To the forgotten one

I do not often pretend to have His words, but – This is for you.

I am the light you cannot see, searching, piercing – not the mild sunlight of a summer day or the glimmer of candle and firelight, but the unescapable blaze of a streetlight on a deserted parking lot when all around is darkness.

I love you.

I saw the look on your face when it happened again, the thing you feared. It was only there for a second before you hid it, but I saw. You were not alone.

When you look around, you see the smiling Others whose lives seem to work – their bodies, their faces, their families. They seem to skip over the hard bits, or laugh them off, or overcome them. They seem so on top of things, and in the darkness you wonder why you are the odd one out.

I know the grief you carry, the tightening of your heart when the subject comes up, the dread of insensitive questions and curious glances. I know how you cry when people move in to care, and cry when they do not.

I know you worry that it will be too much for you, that this thing will make you crack if you face it, that the price is too high. I know exhaustion. I see it in your eyes. I know what you have sacrificed, and though you wonder, I am the one who knows it is not in vain. It will never be in vain.

I see you.

I know you.

You are not the only one.

I know the things you hold close to the chest, the horrors you cannot share lest your world cave in around you. In scores of stripes across my bleeding back I carried them for you. I carry you still.

In your loneliness I am there. When the night closes in, you are held in my light. When everyone else has someone, when the silence of the people who matter the most screams at you, when you’ve forgotten how to be the person you were, when the radiant ship sails without you, I am there.

I know what lies beneath your frustration and your turmoil, I know the palpable midnight of your fear. I am there when it yawns beneath you, when frantically you flail your way to solid ground, panting, shrieking.

Darling, you could fall all the way down and I would be there.

You are mine.


The culprit

We have no house pets at all.

But you guys are too good at guessing. I was all set for the Ghost of Christmas Past, or an angel, as Sharon suggested!


One of our harum-scarum sons was apparently in too much of a hurry to meet the school bus, and left the laundry room door flapping open for the wind and the snow and—the cat.

Scared me good.

A real life riddle


We sat on the couch in the late winter, 7:45 am, the boys just out the door for school.

Kelly was still sleeping upstairs. One twin sat on my husband’s lap, and the other hung out on the floor nearby. Ryan savored his coffee. I savored the precious moments of quiet, with Baby snuggled against me.

Suddenly we heard piano keys being played in the office, tink-tink-tinga-ding. We looked at each other. What in the world?! With every family member accounted for, who was in there playing? It sounded for all the world like Kelly goofing off, but she would have had to pass through the living room to get in there—and the playing went on. Tinga-tink-tink-ting.

Ryan went to look. I waited, trying not to breathe so I could hear.

What do you think he saw?

Summer motto


It’s more aspirational than strictly true about any of us at the moment, but the children and I say it aloud together on Monday mornings when we have our powwow to discuss plans for the week.

I am a responsible, joyful person who shares ownership of this home.

I am in charge of my own body and I clean up after myself.

I can be calm in disappointment, happy in work or play, and kind to everyone I meet.

Let’s just say we trust it’s formative.

My ten-year-old son was pleased to learn that I wrote it, and he is harder to impress than he used to be.

These are the things we work on. What would you write in your motto?

First world problems

For ten minutes she looked through her closet, dithering. She was not a ditherer by nature, so this was a matter of unusual difficulty. What to wear?


She could wear the pretty paisley dress, but she’d worn it to the last social event, and probably to the one before that. She could wear the blue, though she could not remember what had led her to choose such an obnoxious shade. The purple was showing snags, the black she had worn for seven or eight seasons, the red was too wintery, the denim was a little tight since the baby, the white and navy had no nursing zipper…

and of course the only good one was in the wash.

10 minutes
+ 12 or 15 pretty dresses
0 options

There are women the world over who wear anything they got now, minus the dithering. {blush} When she saw the math she was ashamed of herself, and she reached out her hand and grabbed a dress.

When the groceries would not fit in her refrigerator, she decided to take inventory of the jars and bottles that crammed her shelves.


She had tried to keep them in their proper sphere (the shelves of the refrigerator door), but after too little attention—and some delectable taste-test gifts from business associates—they were engulfing ALL the spheres.

Here is what her inventory looked like.

Jams Dressings Toppings Sauces Other
Black currant


Hot pepper (x2)


Strawb Jalapeno

Rasp Jalapeno

Cr Romaine





Bacon ranch


Roasted garlic &       parmesan

Poppy seed

Caramel (x2)


Spray whip


Iced coffee



Sw Baby Ray’s






Sweet chili (x2)



Kalamata olives

Green olives


Water (x2)

Lime juice

Lemon juice

Cherry soda

Baby dills

Applesauce (x2)


Oy vey, she said when she was done.

That’s forty-two items.

So she sat down to blog about it, a judicious first step, and then she crossed out the ones to discard (there were only two and a half. she has issues with throwing away food unless it smells like a distillery, as in the case of the second jar of applesauce—her son took one whiff and swore off alcoholic beverages forever)… and she put a little star beside the ones to use up as soon as possible, and she underlined the ones that would remain as permanent staples. She was pleased to see they should all fit nicely into the shelves of the refrigerator door.


Now her list looked SO much better that she turned from it without a twinge of guilt and went back to reading George Orwell, because when her children are sleeping and it’s 10:30 at night, that’s how she rolls.

Her fridge has not changed, but all in good time.

This story is strictly factual,
New dresses are in progress,
And anyone in the market for jam can stop by.