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tricia booker

tricia booker
Ponte Vedra Beach, Florida, United States
December 20
Tricia Booker is an award-winning journalist and neurotic writer of creative nonfiction. She lives in Ponte Vedra, Florida with her husband, two daughters, one son and a dog. She has written for many publications including Notre Dame Magazine, Folio Weekly, Minnesota's Law & Politics and the Vero Beach Press-Journal. She has taught creative writing to middle schoolers and journalism to college students. She's currently a dedicated domestic engineer.

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JUNE 26, 2012 3:51PM

The threats that loom. In the pantry, and everywhere.

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Dr. Dee has suggested we have a home visit from a therapist to determine how we’re ruining possibly improperly handling the Pterodactyl’s tantrums. Okay, that’s fine. We have nothing to hide. Except, you know, the abundance of scissors, glue sticks, and gummi worms. Also, dog hair.

But come at your own risk, Supernanny. This here’s a rough crowd. I left the children alone for 15 minutes the other day, and when I came home the older two had duct-taped the poor little Tyrant’s hands together. But she’s some sort of Houdini-Nadia-Comaneci-Hannibal-Lecter child, so she escaped and beat them down with the diseased remnants of Teddy. Then she called everybody stupid.

Now the Pterodactyl’s problem involves impulse control. He doesn’t calculate his attacks like his sister. (Note to self: Cut boy’s nails. Side note: The second time I met the boy, he was 3 months old and still living in the Guatemalan orphanage that would ignore him right into an Attachment Disorder. He stayed in the hotel with us, and his tiny little fingernails were so long that he had scratched his face. I purchased a nail clipper, the adult kind, which was all I could find. “Don’t cut his nails,” Husband said. “You’ll cut him. Please don’t. Please don’t. STOP! HE’S BLEEDING!” and right then I realized I should not have cut his nails. I’m pretty sure I snipped off the tip of his finger, which grew back. Ever since, nail-cutting has been quite traumatic for both of us, but contrastingly quite necessary due to his lack of impulse control. Second note to self: research infant disfiguring as it relates to Attachment Disorder.)

The Diva just cries and breaks my heart, which is its own sort of harsh abuse.

Anyway, on those occasional days when relative calm reigns, the threat of impending battle always looms like the odor from burnt microwave popcorn. Just this week, as I rummaged around the pantry, I came upon this scene:

I nearly dropped my latte. What a way to go – smothered to death by NutterButters and pretzel sticks and mini-bagels! It shook me to my core. I ate a couple of cookies, and then I felt better. But still.

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