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Browsing Tag: young children

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…

It Adds Character Anyway

I set aside these two hours this morning to write. Something, anything: a new blog post, the end of another blog post I started two weeks ago and never quite finished, bits of the new novel that’s slowly starting to take shape, even though it should probably get developed less slowly and more quickly, because, hello, Leah, time doesn’t stop just because the cat barfed on the carpet again. The girls are in school, and Cian is playing with two toy trucks and a plastic Olaf beside me on the couch, singing to himself and occasionally calling out, “MOM. Toot toot.” I’m trying to push the shoulds out of my head–the “what I should be doing” thoughts, which are everything from taking a shower, to switching out the clothes that are draped all over Quinlan’s bed, to sweeping the dried oatmeal out from under the table, to calling the doctor because why does my back hurt all the time am I really getting that old, to writing up a meal plan for next week because ugh it’s that time already, to finding music for…

Of a Feather

About a month or so ago, a bird started building a nest in the wreath hanging on our front door. By the time I noticed it, the wreath was already fully formed, shiny-new and in mint condition, prime real estate nestled in a quiet spot at the top of a door we never use. I was so upset. I hate that ugly wreath, and knew I was stuck with it on the front of my house for the rest of the summer. It’s funny, though, to watch the progression of that little baby birdie home. In the beginning, it was a perfectly formed cup of sticks and twigs, soft tufts of dandelion seeds, all intricately woven together in a tidy little aviary. The mama bird sat over her eggs in this bowl every day, alert and expectant, fixing this and that little piece until the entire place was to her liking. And then the babies came. And now I’m laughing, if only in solidarity with the mama bird. Oh, that poor nest now. THE NEST. Twigs are broken. It’s lopsided, with one side all banged up. If you peek inside, all you see…