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Category: Reality Check

I’ll Tell You Now I Keep it On and On

David got me these flowers on our anniversary in July (13 years, baby. Our marriage is officially a teenager). I’d chosen them as part of my wedding bouquet, but just got around to looking up their meaning today, and what I found kind of threw me off a bit: on the positive end, hydrangeas stand for gratitude. That’s lovely. On the flip side? They also portray frigidity, or disinterest (probably not what a couple wants to consider as it goes waltzing down an aisle, but let’s move on, shall we?).  Gratitude and disinterest: oddly enough, they’ve been the presiding emotions inside this ol’ body of mine this past year. It’s what’s prevailing, these conflicting feelings of extreme thanks for all the good in my life: the publication of All the Difference, my lit agent, my writing community, my family and friends and home and all of that. When I wake up every day, my first thought is just that: thanks. I’m so thankful to have this. But that’s before the second emotion sneaks in there, flowing around the side of that gratitude like…

Time Travel, Blog Style

I was going through some of my One Vignette archives (truth: I was on Facebook and the essay popped up as one my “memories.” Guilty as charged, your honor) and found a post from two years ago. I’ve posted the link below, because I just have to re-share it with you. It was just two years ago: so much has changed since then. I miss so badly that state of being the new mom with the baby: I knew I was in the thick of it, I knew I was still learning–and how neccessary it was to forgive myself or be forgiven because of that–and as exhausted as I was and tired and overwhelmed, I also knew, in the very back reaches of my head (the parts that hadn’t been affected yet by the sleep deprivation, I mean) that the time is so precious and fast. However. I don’t miss the breastfeeding. Do I miss the quiet and the bonding and the time to myself? Oh, Lordy, yes. But I don’t miss the breastfeeding. I don’t miss the nursing tank tops or the…

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…