A flier for discounted gym memberships arrives with my mail, and a coupon for new storage bins arrives in my inbox, reminders that I am inadequate, that there are so many things that I need to fix. My post-baby body, my less-than-vegan-sometimes-french-fry-laden diet, my closet cluttered with art supplies and un-filed paperwork, my impulse to … Continue reading Un-resolution.
I remember a dad handing me flowers after a school play, driving me to a speech tournament at the crack of dawn on a Saturday, cheering from the sidelines, and crying at both my graduation and my shotgun wedding. My Alzheimer's-plagued dad remembers that he's supposed to remember me, but he doesn't know my name. … Continue reading Fathers.
How do you part with books?
I'm behind on a couple of work projects, but a photo of my home is the first Google hit for "squalor." I can't think when the house is a wreck. The piles and pandemonium seep into my brain and scatter my thoughts in every which direction. I don't need it to be perfect; I just … Continue reading How do you part with books?
I put Being Elmo on for the kids tonight so I could read a psychology book. (Snooze. Fest.) I've completely changed my mind. I don't want to be a teacher when I grow up. I want to be a muppeteer.
My children are plotting at the breakfast table. From the bedroom where I'm getting dressed, I listen to their scheme to write, illustrate, and sell books to make enough money to hire a butler. Yes, hire a butler. I overhear Rhys (because she's louder than everyone else, always) trying to convince my husband that having … Continue reading Plotting.
...my last post was a reminder to myself to write about something other than my cutie baby who won't sleep? Have I written anything since then? Well, yes, actually. I've written quite a lot. More than I think I've written since I got my MFA in 2010. I just haven't written it here, mostly because … Continue reading Remember when…
Note to self.
Write about something other than the baby and the ridiculous sleep patterns we have. That is all.
3:24am: Xander's first birthday is tomorrow. There will be cake, and perhaps he'll receive a sippy cup and a pair of mittens. A small celebration, but a big milestone. He still sleeps in our bed, though he begins each night in his own bed. Bathed, storied, snuggled, tucked in, and sent to slumberland. By midnight, … Continue reading Milestones.
My own noisy and fragmented writing life has me idolizing that quaint, hermit-like picture of writers. When I read novels, I imagine the men and women who wrote them. They are of varying age and are clad in thick, wool sweaters. They are always thin, wasting away as they drink mug after mug of tea, … Continue reading Writing weather.
The clock reads two-thirty in the morning. Xander is wide awake. He does somersaults in our bed, spins around so his feet are in my side, then in my neck. He pulls his pacifier out of his mouth and giggles before putting it back in his mouth. He tucks his head against my shoulder and … Continue reading Sleep.