writing
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Hello from the end of a better day, and the end of the container of shredded Parmesan. I made some writing progress last night, which felt good, but ultimately what difference does it really make? I guess you could say the same thing about showering. Or waking up. Or eating. We do it to do
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Hello from the house of unhappy bodies. My almost 5 year old is still sick. She is missing a birthday party today, and the TV is back on, for the 4th day. I really really hate having the TV on, especially during the day. My dog just came inside, limping, then holding up her bad
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Hello I say with my T rex arms, shortened because of the extra large 5 month old I have strapped to my chest. Let’s take a breath together. Smell the flowers, blow out the candle. It’s time to decide about that scene, that vestigial scene that doesn’t quite fit anymore. That’s the problem with editing
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Hello from role playing art camp. I am the teacher. My daughter is herself, and her baby brother is her best friend. He, as best friend, will come into my daughter’s room (held by me, his face expectant and smiling because he loves being a part of things) and we will practice saying hello. Hopefully, this
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I’m writing this while feeding my new(ish) baby. He’s in the ergo baby, squirming while I stand in the kitchen, on top of a rug that I slid over so I could stand on it while I type. Because my feet always hurt. My feet hurt because either a) I’m 40 and 7 months, or
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Here is the real beginning— I, once again, for the 1576th afternoon in a row aimlessly walk around the house picking things up and putting them in their place. Everything has its place—a mantra for the organized parent, no, let’s be honest: the organized mother. Everything has a place. Does this toy packaging that I
How not to 