Family – Page 6 – Angel Wheeler

You’d better listen.

This morning I sent this 14 year old off to school.

It’s Homecoming here. Last night there was a bonfire, today a pep rally, tonight a football game, tomorrow a dance.

We be busy.

So later, I was replying to some comments here on my blog and I ended up clicking on something that took me way back to some of my first posts. I saw comments from my dad, which made me smile and brought a touch of sadness as well. Clicking here led to clicking there until I came across this post from a few years back that is entitled “Listen.”

I think it’s my favorite blog post of all time.

It’s a voicemail from that sweet 14 year old above when she was a bit younger. A bit more innocent. But still as fun. And crazy. And tender.

You have to listen to this message. It shows her heart.

A beautiful heart.

Here’s the original post from 2010:

My niece called me. She left the sweetest, most precious voicemail.

Before you hear more, I must tell you this.

“Mama” in the message, works in bail bonds. They were at the jail to bail someone out. Thankfully, not a member of the family…….this time.

My niece had been prostrate weeping and wailing for hours because her friend Perla couldn’t come over after she had been planning it for a whole entire week. She was devastated.

And lastly, Jesus is her homeboy.

Click on the link below. You must. It’ll make you smile, I hope.

http://www.divshare.com/flash/playlist?myId=10255644-023

Authors Note: It took me 17 hours, 904 online tutorials, and ten of my own dollars to learn how to post this to my blog. I have yanked every hair from my head and am now forever changed, not to mention bald. So it had better make you smile.

Thanks for listening 🙂

Moment Dwelling

Last night a physical sickness hit me and I couldn’t sleep because of it.

I crept out of the bedroom leaving my husband and EK snoozing soundly, grabbed a down comforter, my robe, and headed to the couch where I still couldn’t sleep.

I got my laptop and for a reason unknown, I began looking at pictures I had stored on it. For three hours, I looked at my baby’s pictures and videos from way back.

Oh my heart.

My cheeks began to hurt and I realized I’d been wearing a smile for a very long time.

You tried to tell me how precious, beautiful, adorable, etc., etc. she was and boy, were you right.

Now that I’m a bit removed from that baby-baby stage, I can’t hardly believe how wonderful she was. And she still is, just bigger.

It’s just that when you’re in the big middle of it, sometimes you see through a glass darkly. Or as J-Dub would say, your tail lights are brighter than your headlights.

But last night, everything carried a new light. The way her hair grew. The dimples on her hands, her budding teeth, the way her rolls of fat lay upon one another, her grins and her frowns.

I sat and watched each little video from before she was born where I videoed her kicking in the womb, to her cooing, to rolling, to her wounded soldier crawl, to sitting, and all the beautiful steps in between.

After breakfast this morning, I sat her in my lap with the computer and continued my nostalgic trip. She knew that was baby Emma on the screen and her face wore the most proud expression as she watched herself growing up and doing this little things that we praised.

Our movie watching didn’t last long. She wanted to read a Monkey book, and color on the TV with a blue marker, get in the clothes I was folding, eat fish and peaches, then play with the dogs and chickens.

Now she stomps around in too big play shoes, puts Cheerios in her ears, and throws a mean temper tantrum.

We’re just doing life over here.

I have to remind myself that these mundane, day-to-day chores are the little things that become the big things. In another year, I’ll be watching the videos and studying the pictures from this season of our life together and realizing how precious, beautiful, adorable etc., etc., she was.

Then……

And now….

I must tell myself to live in the moment.

I’m trying.

Blogging……finally

I had to do a little digging for this fun fact, but for the first time since August of 2009, I did not publish a blog post.

For 4 years…..

48 months……

every month……

I have had a post except this last month.

That’s kind of a sad situation.

But it doesn’t have to be that way.

Since I missed August 2013, I’ll give a quick recap of the other things that stole my time, that is if I can remember.

First off, we got a puppy.

I started having some puppy fever back in the early summer and I found myself searching for a dog. This was crazy. My bro-in-law said what I needed was another baby, but you know, puppies don’t live as long. Or cost as much.

Here he is running like crazy to get away from these 2, who seem to want to love him a little too much.

And here he is, realizing love is a pretty cool thing.

We call him Ozzie.

Oz, the great and powerful. He likes to bark at himself in the mirror and other inanimate objects like EK’s little rocking horse. He is a sweet boy and is equivalent to having another 19 month old in the house. He’s into everything, I have to tell him not to chew on crayons too, and he pees and poops as he pleases. Kind of like some one else I know.

Speaking of…….I’m attempting to potty train this sweet girl of mine. She’s not having any part of it. She wants to wear her panties, but is a bit traumatized by the potty chair. This came about after she peed on my lap and I screamed. She got scared and cried as my mom yanked her britches down and plopped her on the potty that was sitting in the living room floor. I had run to the bathroom to wipe the pee that was running down my bare legs and onto my socks, so let’s just say that now, she is not sitting on that potty for nothing. So we put away the concept for a while and we’ll work on house training Ozzie instead.

Once upon a time, she liked her potty, but only with her clothes on.

Also, in the month of August, I met a writing deadline. This is something I’m super proud of. I freelanced a story and spent most of August writing/editing/crying/drinking coffee/burning the midnight oil/stressing/praying/walking the floor/and doubting my ability. But by August 31, it was complete and I actually received payment, which is pretty awesome. It was 30,000 words which is about 29,300 more than the longest blog post I’ve ever written. It ended up being 115 pages and I feel like I birthed a baby.

I think, if I’m brave enough, I can maybe call myself a writer now that someone actually paid me to write a story. I have another one to write this month, due by Sept. 30. I need a few extra hours in the day, or just to unplug from the internet, hire a babysitter, and sit my butt down long enough to write. It’s hard y’all, real hard. But it’s also completely cool.

The month was also spent with family who came to visit and outings to the mountains to hike and camp. School started for my sweet niece Ash who made cheerleader. So we’re acquainting ourselves with the rules of volleyball and dusting off our stadium seats for football games.

Here she is on her first day of high school.

Life is busy here.

As one of my friend’s daddy used to say, the days go by slow but the years go by fast.

May we cherish every moment.

18 months old

Dear Emma Kate,

Today you are 18 months old. One and a half. You are a delight to this world. You make it a better place to live already, in just 18 short months you’ve truly made a difference in many people’s lives. Remember to always strive to add beauty and make this world a better place.

Let’s see……there is so much to say about you. First off, you are talker! You aren’t easily understood except by those close to you, but you talk up a storm, and I don’t just mean you babble.

You like to pray, and that makes my heart so happy. When we sit down to eat, you remind us to “pay” and you reach for our hands. You bow your little head, but still peek out from under your hair (we know that because we’re peeking at you too). When we’re finished, you say Amen and squeeze three times. It is so precious.

You love books as always and want us to read to you all the time.

You are so smart. I know I’ve told you that since you were born, but you were born smarter than most adults ever manage to become! You love to write your letters. You call them all E, A, and O’s.

You sing songs. Your favorite is Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star and you have these sweet hand motions that go with it that you learned from play group. You also sing If You’re Happy and You Know it, B-I-N-G-O, You are my sunshine and lots more!

If you had a choice, you’d be outside! You are not a prissy pants, although you do like dressing up in necklaces and grown up shoes and calling yourself “toot” (cute), but you also eat dog food, waller in dirt, and don’t mind a little grit under your fingernails.

You love our dogs Drew and Grace and it is so funny to hear you talk to them. If you’re not giving them hugs and kisses, then you’re telling them “Go, Move, and No”! You also love the chickens and you hug their butts all the time.

You are just a little thing. We’ll be going to the doctor soon for a check up but I bet you weigh just barely over twenty pounds. You can still wear 12 month clothes and the 18 months are just a little roomy for you. You are super healthy and have never been too sick!!! I’m so happy about that.

As far as your personality goes, you are adorable! You like familiar people, and it takes you a good while to warm up to others that you aren’t around much. It hurts their feelings sometimes I think, but they’re grown ups and can deal with it. So you keep on being careful around others and be choosy in your friends. You are a watcher and an observer. You don’t just jump in and do things, but you analyze situations and sit back rather than dive right in.

You are a mommy’s girl! And you’ve even started being jealous if someone else touches me or tries to love on me. You yell “no no no” and wring your little hands. It’s so cute. I know you won’t always be a mommy’s girl, and there will be times that you, dare I say, will even think you hate me. But I will love you no matter what. Through all the highs and lows and ups and downs. You are my baby girl. You’re growing up and I am so proud to have you! Always know how much you are loved!

I love you!!!!!

xoxo

Mommy

The Clock on the Wall

When I was 25, I had a birthday party. Just a family party. Nothing out of the ordinary, we celebrate birthdays until we die and my mom goes all out. My grannie was there. My dad was there. Neither of which are here anymore. My dad got me several presents. He never really knew how to shop and this could have been the last birthday that he physically bought and wrapped presents. Later it became money, which was appreciated just as much but not as nearly as sentimental.

One of the gifts he gave me was a clock. Just a wall clock, nothing fancy. It has a pendulum and it chimes on the hour. It probably cost him $19.99, maybe even $14.99 from Walmart. We talking 13 years ago. It’s moved with me and always hung in a prominent place in the living room. It takes 4 AA batteries to get it to work. Two for the tick tock part, and two for the chimes. I haven’t had batteries in the chiming part for a long time. I can’t even remember the last time it chimed. I’m sure I didn’t have enough batteries to change out, and only replaced the two for tick tocking.

This past weekend, it stopped. Like most clocks, it slowed down at first, began losing time, then the second hand just stood on the number ten and twitched for a while before it completely shut down. Like a slow death. Like a person dying. First they slow down, then began losing some of their function, and then they just seem to hang on for a long time, like the second hand on the number ten before they’re gone. Just gone.

Today, I dug some AA batteries out of my big gallon jug appropriately labeled “batteries” and took the clock off the wall. I began the simple task, or what I thought would be, of getting a clock to run again. I had to pry the old batteries out with a butter knife, then replace with new ones. Nothing happened. I pried them out again, checking that they were in the right direction, nothing. I dug through my gallon jug for different batteries, replaced them and still….nothing. I wiggled the silver parts that hold the batteries in place, I jiggled different things, nothing was working.

And then I was hit with emotion. Wham! Bam! It took me completely by surprise and waylaid me. My heart started to hurt, tears began to well up. I took a deep breath and did some internal talking trying to make sense of why this was so upsetting to me. It’s just a clock. But on the flip side, it’s not just a clock. It’s a clock that I like, and my dad gave it to me. And that, my friends, put me into a tail spin. My mind began racing, tears flowing, fingers still using a butter knife to place and replace batteries in a clock, trying to find the meaning, the symbolism in all this. One more thing of my dad’s that’s gone? Lost time? Am I losing time? Am I wasting time? What does this mean? Why is this wrecking me right now?

I sat the clock down on the kitchen table and walked off. I had to get a grip. But my steps took me to the living room where I instinctively looked at the wall and saw the bare spot where it hung. I went back to the kitchen. I needed something to eat. Eating would stop the shaking. I popped two pieces of bread in the toaster, but couldn’t leave it alone. I went back into the utility room and pulled the jug of batteries off the shelf. Rummaging through all the triple A’s and the C’s, I found my last two double A batteries. I said a prayer, please God let this work. I need help.

I put the batteries in, and the clock began to tick. It began to tock. Relief swept over me. I looked up and said, Thank you Jesus. Thank you.

I then put two of the batteries that were not working in the chiming part, and it began to chime. I will never allow it not to chime again.

I hung it back on the wall, my wall of favorite things.

The clock from my dad, with the family prayer plaque from our dear friends Brad and Suzanne. The cross was given to me by my sweet friend Mrs. Z. The dog on the bed picture was something I bought for myself from JC Penney. I paid $109 for it when I was in college and it nearly broke me. My dad gave me the cedar chest. My sister and family gave me the old red truck, and I’m going to have one like it someday. The little church was bought with some money from my Aunt Bert after she sold us our house in Texas.

Breast Weaning Woes

I’m categorizing this blog under the Public Service category because somethings just need to be said, that no one said to me. And also because I feel the need to vent.

I’m a little bit peeved at the female race right now. Yes, women, you. Don’t point at yourself with your eyebrows raised in surprise like that. Yes, you. I’m feeling a bit uninformed, a bit left out in the cold, and a whole LOT OF shocked at the fact that nobody told me how painful weaning my baby from breast-feeding would be.

To my male readers: don’t check out quite yet, I have something for you too.

To the mothers out there: you told me how much pregnancy sucks, you told me how painful labor would be, you warned me of the pain of beginning breast-feeding, how badly it hurt when they latched on. You told me about the hard recovery from a c-section, the hormonal swings, the postpartum depression. But no one, I mean NO ONE mentioned how painful weaning would be.

I chose to breast feed because I believe in it. I believe in its goodness. I never expected to last 6 months, never mind last a year and onward. My little EK loves to nurse. She asks for it all the time. “muck”. It has been beneficial to her, to her health, to our bonding, etc., etc., etc. I could go on.

I must be honest, I felt a little weird nursing a toddler, even though deep down I knew I shouldn’t. But Western Society sexualizes the breast, rather than embracing its intended function and breast feeding a toddler or older is frowned upon. Dare I even say stigmatized.

I slowly began to wean the baby around 12 months. First we night weaned, then we began dropping a feeding here and there. Finally we were down to 2 feedings a day. I kept it like this for several weeks. And then the tantrums began. When I had to postpone her desire for “muck”, she got mad. She cried. She pouted. She hit whatever was closest, sometimes me.

This past Thursday, after a hitting episode, I just said. “no more, there’s no more milk”. I’ve stuck to it, but it’s a lie. It’s one big whopper of a lie, because let me tell you folks, there’s still milk. There’s a lot milk. And my bosoms are engorged! The pain is almost unbearable. They’re hard, and hot, and lumpy and leaky. Originally XS, they’ve expanded to a size XXX. It’s not fun.

To my male readers: I think I now know how it feels to have testicles. You know how you guys are always protecting yours? I get that now. If something comes near you; a ball, a small child, you instinctively put your hands up to guard your jewels. I get that now. Because they hurt. And especially when they get bumped. I get that. You have no idea how much I get that now. I cry out like a little girl. And feel like hitting back whoever or whatever has bumped them.

You have no idea how badly I want to allow my girl to nurse again to relieve the pain and discomfort, but I feel like I would really be taking 300 steps backward. She still asks for her “muck” but the fits have stopped and she seems to be happy with substitute nourishment and comfort. It’s not really her suffering from weaning. It’s me.

I think I did this the smart way. I weaned gradually. There was no “cold turkey” . And yet, I still have an overabundance of supply. I’ve pumped a little just to grant myself an ounce (pun intended) of relief. And now I have cabbage leaves in my bra as a home remedy to help drain and dry up. So guess what? Not only do I hurt, I am uncomfortable, I am downright grouchy, but now……I smell like slaw. All I lack is fried chicken. Just add that to my woes.

Which brings me to my advice. To all you young mothers or ladies thinking of becoming a mother or thinking of breast-feeding. Do it, it is a wonderful thing, don’t get me wrong, the benefits are astounding.

But for me it has not been a piece of cake to wean, I’m here to tell you.

Since no one else will.

But can anyone bring me some fried chicken?

Summer twenty thirteen

I’m such a slacker and I make myself so mad when I don’t blog regularly. My thoughts and words are a bumbling rambling mess in my head which means the best approach to empty out is with a list.

Today is the first official day of summer. Here in Ruidoso, the weather is a dream come true to us. We don’t even have air conditioning in our house and the highs are in the 80’s right now. It gets a bit warm in the afternoon but not unbearable. Especially if you’re laying around, which is pretty much what I do. Despite the cooler temps, I still hate cooking in summer. Blah! Heck, I hate cooking in winter, spring, and fall too. Who am I kidding.
My baby is a week away from 17 months old. It doesn’t seem possible. We did a practice run at potty training the other day, and well, let’s just say we need a lot more practice. Within 45 minutes, we’d been through 5 pairs of training panties and a pair of sheets. Laundry, laundry, laundry.
I lost a chicken the other day. Another mystery in the art of poultry ranching. My last black chicken was lying dead in the yard. It could’ve been the dogs, but they’ve lived with the chickens for more than 2 years without killing one. It could’ve been another chicken, it could’ve been a stroke. It remains unexplainable. Nevertheless, I’m down to only 4 chickens but still plenty of eggs and noone to give them too. You may be hearing me describe all the ways I can prepare eggs soon: fried eggs, scrambled eggs, poached eggs, boiled eggs…..
EK talks like nobody’s business. It’s not always decipherable by most, but me and daddy have it down pretty good. Yesterday she woke up from her nap. I asked her if she’d like a snack. She ran to the pantry and said “m&m’s, chocolate, donuts” in that order. No worries that we’re raising a health nut here.
I’ve had a lot of people tell me over the years that I should write a book. That is such a huge undertaking, but not out of the question. I’d love to, but I’m not there yet. So, I’ve taken a direction with my writing that comes as a bit of a surprise as I’ve been hired to write a little romance novella. I’m actually going to get paid a small pence. Haha! It’s a bit ironic as I have as much romance in me as a white boy’s got dance moves, but with a little help from wine, I’m hoping to unleash my inner love starved heroine.
egg florentine, egg drop soup…….
We’ve finally found a church here that we’re enjoying and meeting new people. I think the hardest part of moving is losing the familiarity of people. But all in good time, all in good time.
J-Dub and I had an anniversary this month. We celebrated 8 wonderful years and one really bad one. Nah, I’m just kidding. It’s not an easy thing, but it’s a good thing. I hope to grow old with him and watch our grandchildren play in our front yard, feeling satisfied that we did our best.
egg custard, eggs benedict, egg salad…..
I’m currently reading 4 books, yes 4. What the heck is wrong with me? I’ve got a romance, because obviously I need some research in that department. A book club book by Jodi Picoult, and Remember Ben Clayton. Also Captivating another book club discussion. So many books, so little time.
Currently I’m in love with a rack of dresses at Walmart. Economically priced at $9.94 and in a myriad of colors, I am the proud owner of 3 so far. I’m not usually a dress person, but you know what? These don’t bind me up. They flow, they’re loose, and airy. It’s almost like wearing a gown all day and who can go wrong with that.
Life is good. It really is. I’m happy in this season of my life. God is good to me, and His love is indescribable. Sometimes I’m filled with so much love, I don’t know what to do. I only hope that it overflows out of me and splashes onto others a little.

I enjoyed writing this little love letter to you, but supper doesn’t stop because it’s summer.

So I’m off to cook steak.

And eggs.

Love,

Angel

Dreaming Like a Baby

Our local library launched its summer reading program this week with the theme Blazing the Trails. It is phenomenal and the librarians have put an immense amount of work into this.

On opening day for the Tiny Tots, we dug for pennies in sand, panned for gold, lassoed ponies, raced stick horses and sat real ponies. EK loves the library and loves the books. She wouldn’t put her book down before getting on the pony. She walked around with her book open like she was reading it.

The next day at the library, a trick roper entertained us with his horse, his rope, and his dog.

Understandably, EK’s new favorite word is “hosh”.

Early this morning, still sleeping but stirring, eyes shut, she rolled over in bed and let out a soft “neigh”.

Ah, the sweet dreams of babes.

My Happily Ever After

I’ve known my husband since I was eleven years old and he was twelve, that’s how it is in a small town. My family ran onto some hard times and had to move to the po’ side o’ town. That’s the poor side of town for those who aren’t from there. You’ve heard the joke…..we were so po we couldn’t afford the ‘or’. Jason lived 2 blocks away to the right. We did not have a love at first sight experience. Actually, he was crushing on my sister instead and would bring her roses he’d stolen from somebody’s flowerbed. They were outside sitting on the porch and I could be found next door watching Golden Girls and Cagney and Lacey with my Grannie, not giving two thoughts to boys.

We went to Middle School and High School together where he was a year older than me. We hung out in different crowds, but said hello in passing.

I was in my early adulthood when I figured out that I knew everyone in both the police record and the wedding announcements. Small town stuff. Early adulthood is when society dictates that you should get married. I wasn’t married, nor was I anywhere close. There’s a sort of panic that sets in when you figure out that you aren’t on the same time frame as the rest of the world.

Being a single girl in a small town is not an easy thing to do. Up until I found and married Jason, I was constantly being asked who I was dating, why wasn’t I dating, or someone was trying to fix me up. Eventually the well meaning townsfolk decided I was probably a lesbian and left me alone.

One day in 1998 I went to the grocery store to buy Fruity Pebbles and Ramen Noodles, staples in my single-girl diet. As I was walking out, a girl I knew stopped me in the parking lot and told me someone’s truck had just rolled into my car. In small towns everyone knows what everyone else drives. I rolled my eyes and groaned. This turned out to be my third wreck in a parking lot! In my experience, you’re pretty much out of luck. The police won’t do much because it’s considered private property. You just have to hope the other guy has insurance and is a respectable dude who will take care of it. When I got into eye shot, I saw this empty, avocado green, beat up Ford pickup had knocked out of gear and rolled about fifty feet before slamming his taillights into my headlights.

It belonged to Jason. I knew that the minute I saw it. Small town stuff. Neither of us were in our vehicles at the time. It was almost as if this old, green, beat up Ford truck saw this fancy, new, bluish purple Mustang and said, “Hey there, wild thang with the 4 cylinder. I think you need a better look at my rear end.” I leaned against the side of my car and waited for him to meander out of the store. He was all apologies, promised he’d take care of it. And he did. He called me up and asked me to take it to a certain body shop, the car got fixed and life went on. And that was that.

For five more years.
Dates with crazies came and went.
Then I became a recluse.
I would never go out. People would tell me I needed to be out meeting people. But I had met people, and they turned out to be daddy’s boys or killer cops and I’d rather stay home and watch Survivor alone. If somebody wanted to date me, they were going to have to knock on my door. And that was that.

Then one day I came home from work to find Jason’s name on my caller ID. That was curious, but I assumed it was a wrong number. He called back two days later and asked me out. We talked for three hours. I was teaching school and a parent of one of my students, that happened to be a friend of his, had suggested he ask me out. He remarked that I was too sweet for him, which is true. But a few days later, we passed each other on the main road in town and waved, and prompted him to call. I’d had my experiences with cowboys, not to mention their dads, and didn’t figure it would go anywhere, but I agreed. Eating Ramen Noodles was getting pretty old by this time.

It worked out pretty good.
He wore a yellow shirt.
I ordered chicken.

We had a second date.
He took me horseback riding.

I needed a boost on the butt.

He happily obliged.
I was petrified.

We had a third date.
At a comedy club.
His truck started breaking down on the way home.

A few months later he proposed to me on bended knee.
We got married.
He still has to give me a boost on the butt.
A much bigger boost on a much larger butt.

Sometimes, when I get nostalgic, I’ll think about the wreck we had in the parking lot both in unmanned vehicles. I learned later that of course that po’ boy didn’t have any car insurance but knew a guy who could fix my car. They did a little bartering and Jason broke a horse for the body shop man in exchange for payment. Small town stuff.

It’s a funny story I guess. Maybe even a coincidence.

Perhaps it was Fate.
Or Destiny.
Or the cosmos aligning perfectly with Mercury in the Sixth House.

But if you really want to know the truth, I believe it was God.
I believe that he intended for that collision of two unmanned vehicles to be the beginning of Jason and Angel. A collision of love.
And we just weren’t listening.

That was a move on His part to create His will for two dumb pilgrims down here, and we missed it. So he went to Plan B. He works around our goofs.
Because He’s cool like that.

This entry is #15 on a list of 30 things. How I fell in love.

Day In, Day Out

I never awaken on my own. I’m usually smack dab in the middle of some amazing dream when a little person whose feet are in my ribs begins to stir and repeatedly request “muck”, the translation of milk in baby talk. Staggering out of bed with my daughter in my arms, leaving my dream of lottery winning or beach lying behind forever, I put aside all my needs, never considering even a trip to the bathroom, to satisfy hers instead. Because that’s what mothers do.

Eventually, I manage a cup of coffee or two, breakfast consists of oatmeal with brown sugar and milk, while a well-worn DVD of Sesame Street or Barney provides the background noise. I sing along and speak the lines by memory knowing I could recite the entire episode better than a 7th grader reciting the Preamble to the Constitution in History class. Repetition will do that.

Our outdoor surroundings are breathtakingly relaxing and outside time is a must even on cooler days. We’re surrounded by trees, pines, hummingbirds, deer, and birds of all colors. So Emma and I spend our time in the backyard with our dogs, chickens, slide, and sandbox soaking up Vitamin D. My girl toddles around exploring the ins and outs of pine needles, rocks, dog water, and sticks and I use this opportunity to read a short story or a chapter in a book. I might take my notebook and colored pen out and attempt a little short story of my own. But my mind gets weighed down with my character or the conflict that needs to surround him, the voice of inadequateness drowns out the voice of creativeness until I seek refuge in facebook or a round of Words with Friends on my phone. Eventually I become distracted enough with technology that I don’t even notice when my fictional character sneaks away and drowns in the river next to our house.

Lunchtime comes and goes, a cuisine suited to a toddler palette: noodles, goldfish crackers, bananas and the like. A yawn or sometimes a one year old frenzy indicates naptime so we shake the sand from our shoes and climb into an unmade bed for an afternoon nap. She wallers and hums. I pat and sing, and eventually she dozes off. I then sneak out of bed and quietly bottle around the house doing odds and ends; housework, exercise, more reading or occasionally I may be so bold as to nap with her.

During late afternoon, we pack up and head to the Middle School to pick up my niece Ash from school, then it’s back home for more of the same. Usually after it’s too late, I realize I didn’t plan anything for supper. This realization throws me into a maddening search on the internet for a recipe consisting of tomato sauce and salmon.

My husband returns from work, and the evening passes as all other evenings in American households. Supper, dishes, baths, and bed.

Once a week we join a playgroup and two days later we visit the library where I engage in adult conversation, usually about kids.

I spend most of my day on a toddler level. I sing The Itsy Bitsy Spider, I read Goodnight Moon, I blow bubbles, mold homemade play dough, hold hands while climbing steps, clean noses, wipe butts, give hugs and kisses and receive as many back, wash high chairs, cook spaghetti, step on hair clips abandoned on the ground, wipe crayon off the wooden floor, wash sticky hands and faces, and wipe tears.

Through it all, I dream of writing.

Some days I wonder if this is all there is. I am in the trenches of motherhood. Stay at home motherhood. There are times I feel very purposeless, unimportant. Cooking and cleaning is my existence. But deep in my soul, I know there is no greater purpose for me than this girl named Emma, whose hair hangs in her eyes, whose nose wrinkles when she grins. I am the most important person to her right now. I won’t always be. This time is numbered, and I’m doing my best to make it count. For both of us.

This entry is #12 on the list of 30 things. Describe a typical day.