All has been quiet. A small boy with a fistful of action figure cake toppers weaves between piles of folded towels, sheets. It’s laundry day. It’s been laundry day for six years over here, is what a girlfriend said to me recently. (Same.)
I want you to give you back to me, he yells from his crib. The toddler is fighting an afternoon nap; I’m trying hard not to lose. I want you back, he whimpers. In my bedroom, Bee and I listen with our ears pressed to the monitor, waiting quietly for Scout to settle so we
Our home hasn’t found sleep in the past few nights, for reasons we don’t yet know. We’ve been tossing bedspreads to the floor, flipping pillows to the cool side. This morning, I called a truce earlier than usual, padded out to the dark dining room to find even the dogs trotting on my heels, ever
Our Christmas tree towers in the dining room corner. The starless top is drying, browning, but the lights are still strung delicately. (The cranberry garland off to the birds long ago.) I haven’t been able to take it down, and not for lack of want. The space will be nice, I think. The pine needle
It began last summer, the itch. — I’m no stranger to the itch, have had many in a lifetime. Every creative project I’ve ever endeavored to explore has been a direct result of a prickle’s first beginning. The early notion, the quieting of all else. Once the itch turns feverish, begins to keep me awake
The hustle, the bustle. I can accurately claim neither, having just emerged from a fireside nap on the hard floor. In our home, we keep a tradition of letting the kids open a shared gift on a day where it feels like Christmas, be it November, December or beyond. This year, the day fell upon
I used to white-knuckle my way through the holiday season. The calendar sometimes felt too thick to navigate, barely enough white space to catch a breath between out-of-town guests, Christmas programs, your fourth batch of gingerbread for Aunt Margaret’s cookie exchange. For a gal prone to quiet and space, the bustle of holidays have often
Last week, the first snowfall. We wake to small styrofoam beads glistening in the yard, the patio, the trees. It’s Christmas! says Scout. It’s snow! says Bee. Soon, they’ll both be right.