I Write To Understand. I Write To Stop Time
Dear ***,
Over the years in social work training and practice, I have become a pretty good communicator, except when it comes to you. Maybe it’s because our time together has been so emotional and dramatic, for lack of a better word. We’ve been through shit together.
Continue reading “This Letter Will Never Be Sent, Though It Will Be Published”
Of all the things a Stallone flick can offer an audience, profound depth is not often among them. Yet a hidden gem about relationships in the first Rocky film makes it an exception. (One that proves the rule? You decide.)
“What, just explore this apartment? The people who live here won’t mind?”
“Oh, they don’t know. I just need to describe what I see. Alright, sure.”
Holy shit, don’t these people clean? I would hate to live in a place like this. Ohh, but that sign is funny. “Hippies use the backdoor.” Let me pick around all these shoes – oh, I guess I should take my own off.
Okay. Let’s get through this quickly.
Damn! Look at those bookshelves! Oh, but first – ooh, a bar! Should I have some whisky or rum? Nice.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Futures Past.”
Last night, my dearest Cohiba told me that I helped him make his dream come true. Moving out here with him, doing a job he loves and being in a place he feels challenged and supported has been a dream that has so far not been realized. It made me feel pretty special, honestly, and happy to know he feels so loved.
I have written before about the expression “lumpy sock,” one that my family uses to refer to a newborn. I thought it was just a cute and affectionate way to refer to a baby or something small and precious.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “The Kindness of Strangers.”
I have found, more times than I can count, that strangers are unfailingly kind. When I was lost in Paris one night getting off the metro, the old woman who walked me to my hostel was kind. When I was on the phone with my insurance company and the Wee One was screaming in the background, the receptionist was so kind. When I drop things now and she’s in my arms, people are so helpful in retrieving my items and getting settled more securely.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “The Golden Hour.”
I’m trying to work out a schedule for our transitioning household. Wee One is four months now and I’ve heard that everything will be easier for her if we have a schedule. I’ve tried to come up with one but I hate schedules! I hate being trapped or confined. I think schedules are lame.
But they really are good for people, especially small ones. Especially when we’re moving and so much is changing. I’m also finding they’re good for new moms and their heightened anxiety. So I’m trying to do this schedule.
I know marriage is hard, and parenting is hard, and moving is hard, and being a stay at home mom is hard, and communicating is hard, and living with anxiety is hard and it’s all really hard right now.
Wee One will be four months old tomorrow. This morning, Cohiba said: she’ll be a quarter of a year old tomorrow. I threw a pillow at him for reminding me she’s older than I want her to be. (We’ve been living in a hotel room until the corporate housing comes available tomorrow, and, just as a side note, hotel room living isn’t as fun as I thought it would be!)
I Didn't Just Wake Up This Morning With A Craving 