fingers. She smells the dirt, giving...

Sometimes I worry about you guys. Like when you chase down two NoDozes with a Red Bull at the beginning of class. Or when you come back from spring break in casts. Recently, in a variety of ways, including Kenneth Caruthers’ article in the Trinitonian, I’ve become aware of the abuse of prescription ADHD medicines by many college students, including some here at Trinity. Now I’m really worried about you. Taking Adderall if you don’t...

I was raised by my grandmother Spence, and the woman I believe was her partner, Dee, from when I was a baby until I was four. Almost every memory I have of Spence also involves Dee, including my memory of the day Spence died of a stroke. It was Dee who called the paramedics and Dee who hugged me until that evening, when I was taken away to live with my grandfather. I can’t be...

I was 11 years old. I was at the beach with friends. I got out of the water before they did, and I went into the public restrooms to rinse off. You know the kind “” they have them at public pools, too “” the concrete block buildings with slimy floors and open showers. It was dim inside, but I could see that someone else was there too. He was tall, skinny, with black hair...

I’m used to the idea that most Trinity students are wiser than I was in college. It’s okay; I was a late bloomer. And so, when you finish reading this column, you might ask yourself, “So what?” But maybe you won’t, and if you don’t, you’re the exact person to whom I’m writing. You: the one who feels a little down on yourself at the moment. You’re pretty sure you could be doing better. You’re...

Sometimes I drive my husband’s beater to school. It’s a maroon 1990 Nissan Stanza with 300,000 miles on it. Its clear coat is peeling. Gasoline leaks from somewhere, and although my local mechanic says it’s still safe to drive, the smell makes me nervous. Sometimes the driver’s side door won’t open, and you need to roll down the window and open it from the outside. Also, my husband seems to be storing every receipt he’s...

Two weeks ago, I was in a terrible mood. I hate to admit how bad it was. Husband was snapped at for no reason. Tears were shed over a broken door knob. Certain four letter words were uttered within earshot of the toddler””which completely wiped out all the progress I’d made this summer about not swearing. In response to my antics, the Dachshund raised his head off the couch and gave me the look. Directly...