Consider it a preemptive strike. Each December, roughly mid-month, I attempt to rid our home of its thin layer of excess. Ken loves this about me, my Grinch-like tendencies to Subtract during The Great Season of Addition, but I don’t know. Consider it a gift in white space. (Like snow.) We will forever be on
Mom? Can God turn himself into a wall? The question arrives from a backseat littered with cashew crumbs and flashcards atop CDs and board books. We’re on our way to a family reunion in southern Indiana, and I know we’re getting close because the hills make our bellies jump. What do you mean? I ask
You guys gotta see this! Ken calls. Bee and I are dancing in the laundry room, a morning ritual we’ve fallen into. We play this song, and another, still another, she twirling her stuffed puppy or baby hedgehog or that odd Halloween decoration she’s been sleeping with. Me moisturizing my elbows, applying concealer. Mascara. Coming!
In case you missed it on Instagram… last week, i tried to text my mother in law while cooking omelettes and knocked the salt mortar all over the floor. we’ve been fishing himalayan grains out of our toes for days. both dogs are after the floorboards like wild deer to an abandoned salt lick. the
How’s Bee adjusting? I mean, it happened so fast! Did she feel prepared? Has she regressed? Is she acting out, seeking attention? These are the questions we receive from friends and family for a month. I answer truthfully – She’s been wonderful, so very excited to have a brother – but then I wonder if
The contractions begin. Bee is dressed for ballet. I’m adjusting her leotard, securing her loose blonde waves into a bun, clip to one side. A kiss on the cheek. The other 4-year-olds are skipping into class, bumbling into each other with excitement, energy. Trying to be graceful, trying to look tall. See you in a
There’s a 4-year-old in my house. It’s an odd thing. She climbs counters to fill her water glass, peels pistachios on her own. Yesterday, I caught her washing her hands unprompted after a bout with sidewalk chalk and I thought, Oh. This is what they were talking about. They. The women who pull you aside
As a kid, I was a frequent journaler. For birthdays or at the height of the school year, I’d receive fresh new stacks of composition notebooks, ready to be scrawled upon in childish loops. They were my favorite things. The possibility, the hope, the faith of discovering something new via the written word. A hundred