I’m at the dentist. The hygienist Deb and I are making small talk, which means she’s talking and I’m nodding, mouth wide open, trying my best to nose breathe. Book’s out, right? she asks. Ehh hehh, I answer. She talks of her new granddaughter, reminds me to floss. Asks me about Scout, how he’s attaching,
I haven’t been writing things down. There are so many things I want to write, so many thoughts I’m trying to catch in the kitchen while the potatoes brown, so many ideas that come while I’m rocking the baby. They come and they leave, and I’m left standing in the kitchen as the skillet begins
con·trac·tion kənˈtrakSH(ə)n noun 1. the process of becoming smaller. a shortening of the muscles occurring at intervals before and during childbirth. Scout, as we know him, had his first contraction in a corner table at Wendy’s. Two Frosties, two singles (one, no onions). Large fry. Extra ketchup. Could you ever adopt? a boyfriend asks
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
We turned on the Christmas music early this year. Just-after-the-election-early. By Thanksgiving, we’d already rotated through our favorite albums oh, two or three times? Dean Martin’s on round seven, currently. It just seemed we could all use a bit of soul salve. — My ears were tired, that’s all. In my inbox last weekend: Did
It happens every year, without fail. Around early December, Ken will peer at my phone on the kitchen counter and see dozens of incoming texts from my friends’ husbands. He’ll raise an eyebrow. Gift suggestions, I’ll say. For all of them?! he’ll ask. Yep. All of them. It’s what I do, I suppose. Some girlfriends
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
Can I show you guys something? — Last spring, my friend Carly emailed me in a flurry of exclamation points: Style collaboration. We’re thinking scarf. Tassels! Monochromatic! You design it. Ethically made, of course. Want to come to India? Meet the makers? Send it out with CAUSEBOX this winter? Life offers no shortage of surprises,
