stuck

Last night's menu included bacon. Breakfast for dinner.

Today that greasy smell weighs heavy in the air. Sticks in my hair, even after my shower.

It's really starting to gross me out.

I open the kitchen window. The pane rows outward, a brave pioneer in the cold. Winter walks in.

The brown window frame stands out, warm against all that gray. The snow. The clouds. The trees. A landscape barely breathing.

Then I see it.

A small moth. Stuck where it last quivered with life, just before the window closed in some warmer month and squeezed the life out of it.

The clock ticks above my head.

Tomorrow is coming.

So I leave the window open a crack and get the kids ready. We're going outside. We'll kick the snow around a little. Feel the breeze chill our cheeks. Shake the bacon out of our hair. Move.

February wants to hang around forever. But we're never really stuck unless we fold our wings.

conversation with the muse

I tried rain.

I thought the sound might wake you. It fell steadily, then harder. It roared in my head but you didn't move.

I added something a little more solid. Something that would plop heavy like wet sand and stick to your roof.

Sleet. It drummed and hissed right above your head, but your breathing never changed. You were down deep.

I clapped once. Thunder in your ears. The rumbling shook the whole house. You groaned and rolled over, pulling the covers up over your head.

I don't have time for this. I sigh. Your eyes are beautiful when they're open.

Now snow falls silently. Tucking in the ice and gently kissing it goodnight. In the morning, you'll step out into this wonderland, unaware of what lies beneath.  You won't recognize my footprints on the driveway so you'll crack your tailbone on the front step and curse me for never stopping by.

You want inspiration? Next time I'll have to hit you over the head.

thawing

The fog flies thin and breathy over the windshield of my car. In transparent, transient clouds, the lake exhales -- breath moving again after winter's frozen coma. The season is changing by degrees. Groaning under a week of warmer weather. The mud loosens under softening snow.

I wonder if it hurts -- the change. The shape shift. The thaw.

***

It finally happened. She said it.

I don't LOVE. YOU. ANY. MORE!!

Girl-two rages on. Again. It's been a long week.

I release 20 slow exhales (One minute. Thank you, Stacy) and keep my voice even.

I'm sorry to hear that, E. I love you very much.

When the fit finally fizzles out, she falls asleep. I watch her chest rising and falling and I wonder about the depths I can't see. About growth -- in body or mind or spirit. About subtle degrees and changing seasons.

The stretching, the shape-shifting -- it must hurt.  I let her sleep.

***

I look forward to Spring. To warm, gentle breezes. But I know the thaw comes first -- muddy and groaning and stuck in between.

All I can do is watch. Wait. Breathe.

This is where we are.

worried

My kid is not in school today.

No, she's not sick (actually, she's finally over the most recent cold...)

No, its not another blizzard (actually, our yard is melting apace...)

My kid is not in school today because the district canceled all classes due to staff shortages. Teachers are protesting.

They are upset.

The new governor plans to cut collective bargaining rights of state workers to help correct budget shortfalls.

In an automated phone message on my voice mail this morning, the school district superintendent stated his apologies for inconveniencing our families with the closure.

I wanted to call him back.

I wanted to tell him I don't mind.

I wanted to tell him I hope my child's teacher is protesting today. I hope she is standing up for her benefits. And I hope her voice is loud.

Because her voice is the one my child hears all day. Her voice is the one my child trusts. Her voice is the one we should value and reward.


***

We were standing at the bus stop when Girl-one startled me: Mama, I think I'm being bullied.

What?

She quickly told me about some teasing words. How sad she felt. I quickly explained that these were hurtful words, but not really bullying. We could talk about it more after school.

I emailed Mrs. K to let her know how Girl-one was feeling. What actually happened. Bullying is red-hot word and I didn't want the teacher to think something larger was going on.

She didn't respond right away. I figured she was busy.

The next day, I received a very long email from Mrs. K. She talked about how this issue always hurts her heart. How she wishes sweet, sensitive Girl-one did not have to hear such words. How she thinks about her students as her children and has zero tolerance for teasing in the classroom.

She told me that in class on Friday, she read a book and sang a song with the children about teasing. They talked about words that hurt and trying to ignore teasing. They talked about why a child might tease another child. They talked about real situations. Mrs. K told them about a time she was teased and how she handled it. She made sure they understood they could always talk to her about teasing and about their feelings.

All of this was in response to my email. In response to my child. 

The email came at 10pm on a Friday night. On Mrs K's own time. After she had put her own three children to bed.

I've always worried that sending my sensitive girl to school was the same as throwing her to the wolves. But knowing that she is under Mrs. K's kind, expansive wing reassures me. Girl-one is safe. She spends her days with a gifted and generous heart.

I want to give Mrs. K an award. For this. For everything.

But my state is planning to reduce her benefits. I don't care if she has access to a pension and I don't. I don't care if she pays less into her benefits than I do. I don't care if we have a budget deficit. There has to be another solution. Taking something away from teachers doesn't say we value you. Taking something away from teachers does nothing to invest in our children. In our future. 

I usually stay out of political discussions. I am usually the political apathetic.

But when I think about this issue, this protest, all I can see is people. Families. Mrs. K.

They're afraid of changes in their financial security. They're upset about what's being taken away. They're worried.

I'm worried, too.

This just isn't right. 

clean slate

It's been one of those days. I'm ready to turn the page.

I'm drying Girl-two's hair. She's crying. I'm thankful for the white noise. Something louder than her, finally.

She's upset about the snarls. About hair blowing in her eyes. About being too cold. I don't respond. My sympathy already went to bed.

We're done.

You must be too tired for books? I'm accusatory. This doesn't help.

It will have to be a short one. The words are sharp in my mouth and I don't swallow them. I should.

I try.

We read. She gets her sip of milk and tucks into bed. I tell myself that tomorrow is new. A clean slate.

John kisses her forehead.

Her request is soft. I want Mama to say "Goodnight, Moon."

What is tomorrow, to her?  Every moment is a clean slate. How does she know this? She teaches me.

New starts now.

how I got here

I snuggle down and pull the sleeping bag over my shoulder and up to my ear. I had forgotten how warm this thing is. I am pretty comfortable.

I can't sleep, though, because Girl-three is still complaining through the crib slats, just behind my head. But she's winding down, now that I'm here.

My mind grows legs and walks back in time, settling into a night nine years ago when these very covers were much too warm.

I'm positioned similarly, but I have the sleeping bag pulled all the way over my head, sealing me in. Or rather -- sealing them out.

The mosquitoes.

I'm lying on a picnic table in the Everglades, buried deep in my down-filled sleeping bag. Sweating.

It sounds crazy, I know. Perhaps you are wondering how I got here.

During my sophomore year in college, decided I needed to get away. John and I had just broken up. I was starting my engineering classes and balking at the career in front of me. I needed a break from the path I was walking. So I joined Americorps NCCC and spent 10 months hopping around the southeast from service project to service project. {Missing home. Missing John. Finding myself. -- But oh, that's a different story.}

We were heading back from our project in the Florida Keys and we stopped for a weekend in the Everglades to pick up some service hours and experience the place. The night we arrived, we set up camp and everyone hunkered down. But there were mosquitoes trapped inside the fabric of my tent and they whined in my ears. It seemed like everyone else was snoring. I tossed and turned and started to feel desperate.
 
It has to be better outside. 

I unzipped the tent and hauled my stuff out there. But it didn't take long for them to find me down in the grass. So I headed for higher ground -- the camp picnic table.

Higher, lower, it didn't matter. I was spread out like a feast.

Sleep never came. I listened to the night sounds for a very long time. I saw myself at the bottom of the food chain -- my blood fed the mosquitoes, who fed the bats swooping over my head. Dawn was a relief.

I vowed never to camp out under the stars in the Everglades again. But if you would have told me then that I'd be camping out on the floor in my baby's room in this same sleeping bag,  I would have laughed at you.

Now that's crazy.

I would have laughed even harder if you had mentioned the baby's two older sisters would be sleeping in the other room. I mean, I knew I wanted kids. But three? By 30? I pictured myself doing a lot of backpacking.

***

Girl-three is finally asleep and I'm drifting off myself. Maybe I'll unwrap out of this sleeping bag and crawl back in my own bed. Maybe I won't. I'm pretty comfortable right where I am.

not a raccoon

When I was a kid, I loved the novel Where the Red Fern Grows. I'm sure I read it at least five times, and I always cried at the ending. Old Dan and Little Ann lived in my young heart, for sure.

There's a bit of miscellany hanging around in the cobwebs of my consciousness from reading and re-reading that book.

About raccoons. About trapping raccoons.

Did you know that if you drill a hole in a log, place something shiny at the bottom of the hole, and insert two nails facing into the hole and at just the right spacing, you've got yourself a trap?

The curious bugger will stick his paw into the hole and grab that shiny thing. He will get stuck. The nails will hold him there.

He could just let go.

But he won't. He's clutching his prize. He can't see the simple escape.

Let go. 

***

Girl-two used to melt down a lot. I mean, a lot. Like six times a day. (That's a lot.)

She'd spy some shiny thing that she wanted -- a certain snack, more time at the park, a way to sneak out of teeth brushing or room cleaning -- and she'd hang on. Tight. She'd scream for a good.long.time.

I would encourage her to let go. With gentle unwrapping, insistent prying, or creative distraction. Nothing worked.

Until finally, she'd release. It was a decision she made herself. I couldn't bring her there. She'd collect her nuk and blanket and tuck into her bed to regroup. 

She still throws wild, unstoppable fits. But they possess her much less frequently. I watch her winding up sometimes, wrapping her fingers around that shiny thing, but five times out of six, she can let go of it before she's completely stuck.

She's learning.

Let go.

***

I fluster easily.

Especially when things don't proceed the way I expect.

It's Sunday morning. John is outside with Girl-one and Girl-two, building front-yard sledding tracks for them and taking breaks to rake snow off the roof.

Girl-three sits on my hip and we wave from the front window. They're having fun. I'm glad. But.

But I will need to log in to tutor soon, and I have some other work I want to complete first. Getting it done will mean a bit of free time after the kids are in bed tonight. My prize. But afternoon knocks at the door. It's not going to happen.

And now I've got my fingers wrapped around that shiny thing and I don't want to let go. I feel my teeth start to clench. It's happening. I'm flustering. Getting stuck.

But before a full blown bad mood can cloud my vision completely, I spy that simple escape.

Let go.

So with a deep breath, I do. Free time clinks softly as it lands on the bottom of the hole. I leave it there while I make lunch and log my tutoring hours. I leave it there while I clean up after dinner and put the kids to bed. I don't miss the feeling of fluster.

And guess what. I got that work done more quickly than I expected once the kids were in bed. I'm holding free time in my hands right now.

I'm learning.

Let go.

I am not a raccoon. 

so I remember

Heartache.
I'm wearing it across my chest today.
It's white-hot
Pain to the touch.

My body knew how to feed a baby
But now
It doesn't
Know what to do.

I'm full
Of emotion.

For your entire life
And all of mine
(that I can remember anymore)
Nursing was a retreat
in the rocking chair
a comfortable connection
a quiet love.
Your body would relax
And I watched you fall asleep
In stages.

But the peace leaked out of that space,
a slow
drip.
Drained,
Done. 

You are fine.
You are forgetting.

I can't.
It hurts too much
to lay on my side.

But when the swelling goes down
and my heart hides back inside my chest
I'll have this
So I remember.

surprised

On the day I met you, you surprised me with your intensity. 

One minute, I was seated on the exam table, facing the nurse-midwife. My voice was even.  

I really like your shoes, I told her. She remarked that they were, indeed, comfortable. I thought that I would, perhaps, get a pair myself.

The next minute, you were in my arms. 

And then you nursed for the first hour of your life. You screamed when someone else held you. You attached to me with a fierceness I was unprepared for.You were a loud, wrinkly, thin-skinned little seed. The world was so much for you, all at once. You needed to burrow deep.

I worried that you'd always fear everything. Everyone. But in the past year especially, I've watched you peeking out more and more, your tender shoot testing the sunshine and finding it warm. Safe.

What's unfurling surprises me with its complexity. You're the girl who dances ballet and collects snakes. You're a snuggler through and through, but you can throw fits like no one else's business.  You sample many foods. But refuse to drink water for its boooorrrrring taste. You're sweet. But intense. You know what you want and you're willing to hold out for it. You warm my heart daily -- and push me to pull out my hair just as often.

At night you usually fall asleep instantly. But last night it was late when you crept downstairs and said you couldn't sleep. You were too excited.

For today. For being Four.

You were excited about presents, of course. But you're also looking forward to everything this year will bring. A booster seat in the car! A dance recital! 4K in the fall!

This excitement -- this looking forward to it all -- doesn't really surprise me, though.

You've always had it in you.

Happy birthday, E!

in peace

Sundays are for stories. So here's some fiction. 

***

She was a small child. Skinny. Too skinny, they said.

They used to laugh and tell her hold on or the wind will blow you away.

Fart, they said, and you'll -- disappear. 

She would stamp her foot and yell I won't but really, she believed them. She had nightmares about where she'd end up. Always dark spaces. Always cold places. Places not here and not really anywhere. Where she'd be nothing but a creak in the floor. Her mother held her when she cried at night and whispered in her ear. Hush, baby. It's not like that.

Nearly a century passed and she never blew away. When her soul rode that last breath out of her body, it drifted around for awhile, untethered, until it found a place to settle.

She's nowhere dark. Nowhere cold.

She rests in the bend behind your knee, where you tuck your hands when you're lying in bed and its particularly cold and you're particularly tired.

She curls in the patch of sun that moves across the couch and onto the floor and pulls you along with a warmth more comfortable than any cushion.

She hides in the cupped hollow between held hands. 

She climbs into the top of your inhale, where you're all filled up and needing nothing, into that instant before reflex kicks in and you let it all go.

She swirls in the shower's steam, thick and slow, before it condenses on the bathroom mirror.

But the very best place she's found to rest in peace is that safe, warm, two-hearts-beating space that only forms when a child's head settles onto a mother's shoulder.

Heaven.

the first of it

{{{flashback}}}

Third grade coat closet, jacket in hand, mind already on the playground. She's at my side.

Can I play with you guys?

I'm filled to the brim with not wanting to.  But no gets stuck in my throat. I wiggle out of this tight space.

I don't know. Go ask her. I point her in my playmate's direction. Let someone else deal the blow.

She cries. I never forget her face.

{{{flash forward}}}

We walk home from the bus stop. She likes to stay several paces ahead, pretending she's on her own. I talk to her back and strain to hear her answers through my hat. I ask the usual questions -- how was the day, anything new, what did you learn. A story tumbles out. I don't quite understand at first.

Playground. Friends walking. Can I walk with you? They didn't want me. I'm sad.

I don't know what to say.

She gets a hug and a freshly baked muffin and as she steps back into our home circle. She leaves those hurts on the front step.

{{{next day}}}

Different kids. Different injustice. Inconsiderate words. An even sadder face.

The stuff on the doorstep is starting to pile up. And this is just the first of it. The least of it.

{{{flashback. oh no -- flash forward?}}}

I'm lying on my mother's bed, face buried in the pillows, all the sobs dried up for now.

I'm more than a child but still in the middle of a growth spurt. I'm shooting up too fast, I think, and the growing pains really hurt.

It's not going to be alright. It'll never be alright.

There was a note, I explain, some mean words from both sides. Them against me. Now I'm alone. I feel so heavy.

{{{and here I am}}}

I made it through those days. Patched up those hurts and made it through girlhood and into womanhood. But growing up was hard. I was relieved to make it to the other side.

But now I'm leaning over the fence, reaching, stretching, craning for her hand. I can't pull her over. She has to make it on her own.

I'll throw every rope I can think of, though, and stones that she could stack. But she'll fall. She'll feel heavy. These struggles will be hard to watch.

Harder than I thought. Harder than my own.

But what she unfolds into -- I can't wait to see.

missed moment

I am in the car. It's just me and Girl-three. Girls one and two spent the weekend with my parents (quiet house again) and I'm meeting my dad in an outskirt-ish town so his drive isn't quite so long.

Girl-three isn't saying much -- this car is kind of a ghost town without her sisters. I've got the heat on high to chase away the chills and my thoughts are mixed in and digesting -- leavening for my daily bread. Only I'm rising a bit too much -- out of myself -- and I miss a turn on this familiar road. I take the next U-turn and get back on track. But I'm still lost in thought.

I pull into the gas station. They're parked. Waiting. I see two grinning girls wave from the front seat -- they've been here long enough to unstrap and spill into a new space.

I get out and they're already on the pavement, two bubbling brooks unbound in this frozen landscape. My head is still lodged in the clouds -- they're hanging low today -- so it's quick hellos and hugs and I'm on task with loading bags and carseats and its not until I'm halfway home that I realize -- I just missed my moment.

The girls and I see a whole lot of one another. My presence is a constant. Even when I'm at work, I'm still here, just behind that door. Whatever they need. But when they got out of my dad's car, they had been gone for two full sleeps. That's long enough to miss the look of someone.

I could have had my moment. I could have got down on a knee, eye level, and taken those hugs full strength instead of watered down. I could have whispered into their hair -- I missed you. I'm glad you're home. But I missed that moment.

Now we're driving home and Girl-one has her nose buried in a book and Girl-two is singing her way into a whole new world. I'm back to being car driver and meal maker and rule setter. But I'm also bed-head kisser and lunch-note packer and lost-toy finder and good-night hugger. I'm the face of home for these children, even when I'm old hat. And that's a good feeling.

But I'm sad I missed that moment. I can't get it back. I'm trying to collect as many as I can, to line my soul, to cushion my heart. These days will be gone before I can blink.

***

It's morning. Snack time. I'm about to get up from my chair and put away some dishes -- Girl-three is safe in her high chair and I have to make the most of these moments. Girl-two stops hopping her bunny crackers across the table and looks at me.

Mama, I want to be close to you.

So I scoot her chair closer to mine and we're touching. I don't get up. I stay right here. Now.

In my moment.

territorial

Our dog has an overnight guest. We're watching my sister's dog for a couple days.

Emma is a tolerant hostess. But her territory has been compromised and she's a bit put out.

She is not allowed on the furniture. But Tucker balks at the idea of laying in Emma's bed (how it must smell to him!) and his face reads displaced and I feel sorry for him so I let him up on the couch. Emma looks at him and then at me. If she could speak she'd surely pout -- not fair.

***

I'm the floor, halfway through my 20 sit-ups (Another resolution! That I'm keeping!) Girl-three laughs and runs over in her slightly awkward, slightly fast way. She sits on my stomach. This certainly makes things harder. Her grin is mischievous, a flag staking her claim.

Mama, can you hold me? Girl-two is a snuggler. I sit up and she settles in. Girl-three has no words for this but she's determined to maintain her space. Her insistence speaks -- not fair.

***

It's 10pm. You know it's always 10pm. I add one little sentence to my novel -- the scene is creeping along. But it moves. It's like molasses but it moves.

I click the program's X and right away start gentling my muse. She rails against my touch and boils everything to the surface without using the words -- not fair. 

Hush, I tell her. You have to share. 

with a door

We have a dishwasher. The automatic kind. The not-me kind.

It's not installed yet. That's a project for another day. {Another year?} Right now, it's a good shelf for random stuff in the laundry room.

It's a hulking heap of possibility. Slumbering now. But just think! To load it up and turn it on! All those little cups and little bowls and spoons, spoons, spoons. Done.

It's also a good half-wall in my new office.

I like sitting next to it. Here. In my own space.

My desk tucks neatly in this corner of the laundry room. I have everything I need. Two lamps for softer lighting. A blanket and scarf and fingerless gloves because it's kind of cold down here. A princess cup with a few pencils and pens. A place to set my tea.

And a door.

Most importantly. A door.

John has plans to put in drywall and paint and flooring and make this thing really real. But I don't really care if that ever happens.

I've got a door.

I've already gotten a lot of work work done in this space. And a little writing, too. It's my own little corner of possibility. A place that's mine.

With a door.

take that, January

January kind of grabs you by the ankles, doesn't it? Laughs a sarcastic I told you so as the magic of the holidays ebbs away completely? Hands you a plate of cold mash when you know your table is filled with all things warm and delicious? Stuff that sticks to your ribs. Only you can't taste any of it.

***

It's 10pm. A different day but the same story. Work done, ready for bed, I'm looking forward to sitting on the floor -- spine tall, breath deep -- and emptying my mind. {Meditate one minute per day -- a new resolution.}

But then I remember what I forgot -- a chore I put off all day. John's work pants aren't going to unwrinkle themselves, and I'm sorry to say that if the ironing fairy exists, she is me. John could do it himself, I know, but this is something I'm usually happy to do for him. He does so much for me.

I'm grumbling about the lateness, though. And feeling disheartened that I can't even take care of my spirit in this very simple, very brief way.

But make a decision.

I pat January on the head and send him off to bed. I'm sick of him whining around the corners of the house, telling me how to feel.

Sweet June whispers in my ear. Let this be your meditation.

Yes.

I've done this before.

I'm not sitting in meditation. But my brow is relaxed and I pull the stopper in my mind and let everything leak out all over the floor. When thoughts bubble up, I flatten them carefully and with a gentle exhale, send them away like dandelion tufts on a summer breeze.

And when I'm done, I decide to still take my seated minute. My mind is in the right place anyway, and its not so late afterall.

***

January tries to drag me down. But sometimes all I need is a fresh snowfall and the world looks new again. Old patterns of thought are erased and I'm leaving footprints on an untouched landscape. It's a new day.

the First

First baby.

is breastfeeding supposed to hurt like this what am i doing wrong is she supposed to sleep this much during the day oh my god i can't get her to go back to sleep at night she just threw up a whole feeding is she getting enough milk i'm so afraid to give her a bath she's so slippery and her HEAD is so floppy why can't i figure out how to cloth diaper is she okay in this carrier do we keep it too quiet in here does she look comfortable in that carseat should i wake her up for a feeding do i hold her too much is it weird that she never really cries AM I DOING THIS RIGHT

I had trouble getting her onesie over her head. I had so many questions.

So I started reading The Books.

feed on demand (but what if she wants to nurse every hour?) you can't hold a newborn too much (but what if she's not a newborn anymore?) you should start to see some sleep patterns by three months (but what do you mean by a pattern?) call a doctor if a fever exceeds one oh two (ha, i call the doctor every day i think) start a bottle no earlier than four weeks but don't wait too long (she refuses. now what?) she should take three naps (or five?) watch for signs of sleepiness (run those by me again?) put her down drowsy but awake (OMG WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?)

The Books made my head spin. So I put them down. And picked up my baby instead. And loved her the best way I knew how.

Now she's six. Yes, she's still a picky eater. Yes, she still sometimes has trouble going to sleep. But she's a gem. And she's doing just fine.

She can sort out the issues later in therapy if she has to.

***

First novel

who is telling this story what voice should i use how do i make my characters BREATHE wait, where is the plot going again whats the point of this scene who is my audience how am i going to pull this all together who am i kidding this is so BIG i don't know what i'm doing did i mention I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M DOING?

My notebook is a discard pile of sentences that don't fit together. I have so many questions.

There are Books, I realize, about how to write a novel. Classes, even. Entire graduate degrees.

But I'm not going to look at them. {not today.}

I don't want to know what the experts say. I just want to love my story the best way I know how. By picking up my pen. And writing. {Every day or every other day or once a week Even if it's just one sentence. Or one word.}

It's going to have flaws. Major flaws. if it gets done. But I can work that out later.

That's what editing is for.

what I like

MamamamamaMAMAMAMAMAMAMA

Middle of the night.

Girl-three just learned how to put in pre-dawn requests. Daddy isn't going to cut it for this waking. I don't like this development.

I get up. But an inner monologue chants, There is nothing nothing nothing nothing nothing about this that I like. Nothing. 

***

UhUhUhUh UHUHUHUHUH

Morning.

Girl-three requests possession of Girl-one's stuffed animal. Girl-one laughs and hands it to her. She takes Girl-three by the hand to help her find her own kitty.

I like watching them walk down the hallway, tall and short, side by side.

***

IhIhIhIh IHIHIHIHIH

Getting ready.

Girl-three demands this story. The kids in the book wiggle and bend and stomp and ask the kid on my lap if she can do it too. Girl-two stations herself at my side and demonstrates. Girl-three mimics her sister.

I like watching her eyes.

***

mmmmmMMMMMMMM

Kitchen.

Girl-three is on my hip. I'm drinking {more} coffee and downing some cereal. Girl-three grabs the raisins from my bowl.

I like her weight in my arm and the way her hair smells and watching her long fingers smoosh against the space between her nose and her lip as she shoves food into her mouth.

***

I hate midnight.

But I love this life.

So I refill my coffee cup and get on with the day.

***

Linking up to find the Bigger Picture

resolutions

This is fiction. But not really.

She's waiting for me. I hand her the bag and watch her face.

Heavy. That's all she says.

She unties the closure and dumps everything into an open box on her desk. The colored shards of glass stack awkwardly, slip-sidingly. They're mine, all of them. The formed ones. The irregular ones. The large polygons and the minuscule crescents.  The reds, especially, catch the light.

She looks at me as she tries to fasten the lid. She pretends to struggle. I'm sorry, she says with mock sympathy and a touch of ice. It's too full. 

Let me. My boldness surprises me. But I've heard rumor of a false bottom. So I produce a small hammer from one back pocket and a nail from the other. I remove those colored bits and tap a series of holes in the floor of the box. I put the shards back into my bag, and before I can think harder about it, I smash them all to smithereens.

I meet her eye. Her smile is impossible to read.

I pour the dusty glass back into the box. It fills to the brim and begins to mound too high again. But I tap the side of the box three times and the contents settle through the holes -- into the space she had hidden so well.

She reaches across time and her desk and closes the lid. It snaps neatly in place. I stow the whole thing in my bag and hold it close, like the prize it is.

You're not what I expected, I tell her as I turn to leave.

What, you thought I'd wear a sash and 2011 across my chest? A tiara, maybe? She smirks. I usually disappoint.

I smile sweetly. I can be snarky too. Not this year, honey. 

Yes, I fell down the stairs. No, I'm not hurt. Yes, I had to write about it. It's what I do.

Its 10pm. I watch the computer screen go black. It, at least, will sleep through the night. I'm kind of jealous.

In the bathroom, I peel the contacts off my eyes. I can't see as well with my glasses on, but I don't have to look closely to notice the water spots and toothpaste reside and onlygodknowswhatelse plastered to the counter top. It was like this all day but suddenly I can't stand it anymore. Not for another second. I stick my toothbrush between my teeth and trudge upstairs for a paper towel. This has to be done right now.

Going back down, foot on the stair. Slippery sock? Misjudged step? What the hell. Not a smooth ride. Six stairs down, foot smarting, butt definitely bruised, toothbrush somehow NOT lodged in my throat. John is at my shoulder, asking if I'm alright. I nod through angry, embarrassed tears.

I carry on -- get that counter clean, get myself to bed.

And get up more than once -- all three kids have been sick this week. (again)

Now it's 5am and all five of us are coughing. Not a pleasant chorous but no one can stop. I wait for someone's cry but everyone finally quiets. I get one more hour of sleep.

And I'm thankful.

For nights that dawn into days. For colds that clear up eventually. For arms and legs and minds that work. For the hand on my shoulder. And mostly, for the hope that hedges over the horizon on the heels of the sun. It holds me together.

(Linking up with Bigger Picture Blogs)

bouncing off the walls

I'm sitting at my computer. Working. {Trying to work. Supposed to be working.}

But I stare at the wall behind my screen instead. It catches my eye.

Pink and blue play in shifting patterns there, sun reflecting off sequence and beads. A light show in my living room.

Girl-one and girl-two romp just behind my chair. Spinning. Dancing. Rising. Falling. Laughing. Laughing. Laughing. Laughing. Laughing.

I'm wearing headphones to tune them out {they're not on my watch right now} but I can't concentrate.

They are behind me. But in front of me. Bouncing off the walls from every possible angle.

I slip my headphones out of my ears and peek over my shoulder. Girl-two's skirt is only half-stuffed into her dance costume -- it's flipped up to her shoulders. Her ballet slippers are untied. She falls to the floor repeatedly -- I guess it's part of the routine.  Girl-one prances like a spindly-legged fawn on imaginary toe shoes and pretend grace. They are so free it makes me want to cry.

I turn back to the computer even though I don't really want to. Slip my headphones back on so I can concentrate. But the little lights still dance on the wall in front of me. I don't want to put them out.