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Leah Ferguson

A New Definition

I spent part of last week at a writer’s retreat in New Mexico–a sentence I just typed with slight disbelief, because when did I become a person who goes to writer’s retreats in New Mexico? Let me just say: whoever tells you that life doesn’t hand you happy surprises once in a while is a person who’s never stepped out of her comfort zone. But back to this this retreat (my first ever writer-ly one, and definitely my first since popping three babies out of a tiny, tiny incision in my belly): I cried on the way to the airport before I left. Like, cried as if this trip were something that was happening to me, rather than a respite for me. Keep in mind that I was one of the first people to sign up for it when it was announced, that it was the exact type of conference I needed (less schmoozing, more writing. Less pressure, more laughter), and that I was SO FREAKING EXCITED to meet all of these people I’d only had the chance to talk with online, and hang out with others…

To Everything, Turn, Turn, Turn

Cian doesn’t sleep through the night by himself. I mean, this isn’t something new: I don’t think he’s really slept through the night well since he was about 20 weeks prenatal, rolling around in my belly at 2 a.m. like some deranged BMX biker on Red Bull (speaking of Red Bull: is that still around? Or am I just remembering 1999 a little better than I should?). We moved him out of a crib into his real bed a few months ago, thinking that maybe he was just too big for the confined space (he was) and that having more room would help him relax (it didn’t). So here we are now: lying down with him as he falls asleep at night (third child says, “haha, SUCKERS!”), then jolting out of sleep around 11, 12, 1 in the morning when he wakes up, realizes we’re not with him, and either cries like we’ve all decided to go to  Fiji and leave him behind, or shuffles into our room to crawl into our bed like some cat burglar with separation issues, and we wake…

I Didn’t Need That Confidence Anyway

Note: If this story looks familiar, it’s because I posted a version of it today on my Facebook author page–and then realized that it’s a conversation that needs to stay in my memory for about forever. Or at least until this color fades.  I saw my hairdresser last week after a long summer of sun-bleached hair torture, and, while she was fixing said mop of chorine-soaked frizz, she unintentionally turned me “bronde” (I much prefer my normal shade of “blrown”). I was feeling a bit down (I mean, it’s just hair, but when that hair is attached to one’s head, one tends to become attached) until I walked in the door to my house. Saoirse saw me, and her face lit up. “Mom!” she said, and touched it. “I really love your hair! It looks so PRETTY.” I knew she liked it because my hair now more closely resembled hers, but I still held on to that last shred of hope that was my self-esteem. “It does?” I said. She was smiling in that kid-approved way…