Sisters strolling in the park. I pray they’re always this close.
Last night was a doozie. One of those evenings where every button is pushed, and by the end, every hair is pulled out. Tempers flared. Words hissed. Patience broke.
My youngest has been particularly difficult lately. Every other word is spoken as a whine, and when all 42 pounds of her 3-year-old body decide they don’t want to do something, it’s a back-breaking exercise in frustration. And she thinks it’s funny. And I used to let her get away with too much because, well, she’s my baby. And her older sister had me so wound up with her melodramatic preschooler-acting-like-a-preteen drama fests that I quite welcomed a different kind of naughty. But now? Now? My oldest has entered a “mommy’s little helper” phase while my youngest is …
Mmm…I can just smell the chocolate and cinnamon.
When it comes to baking, I’ve learned a valuable lesson. If it’s good, I have no self control. Shoot, even it’s a little better than edible I have no self control. If I whip something up in the kitchen to be shared by only my little family, you can bet I’ll be “sneaking” bites long after dessert time is over. I. Just. Can’t. Stop. My oldest also has a sweet tooth, and if there’s something yummy in the house, it consumes her every bit of attention. She whines. She negotiates. She makes me wish I’d never made the darn thing in the first place.
So whenever possible, I try to infuse as many healthy ingredients as I can, and use sneaky swaps to pack in extra nutrients and …
Oh my goodness. The kite thing. Never did I think I would find someone else who shared this idiotic phobia with me. That someone else is my daughter.
I watched her face as her new Hello Kitty kite began to take flight, lifted by a rare gentle Kansas breeze. As it began to ascend, her brow furrowed, and a panicked look replaced her smile.
“I don’t want it to go too high mommy.”
I knew that look. And I knew that feeling. “Is it because it makes you nervous when it starts going up real high?”
She shook her head up and down, and I reassured her, “I know exactly how you feel.”
This didn’t seem to surprise her at all. After all, I get her. Just like my dad got me. She has no idea how precious this bond …
If hearing voices makes me crazy, so be it. After all, I’m in good company.
Sometimes, internal voices happen outside my mind. Words are spoken, and received by my ears, rather than merely bubbling up in my brain. Who do these words belong to? Me. But not me. Both a better version…and a worse one. The proverbial devil and angel. The cartoon characters dressed in red and white perched atop opposing shoulders.
It’s simple, really. The devil with the red dress on is selfish, easily agitated and aloof. The ethereal one speaks softly, reacts slowly and remains engaged at all times. To be honest, sometimes she annoys me. Sometimes I just want to hang out and wallow in self satisfaction with the one in stilettos. But I can’t trust her. She doesn’t have my best interest …
When my friend Dani Stone (freelance writer and short story author extraordinaire) asked me if I’d already participated in the How I Write blog hop, I had no idea what she was talking about. To which she replied, “SWEET ACTION.” And this is why I love Dani. Our Facebook IMs are epic, and often result in me snorting some beverage I’m drinking out of my nose. The gal is funeeee. And while we’ve only met once in person (well, twice if you count the time I waved at her in Red Beans, and she had no clue who I was), I’ve forged a bond with her over freelance foibles, writer woes and momma drama. So of course I wanted to participate in this blog hoppy thing.
I’ll answer a few questions about how I …
The girls hard at work decorating for our family Easter gathering.
I’m not sure if it was the warm dampness he felt on his shirt or the sob that rose from my shoulders that gave me away. I didn’t want my husband to see me crying. My head was buried in his chest, my arms wrapped around his back, and we were standing on the steps to our newly-built garage. He’d brought me out there to showcase the garage door opener and lights he’d spent all day installing.
“Why are you crying? What’s the matter?”
I shook my head. I didn’t want to answer. I was embarrassed that these emotions spilled out so suddenly with little to no warning. Almost like an unexpected wave of nausea that sends you running to the bathroom, only you don’t make …