Posts in Slice of Life
Cleaning with a Baby

My two month old does not approve of cleaning.

I know because I’ve tried. I’ve tried putting him, peacefully sleeping, in his bassinet only to hear a mighty roar one, three, five minutes later. I’ve tried bending over to tidy while wearing him in a soft structured baby carrier (no unwitting brand promotion here!), the little pouch where he spends a good portion of his day, only to find that I must devote one hand to supporting his floppy little baby head.

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Soap-Box Banter

I wasn't published for any Shakespearean criticism this year. But, I did stand up on my soap-box about his legacy.

I also stood on my soap-box about feminism, education in America, the book I wrote that doesn't feel finished, my height, and a number of things in between. Except soap, ironically.

I stood on my soap box for so long that the topics I wanted to banter on, no longer were in fashion. Similar to my three year old brown knee-high boots paired with long white socks pulled sky high; meant to keep my legs warm when a skirt was selected over the more obvious choice of pants.

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Quality of Life

Yesterday evening, I bathed myself, trimmed my cuticles and my nails on both hands and feet. I thought of the podiatrist appointments that I need to take my clients to, next week...

When I am old, will I allow myself to pay for someone else to clip my nails, comb my hair, floss and brush my teeth, clean my body, shower me, wipe my ass; see me naked in order to give me personal care of the things that, at 60 years old, I still feel privileged to accomplish on my own?

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A New Day

I remember waking up one morning and knowing I needed to go back to school. I was a school counselor and my job was perfectly fine, but I wanted more than perfectly fine. The voice in my head told me that if I wanted to teach this was the time to do it. I was fifty years old.

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This morning I am listening to the sound of settling all around me.  Settling into this new space with the large windows.  Settling into routines and where to hang the keys and what day to pull out the trash cans. Acknowledging the little buds of roots emerging underneath this new life.

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I Just Can't Bear to Sing

I haven’t been able to sing a song at church since my dad died. Not one hymn, worship song, nothing has been sung aloud in over 3 years. There were Sundays when I would attempt to sing and tears would flow so fast and heavy that I would nervously wipe them away enough to get to the bathroom and avoid the rest of worship time. I grew to hate this part of church. I would go to the bathroom, pretend the baby needed something, get more water. Anything but having to stand there and bottle my emotions why others praised the lord with their voice.

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The Best I Could Do

I always have the television on in the kitchen while I fix and eat my meals. This morning, Saturday, my usual weekday selections not available, I scanned through the HBO suite of channels even though I did not desire to commit to watching a whole movie. I came upon a documentary in progress about the school girls kidnapped by Boko Haram four years ago.

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Tuesday Night Writing

Writing calls to me at times in a visceral, gut punch manner. I feel if I don’t put pen to paper I will either die or I will kill someone. Then I just get out a notebook and pen and write words or doodle until sense returns and I am not any kind of –cidal. There’s a difference, however, in the power of Life in Ten moments; there’s a magic of writing or of cohabitating and writing, a feel that we’re all in this together; we’re creating a higher power or channeling a higher power, where all of the voices join and become an amalgamated psalm or a raunchy ballad, but all of the moments tell of complicated lives lived and they occur in ten minute purges. We writers own a vomitorium, vomiting up memories and moments that cannot escape our conscious act of putting pen to paper. 

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