Chicken Cheeks


“Mom, you haven’t changed in ten years!” The words, which bubble out of him in a cascade of filial adoration, are punctuated by the slamming of a car door.

My oversized bag slides off my shoulder, catching in the crook of my elbow, as I juggle grocery sacks, my cellphone, an over-burdened key-ring, and supper. After much maneuvering, the key turns, and I push the door open with my knee.

“Oh, honey, of course I have.”

Loudly, I drop the bags to the table and drag my free hand through my hair.

“You just don’t notice because you see me every day.”

He molests the bags in search of chicken while two pairs of canine eyes study him, lending support. He withdraws the box he’d been seeking, and wisely places his body between it and the closest dog.

“Go on, Chevy…”, he murmurs to the most aggressive of the two.

Moving to the cabinet, he chooses a plate as I shelve the groceries.

“Ok to use a washable plate?” I like his description.

“Sure, honey.” My voice echoes off rows of cardboard, aluminum, and glass.

As I emerge from the pantry, he looks up from his dinner and finishes chewing, in a hurry to offer his insight.

“Ok…” He swallows. “Maybe your cheeks…a little.”

“My cheeks?” My chuckle comes from behind the refrigerator door.

He swallows again before clearing his throat and blurts, “Well, not those cheeks!”

I smile into the vegetable crisper, knowing he has no idea that it really doesn’t matter which ones he meant.

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll

Concerning calves

I would be remiss if I didn’t share another story concerning my calves.
As high school ended and “real life” began, I embarked upon my father’s dream for me of attending nursing school. For a person who, despite making good grades, had never cracked a book, a career involving the sciences might not have been the best choice. But, I digress.
With the help of several older women who were “finding” themselves and 1 dear, gay man who provided comic relief, I made it through my first year of college. Year 2 would bring formal nursing educaiton and THE UNIFORM. On my commuter college campus, the nursing uniform was the equivalent of a letter jacket. I remember watching in awe as ethereal visions swathed in varying shades of blue and white moved from one class to another. Wearing a folded peice of cardboard proudly perched atop my head, I would now glide just a little above the sidewalk as I moved about the campus. Ah, bliss!
My first clinical assignment was to a medical ward wherein most of the patients were either elderly, chonically ill, or both. These people had assimilated the hospital experience and actually enjoyed the social mileau provided by the staff. Nursing students were particularly engaging.
I spent the morning attempting to arrange the stiff polyester upon my body. To call the dress shapeless is really too kind. Pale blue, with an enormous white placard down the front, held down by large, cheap, clear buttons, my costume did not provide the angelic feeling I had expected. I shopped for days for the large white shoes that would complete my ensemble. As we received our assignments, I struggled to pay attention as I studied the other girls and wondered if I looked as shapeless as they. I cursed my size 8 feet.
Clipboard in hand, I plowed down the hall toward my charges. With feigned confidence I grabbed the cold metal latch of my first patient’s door and pushed it open. A forced smile hid my discomfort as sweat trickled down my spine and “Don’t let me spill the urine.” played like a mantra in my head. The large African-American woman sat up eagerly in the bed as I entered. “Well, ain’t you got some pretty, big legs!” she bellowed.