Ed Emberley on loan from the library; thumbprint hedgehogs, caterpillars, fish. // Arnold Loechner Mouse, the field mouse Ken trapped in the garage who was accidentally domesticated after a satisfying meal of shredded carrots. (He’s since been set “free” in the woods, was last seen frolicing through Bee and Ken’s legs in a shimmering patch
A journal entry from months ago: April 30th, 12:04am. The laptop glows in our darkened kitchen and I hear only muffled sounds – small swells of laughter from the basement as Ken hosts a late-night birthday party for friends, Bernie re-positioning underneath my chair into the shape of a question mark, the dining room clock
When you get hacked on a Sunday morning, the Sunday of the week you’re officially announcing your book to your own little world, you feel a bit ill. I’m working to fix it, but for now, steer clear of my Twitter page, OK? I’ll meet you here (or here) instead. For fun, while I wait
3am brain dumps on a darkened computer screen. Liters of iced coffee from my favorite local spot. Sweet potatoes and kale. Trying to stay quiet, always trying to stay quiet – don’t wake the baby! – tiptoeing to the bathroom to blow my nose (quietly). Sinus infection, Wild Kratts on the couch for the entirety
I was talking to a girlfriend (hey hey, Voxer) last week about email discipline, specifically the art of not “checking in” throughout the day. It’s a slippery slope: you hop on your phone to peek at the weather, and then you find yourself “checking in” on Instagram, Twitter, your email account. You click on that
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!
I’m still here. (Thank you for your kindness.) Still here with the scooping of formula, the rocking, the swaddling, the diaper-changing. The apple slicing for Bee, the tying of shoes, the playing of Uno. These hands haven’t made their way to a keyboard in a long while, and for that, I’m uncharacteristically content. But I
“You have almost three dollars!” I tell her. We are sprawled on her bedroom floor amidst blocks and books, stuffed animals and blankets. Loose change is stacked into tidy piles at our feet – quarters, nickels, dimes, pennies – mountainous treasures to my 4-year- old daughter, Bee. “I am ready to spend it, Mom,” she
