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Category: Writing

Work in Progress

I took the girls shopping for school clothes last week at our teeny-tiny local mall. One store had a coloring station for children, and by the time we walked out of the shop, Saoirse held a fat stack of completed pages in her hand.  She was calling the papers her “book,” and there were a LOT of pages, can I just tell you? The stack was huge.  But she told me I couldn’t read the book yet because it wasn’t finished. The next day, the stack had grown.  Added to it were sheets of scrap paper, notebook pictures, scribbles and stick figures, all stapled together.  I asked her if I could read it, and again, she said that I could when it was finished, but that it wasn’t complete yet. She said that it would take one–“no, two”–Christmases and two summers, but that by the third summer, the book would be ready enough to read. David was putting lunch together, laughing, while Saoirse was telling me this.  He said, “Yep, that sounds about right,” and put her plate on the table in front…

Because There’s Not a Remedy for Everything

This whole chasing-a-dream business is nuts. I still get all embarrassed-like and blushy when I talk about writing (or you know, the book).  I stayed so veeeeerrrry quiet about it all (the book, I mean), because you don’t just quit your job to be a full-time mom and then write a novel during nap times and after bedtimes and way-too-late-into-the-night times and walk around telling people “Oh, yeah, I don’t have a paying job, but I write because I must” because people who actually go to offices and classrooms and oh, I don’t know, war zones for a living might not really appreciate the lady in a messy ponytail and crayon-stained yoga pants with a toddler hanging by its fingers from her waistband talking about how she sits around on her rear end for hours eating jelly beans and just typetypetyping for fun. But I did. I started writing, and then, like some strange fungus that starts out as a little spot then grows until it’s an infestation you need special medication to treat ((you know, like athlete’s…

But It’s So Pretty

I sat cross-legged in the girls’ playroom this afternoon. We played catch with mini beach balls leftover from Cian’s baptism party (everyone has inflatable beach balls at their christenings, don’t they?). I watched Quinn turn somersaults around the room like a ball on a billiard table. I pretended to eat plastic toys shaped like food and laughed along with my giggling little girls. Inside, I tried not to be sad that they could be made so happy from ten lousy minutes of interaction with me. Alas. I am a mom. And because I’m a mom, the guilt is always there, tugging at the corners of even my best intentions. This morning, I shared a snack with Quinn in a Target Starbucks while I nursed Cian (such an awesome pastime when you know pretty much everybody in your community, or at least those who would be at Target at 9:30 in the morning watching you try to breastfeed a writhing baby under a suddenly napkin-sized nursing cover). I took her to the park to play before Saoirse’s preschool pick-up. We went to a farm market and ate a…