A can of green paint

Pregnant in the time of Covid: a mix of so many emotions, and all of them extreme. Extreme gratitude to have squinted my eyes to see those two pink lines, the ones that meant I would be a mom for the first time. Extreme denial—how could this pandemic be hurting so many, when inside my own little world I’ve never felt happier? Denial turned to fear when I saw headlines, terrifying headlines, of women laboring alone without their partners. Tears shed, trips canceled, showers turned virtual. This wasn’t how it was “supposed to be” and yet still I hung onto those two pink lines, somehow masked like my smile, unable to be shared with the rest of the world. I needed to find a place of calm for myself. I needed it right here in the confines of my quarantined condo.

So I bought a can of green paint.

I searched high and low for the perfect shade, imagining every different green scenario possible before finally landing on Sherwin Williams: Coastal Plain. For the remainder of my pregnancy, whenever anxious thoughts, and let’s be honest, hormones, threatened to spill out my eyes, I’d retreat to my very own Coastal Plain in the city and feel peace.

Preparing this room for baby became a source of comfort and control. It became my safe haven from fear, and more than that, it became a joyful ode to the little life within. I filled this space with meaningful pieces I’ve collected over my lifetime: a rug purchased on a trip to Bangalore, a thrift-shop dresser my mom helped me find in college, the lamp I bought with my very first paycheck. Of course new details too: cheerful wallpaper in the closet, a bookshelf for baby’s amassing library, a gingham crib sheet.

Now, she and I spend hours rocking in here. The sound machine speaks in ocean waves and together we drift off to faraway places, all because, a can of green paint.

Before committing to any one item, I like to see them laid out together in a mood board. Here are the three directions I thought through, before ultimately landing on Pastel Garden.

And the result? Colette loves her pastel garden. Just need to hang a few more prints + photos before I call this space done!

SOURCES:

Paint Color: Coastal Plain by Sherwin Williams
Pendant Light (Under $40)
Crib Inspiration, Similar
Quilt
Gingham Sheet, we also love this one
Blackout curtain in sour cream
Woven Roman Shade
Brass Curtain Rod, similar for less
Rocker
Rug, one of a kind
Read me a Story pennant
Vintage Map

The Color Factory, NYC

A Review of the Color Factory, from a Skeptic-Turned-Believer
(All photos, thoughts, and opinions are my own)

Twenty thousand square feet of rainbows and candy and cameras, oh my! Before you run from the sugar rush, I urge you to take a closer look. What I thought would be an insufferable display of vanity (millennials taking pictures of themselves), turned out to be a glimpse of, dare I say, my own personal paradise? The conveyor belt of endless macarons, sprinkling of poetry, and a disco dance party was enough to inspire even me and my grayest sweater.

Let’s back up. This experiential art exhibit first launched in San Francisco and was only meant to last one month.

Its popularity far exceeded curators’ expectations when the web page hosting ticket sales crashed. To accommodate excited color-hungry enthusiasts, the pop-up stayed open for seven more months...eventually arriving in New York City, with a whole new color story to tell. 

Luckily, Sasha and I were able to snag a ticket to experience the craze for ourselves. I’ll do my best to recount my favorite moments from inside the sixteen rooms, each showcasing art from local writers, poets, musicians, and even favorite NYC restaurants. 

Upon arrival, we were greeted by a friendly host in a, what else but brightly-colored, jumpsuit. Once inside, another host offered us mochi ice creams. It was 10am. We gladly accepted, not knowing there were macarons, candies, soda, and gelato soon to follow. 

And so it began. Each attendee signed in at an iPad, creating a profile and activating a card to carry throughout the exhibit. This element of technology astounded me. I swiftly put my phone away, now able to navigate the morning hands-free. For any desired photo, I’d scan my card, strike a pose, and find it in my inbox seconds later. So easy!

Some of my favorite rooms were not photo-centric but more interactive. One such room prompted me to draw a stranger’s portrait but to do so while not looking down at the paper. Another room was entirely covered, floor to ceiling, in a flow chart of questions: Sunrise or Sunset? The questions eventually led to a  door which opened to reveal my “spirit color.” Next up, a disco themed dance party, where there were suggested dance moves assigned to each spirit color: I wiggled my hips obediently; Sasha shimmied her shoulders. 

Other highlights include the balloon room sponsored by Gymboree. Each balloon had a child’s wish for our world printed on it. Grab one that speaks to you, and say cheese. Lastly, the ball pit was a crowd pleaser, and might I add hilarious to watch grown adults relive the joys (and germs) of their youth. We left the Color Factory taking note of the broad audience it reached, both young and old, and shared our favorite parts which despite mass appeal, felt personal to us. 

28

I’m always compelled to catalog my feelings each August 24th. To greet the age in my bones. Each birthday anticipated less, appreciated more, and hardly felt unless pressed to pause and reflect.

So 28. I smile about things I thought I’d be and things I’m most definitely not.

When I was 8 I received a journal and each page prompted a new doodle. One of the pages read “draw yourself in 20 years.” I drew myself with a bob and a briefcase. The silver gel pen reveals I’m stylish and smiling with the same sort of cheerful cardigan you’d see a mom wear on the Disney channel in 1998.

20 years later, the reality is my hair has never been longer, grown out for our wedding. I don’t sport a briefcase, but an overstuffed tote bag, bursting at the seams. I’m stylish and smiling and still choosy about pens.

So yesterday. I woke early, grumbled about a meeting with members of the board, rolled my eyes, dressed nicer than usual, looked at the clock, cursed, called an Uber. It was raining, sirens calling like distant echoes. As the Uber sped through puddles I sat in the back seat gazing out the window admiring the tall Chicago buildings, layers of grey shadows in the fog. I took note of my heels then and my blazer and my responsible to-go mug of coffee. A board meeting somewhere in the middle of this entanglement of beautiful metal. All these things seemed to whisper “welcome to 28.”

I smiled. I marched into work letting the clicks of my heels guide me to corporate greatness.
Later that day my search history: long bobs.

12 hours later:
Barre class concludes. I rifle through my overstuffed bag, feeling for my tennis shoes, find none. And suddenly the realization, they’re forgotten. Just these show-stopping heels. The pride they stood for earlier breaks down to mockery. I decide to tip toe out of class in my padded socks, less foolish than tromping clumsily in heels and joggers. Right?! Decidedly still foolish. I surrender to embarrassment and call an Uber for the second time today.

I reach my destination, home, with minimal weird looks. I thank the driver and step out onto the pavement where a middle aged woman greets me with, of course, a weird look. She exclaims rather loudly “where are your shoes, little girl?!”

I’m startled. At her volume and that last part.
Little girl?

I’m 28! And suddenly my silver illustration of corporate greatness and heels and responsible temperature retaining coffee mugs is washed away with the rain and her astute observation.
Leaving me, just me, as I am today:
A little girl in socks.
With a trace of white hair.
A sweet tooth.
A husband.
A distracted brain prone to forgetting things.
A mental note to check my 401k contribution.
A Taylor Swift song in my head.
A sense of humor.

To an 8 year old with a gel pen, I’m a doodle come to life with a little less grace.

To a 48 year old woman, perhaps I’m a silly reminder of a girl she used to know.

I decide to keep my hair long. Find my tennis shoes. Eat m&ms for dinner and call my insurance company. Feel comfort at this place in life somewhere in the middle, embracing contradiction.
 

summer

Summer purred her last goodbye
On cicada's wings at night.
She scraped knees, stained tees,
Kissed our skin when we weren't looking
Left a trace on each chin, trickling,
screen door clicking
shut.

We long for the greedy feeling,
The one that promised a forever
Of empty days and
Bellies full of melons ripe;
Of evening light

Now darkening the window.
But she's still there
Amidst the freeze!
Squint your eyes again, you see?
She belongs to someone else

She's left for you's a memory
Of sweetness still to come.
And for something quite more tangible
You'll relish all her pains:
Roman candles' cries, goodbyes,
She flies, the scars don't fade

But the days do so we
Dress our wounds with pumpkin spice--
Perhaps a Christmas carol.
Wrap ourselves in cable-knits--
Gather 'round Grandma's table

So far away, but
She'll be back just when
Your freckles need reminding
Of where they sit upon your nose
Right where she left them hiding.

Be ready to receive her,
Lest you forget she's fleeting.
Her days are long but moments pass
And then, without a warning,
She'll lead us to the edge
And watch us watch her  

Fall.

She is She, and I am Me

There I am.
Not quite thirteen.
Tearing through the field with grass stains on my knees, 
eyes skyward, looking over my shoulder, leaping, diving.
Caught.
Six points.
Easy.
I try to wipe the sweat from my brow, and the smile from my face.
Both are persistent.
One of the boys: “It’s just gym class.”
But October air burns my lungs in a way I can’t resist.

There she is.
She’ll traipse but never tear. 
Skipping through the grass, curls bouncing in a wild rhyme.
She’s just completed her daisy chain.
Six stems.
Tied together.
Easy.
The ball nears and, “Oh dear!” escapes her lips.
Saunter left, “Sorry!”
Tiptoe right, “Goodness me!”

The school bell summons ‘game over.’
I trot off the field toward gossip and bleachers.
I’m pleased with myself. Perhaps too much.
I’m expecting wide eyes.
Reactions.
Reenacting that last catch in my head.
Then I hear it,

“Aww! She’s sooo cute!”

I'm suddenly aware of my sweat.
The grass stains.
The realization that I am not the subject.
I turn.

There she is.
Prancing.
Laughing contagiously.
Doing what freckles and dimples do.
It’s true.

She’s so cute.

“I should be more like her.”
The thought spilled out,
piercing, betraying
my gift
and the October air
that had just filled me with life!

I watch from the sidelines,
no longer the center of it all.
The girls envelope her
in hugs and chorus lines.
I comb back matted hair. 
Notice things like shoes,
mascara.

“I should be more like her.”

_______________________________________________________________________________

I often revisit this memory. Because of what happened next: my thought was intercepted.

Quite thankfully.

Yes, my tween mind was probably half-way down the cosmetics aisle and considering a newfound future in ballet, when a very perceptive teacher interrupted my thoughts and said, “You are you and she is she," casually followed by, "When are basketball tryouts? Think you'll get another championship two years in a row?”

I snapped out of it. Such a simple question renewed confidence in what I could offer the world. My team was counting on me. My team needed me. They didn’t need traipsing or flowers or dimples or freckles or Maybeline. They needed me and my sweat, my focus, my passion!

The realization flooded my face with color again. When I looked back over at her bouncing curls I no longer saw her as something I wasn’t.

She was she and I was me.

Fifteen years later, I’m no longer that little, knobby-kneed girl on the football field. I’m at a workout class next to women skinnier than me. Stronger than me. I remember the flower crown.

Shatter intimidation. May their strength empower me.

I’m at work — a designer. Pinning iterations up for critique. My concept left unpicked. They go with something else — an idea belonging to my younger coworker. She’s so creative. She’s clever. She’s funnier than me. I see freckles dancing in a field.

Dismiss self-doubt. Celebrate her craft. Let her inspire me.

I’m in the kitchen, pots overflow, steam has me rolling up my sleeves. Exasperated, ready to give up and dial a pizza. I volunteered to host the dinner for women much better at this than me. Dimples and Maybeline. “Why can’t I be more like them?”

Let go of perfection. Seek humility. Ask for help. 

It’s easy to compare. To let admiration become envy and then doubt. To think that her successes are my failures. She is cute. I am not. As if there’s only enough room for one cute, strong, creative, talented woman in this world! To think we're not all running on the same field, together, making our beauty known in such authentically different ways. 

I imagine doubt will still find me. Yes, and probably when my hair is grayer than hers and my wrinkles, more pronounced. In those moments I hope I don't discount my very own, unique and special gifts. I hope I remain true to them. I hope I show up every day, using them, trying my best.

Perhaps even more, I hope I inspire her, whoever she is, to honor her gifts too. To explore green pastures in a way I hadn't seen. In a way only she knows how. 

She is she and I am me.
She sings sweet praise for my touchdown.
I whoop in awe of her flower crown.

27

Life at 27
Running around wild and wanting, my thoughts that is, to be committed to page. So here they are, gushing streams of thought about life at such an age. 

1. my forehead. It wrinkles more than ever. So I start buying goop in jars. I wonder if the goop has transformative powers or if, at face value, it is what it is, and I am what I am. Goop + 27. 

2. I still exclaim though--with wide! expressive! incredulous! eyes. With eyebrows raised to kingdom come, wrinkling the brow, to emphasize my wows and omgs and are you seriouses. Because, exclaiming is fun. Exclaiming is human nature. So is aging. Fun + human nature. 

3. Weddings. There were 8 this year, 7 for next, and still counting. Collectively that is 15 white dresses and 30 hearts shared and hundreds of eyes shedding tears, and 1 forehead waving its flag of surrender because joy and exclaims and laugh lines. 

4. Grandmas in dresses. I love grandmas in dresses. At weddings, at church, crossing the street or at Meijer. Grandmas wear what they want when they want to. Grandmas know comfort. Grandmas have swagger. 

5. Neck scarves. I wore them for most of my 26th year, and the collection has steadily grown with another turn about the sun. I find them chic. They match my loafers. They're lady-like.

6. Lady-like. I found myself ridiculed for saying this. I will continue to say it. What does it mean to be a feminist anyway? Can't I be both? Can't I lean in, burn my bra, and be decent and pure and lady-like? 

7. Cognitive dissonance. Uncomfortable tension which comes from holding two conflicting thoughts in the mind at the same time. To burn or not to burn?

8. Probably burning rubber. Drew and I have logged many a mile in the trusty scion this summer. Only one ticket. The other, negotiated.

9. Road picnics. Something he does best. Open the cooler to find everything you ever dreamed of needing. Apple slices. Lime juice to preserve them. 

10. La Croix. An acquired taste. Or lack of taste, whichever. 

11. Stevie Nicks. A reminder came in the form of formal correspondence. It read, "you've been on the edge of seventeen for ten years strong!" To which I died just a little...

12. The clouds never expect it when it rains/ But the sea changes colors/ but the sea does not change/ and so with the slow graceful flow of age/ I went forth...

13. The sun. This made the list but I imagine it always will, won't it? I learned about Chicago henge, when the sun aligns itself perfectly with the city grid and we call it Autumn Equinox. And we stare and try to capture it, and I imagine some day we will, won't we?

14. God winks. We call it coincidence. Or chance. Give it no further thought. 

15. The Purple Line. I'm always singing its praises. It gets me door to door in less than 20 minutes. It's never late but sometimes I am. 

16. Speaking of purple. I splurged. On sale, but still a splurge. I bought a purple coat. I could have gone with classic black. Instead i went majestic. She's a little cutie.

17. Today the street smells like Lucky Charms.

18. Sometimes I feel guilty about loving the city. I think about home. Daisy petals. (see also, 7).

19. I daydream. About being 37 and my kids' names. 

20. Today though. Today I'm content. My heart beats wholly in tact. It beats because he made steak dinner Sunday night. Just because. And ice cream. And we shared trivial tasks like washing the dishes. 

21. Pollyanna. She played The Glad Game. She dreamt about Steak + Ice cream. I dream about the things that make me. I think Pollyanna must be part of that. 

22. This year I'll spend money on lattes and barre class but sleep on a futon and fly budget airlines. 

23. Company I keep. I wonder about this chapter of life and the friends I've not yet met. The friends that used to carry me that now I hardly know. 

24. "Pardon." I don't know where this came from, but I started saying it. 

25. Enneagrams. Meyers Briggs. INFP. Do I trap myself inside these letters? Do these letters change with the company I keep? See 12.

26. I woke up at 26, and ran two miles. I didn't do that this year. Instead, I ate a scone. And probably pizza, cold, from atop my perch on the counter. Lipstick on my teeth. Shoot. Am I getting better with age? See 1. Or 4. 

27. dos siete. a charming playlist he made when it was all wrong with a good intention of being right. 

Veintisiete. Things are right. Aligned, where they were meant to be. See also, 14. 

She Who is Worthy of Praise & a Donut

A Letter to Moms Everywhere,

I’d like to applaud you, all of you, everywhere. You’re doing a good job! It’s important for you to know that regardless of where you are, where you’ve been, and what you’ve shouted, you are someone’s mother which is an extremely cool title you get to have; See also, Selfless Human, She Who is Worthy of Praise and a Donut.

I know it doesn’t always feel this cool. It’s not all daisies and manicures and endless streams of “love you mores.” You’re out there working hard, on the front-lines wiping baby’s bottoms and teenage-girl tears. Pack the lunch without complaint, find the sock without a thanks. Our expensive straight-teeth smiles are home to whining and complaining and excuses we fling in your direction.

There are days you feel exhausted. Days you feel less than successful. Less than prepared. Sick with worry. Spiraling thoughts of ‘am I doing this right?’ next to doubt and fear. Here to remind you: Nobody’s perfect! There is always room for improvement and also dessert.

I hope you choose the latter today. (Cue the donut.) Something multi-layered, oozing with chocolate, or perhaps a fancy torte. Whatever your unique palette craves, you should go for it. Because, Mother’s Day. Treat yo self to a happy one. Have it your way like McDonalds because you’re worth it like L’Oreal. Hold your kind/smart/important heads high today, because kind and smart and important, you IS! Feel like a perfect 10 in a size 2 pants today. Maybe you’re born with it, maybe it’s Mother’s Day. The crowd goes wild, all around the world, for you today!

So if you get one day and one day only, would you please just shock us all and do something selfish!? Can you imagine? For once? If selfish isn’t your speed (it likely isn’t) then just let yourself smile. Erase all insecurities and trust you’re exactly where you need to be. Bask for a moment in how far you’ve come. Enjoy the day. The praise. The scribbled cards. The home-made pottery. The breakfast in bed. The phone calls from far away. The wrinkles, the scars, the stretch marks and gray hairs. Capture it all. All of it is lovely and worthy of praise. Savor it. Make it the cherry on top of your torte. And when the sun goes down, and the dishes are put away, and the kids have all gone to bed, I hope you please look at yourself. Please tell yourself you’re proud of you too.

Letter to a Newborn | You are so enough

Dear Ollie,

I had high hopes for this letter. I wanted it to be great. Amazing. Perfect. I wanted the words to run through your veins, burst through your heart, and stick the landing with a smile on your face. Yet every day I attempted to write, the words failed me. No combination of them was great or amazing or perfect enough to express everything I wanted to say to you. I procrastinated. Days turned to weeks and then months. I sat and let my thoughts swirl. I thought about what was stopping me. I was stopping me. Scared my words wouldn't be "good enough," I chose to write none at all. In trying to be more than myself, I was offering so much less than I could be. So I picked up the pen again. I crossed out the notion of great, ignored the idea of amazing, and shattered perfect. I chose to be myself. Surely, that would be enough.

Then it hit me. 

Everything I wanted to tell you summed up in one tiny phrase: You are enough.

Yes you, Oliver Stephen Bonnette, in all your arrangement of atoms, angelic baby smell, and peach fuzzy head are SO INCREDIBLY ENOUGH. Your laugh is enough to melt my heart, and your diapers are enough to clear a room. You have your daddy's nose and your mama's sweetness. You have an angel kiss on your forehead. And a million more from a red-lipsticked auntie (guilty). But more than all of that, you are strong and you are brave and you are capable of much more than you think you are. 

On your back is a scar that tells a story. The story starts nine months before your birthday: waiting to be born. You were resting, happy napping, in the perfect kind of strong and gentle: my sister. She prayed for your arrival. Your dad did too. We anxiously waited. She studied for her OT certification exam. Her brain grew and so did yours. That summer was a hot one. Your dad worked to fix the air conditioning unit. Your mom's scrubs got a little bit tighter in the mid-section ;) And all the while, you baked and you grew. On the other side, the summer heat mixed with fear: What is spina bifida? We poured over articles and studied it in books, wrapping our heads around it. Wrapping our hearts around it. As August drew nearer so did excitement and wonder: what will this little one be like? We couldn't wait to wrap our arms around you too.

Finally on August 10th, 2016 at some odd hour in the morning, you made your presence known in this world, and when you did, all the fear melted into an overwhelming feeling called joy. He is here. He is finally here. Oliver Stephen Bonnette. Who knew that just six pounds could change our lives forever? Six pounds was all it took. Six pounds was enough.

Your six pounds (and 4 ounces) made your dad so gentle. Your mom so tough. My eyes so wet. You were so tiny! And cute! You slept behind shelter of a brightly patterned curtain. "Camp" your mama called it, because it was sort of like a tent! We didn't know how long you'd have to stay in this kind of summer camp, the NICU, but it was certain that everybody there was smitten with you. The nurses came to visit you on their break time. Everyone wanted to know about Oliver. "The ladies love him!" your dad exclaimed. And it was true. You were never once alone at camp.

The days were long. Machines surrounded you and you snoozed away to the sounds of them purring and beeping in a less than melodic fashion. "This is camp," I'd remind myself, "These are just the sounds of camp." Your mom sat there gazing at you. I'd never seen her in such a light and it was so beautiful to witness. She could hardly stand to leave you but I told her she must sleep. She said I could hold you. So I did. For five hours. I stared at your perfect face for FIVE HOURS. I don't think I've stared at ANYONE'S face for that long a time. I didn't just stare, though. I also observed.

I observed you, this tiny expression of love wrapped in skin. You were fragile. But strong! You, at six pounds had already been through more than most people 25 times your age (raising my hand.) You, at seven days old, had managed to unite and rally people from all over the country in prayer and well wishes. You, a tiny baby with such a large reach. 

I thought about where this life would take you. Where you'd take this life. All the unknown sometimes seems so scary. Flash forward seven months. The present. I think about all the days I've known you. How each day reveals some new, dynamic part of your personality forming. Your character taking shape. And all the love you give and receive, growing more and more each day. I also remember your maker. God knit you, all of you, and ever so intricately, in your mama's womb. He knew you, all of you, and all that you will become. He blessed you with his grace. Sent you out into this world to grow strong, reach far, to love and inspire. Suddenly the future is not so scary.  

There will be times when you feel small. Don't let it stop you from thinking big.

There will be times when you'll wish things were different. Embrace your story. Trust the plan He knit for you. It is precious and wonderful. 

There will be times when you question your purpose in life. Remember, you're not alone in this camp. Be gentle to yourself. Ask for help. And be strong to give help in return.

And then there will be times, when like me, you'll hope for greatness. Amazement. Perfection. Know that those things aren't achieved by trying to be more than yourself; but rather, by being yourself. Because you are so much more than your limitations. Just like I am more than my insecurities. I hope you choose to pick up your pen, whatever it may be. Dismiss the swirling thoughts. Seek what is there in your heart, and just be. 

It is so enough.

xxx to the unknown and beyond, I love you!
Aunt Molly

_________________________________________________________________________________

"Your back tells stories no book has the spine to carry." --Rupi Kaur

"It has bothered me all my life that I do not paint like everybody else." --Henri Matisse

"Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" --Mary Oliver

impractically perfect

DAY 3 - DAILY PROMPT: Learning to describe physical spaces is imperative in creating a story and giving characters a place to interact with. Physically describe your dream home or office or a space that has left a deep impact on your soul, in a way that makes the reader feel it, rather than see it. Show us, don’t tell us.  

It was smaller than the others we saw that day. Part of the front porch was dilapidated and sagging—floorboards ready to betray a careless step. Vines crawled up the front of the house, swallowing it whole with a wild and hungry appetite.

David was growing impatient with the realtor for even bringing us here. I could see him computing numbers behind shelter of furrowed brow—how much it would cost to repair the porch, the rusted-over wrought iron gate, the window there at the top of the house wearing a crack in the glass like a taunting smile.

Our realtor, Janet, is saying things like “a historical gem” and “a real steal” and “not too much of a fixer upper if you’d just step inside to see” and “it’s like nothing you’ve ever seen!” This last sentiment has me nudging David before he can audibly scoff at her sing-songy sales pitch.

Silence is heavy as she watches me watch him. “Well let’s take a look!” I say eagerly. David’s head jerks my way in disbelief. I grin to myself.

Janet’s lipsticked smile grins too. “Oh I just know you’ll see the potential! Come, come let’s waste no time!” She scurries up the flagstone walk that is overgrown with weeds and neglect. Her vibrant pantsuit seems to offend the frail and faded house as the door lets out a deep and torturous creak upon entrance.

We are now standing in the threshold of our next great contention—the place is a beautiful little mess.

Going through the list of what we wanted—this place meets almost none, except for “charm.” The once grandeur crown molding is crumbling. But the foundation is strong. The kitchen looks as if it has been looted—stripped of all its worth. But the staircase boasts a landing with a floor to ceiling stained glass window.

My eyes pour over it in awe and David reminds me that stained glass wasn’t on our priorities list. We both smile at each other because we know what the other is thinking: how perfectly impractical.

It all excites me. A project. Something to create. Something to make our own.

It terrifies him. A logistical nightmare. The baby on the way. The amount of repairs and labor cost. Not to mention the time it would take.

We carefully ascend the winding staircase. We peruse the dusty abandoned rooms, tuning out Janet’s comments about nursery potential and “minor” paint changes.

David is quiet and I can tell he’s mulling thoughts twice over in his conflicted head. I love him for this. Always so painfully careful while I jump in head-first.

We climb the next set of stairs, and I fall captive to the attic scene before me: floor to ceiling shelves of books and ladders to access them all. Light from outside peers through the crack in the window, casting an ethereal glow of a smile onto the faded Persian rug. I’m enchanted.

Janet watches David watch me. She retreats to a corner of the room to give us privacy as we discuss. She tinkers with the various trinkets of a past life and strains her ears to hear.

I look at him earnestly. He is shaking his head but I sense his amusement in the situation. I smile. He does too. I say it’s perfect. He says I’m crazy.

It’s a stalemate now. We stand there in a staring contest hoping the other blinks first. I’m imagining my desk here in the center of the room. I imagine the velvet armchair in the corner by the window, and I imagine the writing that could get done here.

David intercepts these thoughts and syncs them with his own, calculating always calculating, and I wonder what the outcome will be when he surfaces. I hold my breath. He paces, scanning the walls and the floors and the cracked window one last time.

His gaze finally meets mine as we stand there in the middle of the room facing each other. His attention doesn’t falter from me as he calls out to the eavesdropping pantsuit in the room, “Well Janet,” he says smiling as if in disbelief, “she’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

I am the smallest crescendo

Day 2 Prompt: Describe the circumstances of your birth... Write your epitaph after a lifetime spent as a writer. What would it say specifically in terms of your writing life, about your work as a writer? What do you want it to say? Write it now. 

I’m the smallest baby my mom ever had. Impressive, not really. But she did have six of us, which is an above average sample size. Size, I must also admit, is relative, as eight pounds is actually quite commonplace. But here’s where I’d like to think I’m special. Here’s where I claim that my eight pounds were of the extra ornery variety. Yes, my Irish-tempered, middle-child-syndromed eight pounds sufficiently made their presence known in this world.

Or at least in my mother’s world.

Just after my birth she caught pneumonia. (In hindsight, I feel terrible). This meant extra days in a hospital bed. It meant Lauren’s first day of Kindergarten would be greeted with wild, untamed hair. It meant Andy and Kate at four and two would wrinkle my grandmother’s skin and recede my father’s hair.

A juggling act of juice and crayons and crying. Stir until stirred crazy. Then add eight pounds of me. I am the crescendo.

So perhaps my epitaph is this: I am the smallest crescendo. For size, as we’ve established, is relative--Quite a lot can be done with very little. I am eight pounds that packed a punch.  

30 Days of Writing, "Write Yourself Alive"

Day 1 Prompt: Why do you write? What comes up first? If you couldn’t write, what’s the second best thing you would attempt in order to express yourself to the fullest? 

The words we wear

If I could not write, I’d wear my words like clothes. Layers and layers wrapped round my body. Subject to change with the wind; I’d bundle up in the words and cool off with them too.

I’d let the words touch my skin like delicate lace. I’d let them teem down my spine like silk. They would also itch and scratch and prickle. At times the words hurt. They’re too tight. They poke and prod my insides.

I’d strip down to nothing, scared. Revealed are the parts of me I tried to cover. Reflect. React. Quick, pull the words close!

They’re dressing me up again—I’ve found the right strand to make me feel whole.

This side of 25

This side of 25:
I google searched “blowing my nose to no avail” which was a pretty weird way to phrase “what should I take for a runny nose?”
Then I drafted a text to my mom, thought about sending it, didn’t, sneezed, then sent it after all. “I realize I’m supposed to be 25 about this but the reality is I want mom and soup.”
I then told her I’d be fine. That I was just being dramatic. What I didn’t tell her is that I hadn’t slept a wink since turning 25 four days ago. And that I cried in a very busy, populated Walgreens this morning.

How do I feel about this? Embarrassed. Truly. It’s a little outrageous.

But in that moment, touch screens were hard to navigate, waiting in line proved torturous, and my eyes were pink, puffy, itchy and crusty. (Sorry, ew, gross, I know.)
“Allergies, you idiot!” The nurse practitioner said and didn’t say. Part of me was disappointed. I thought surely I must be dying. I begged her for prescription eye drops. She started talking about over-the-counter eye drops. Then I bullied her for prescription eye drops.
I wiped away tears and lingering snot. Bah humbug. Happy birthday. $80 eye drops.

This side of 25:
I woke up and saw the world through a whole new set of eyes—well, actually one eye. Because the other one was glued shut by, idk, let’s just call it allergies! But isn’t it great that I can see at all!?
It is great. Because I saw and read a letter. It made me really happy simply because mail is the best. The letter went like this:

“Can you believe you’ve been around this earth for 25 whole years? Think about how many books you’ve read, people you’ve met, miles you’ve walked…how many outcomes you’ve attributed to luck, coincidence, fate…It’s incredible to think how much can happen in a day, week, or year. But a quarter of a century is truly humbling...take a moment to remember the things/people that have made your 25 years of being worth every second.”

And to that I said WOW. Because here I am, seeing 25, when some people don’t get to. I know there are many countless people I should thank, but to start it off this one goes out to the nurse practitioner at Walgreens. I’m sorry I bullied you this morning. Thank you for the eye drops.

Thank you mom. For understanding that symptoms like runny noses and melodrama go hand in hand.

Thank you to my six friends who surrounded me for a meal. It’s hard to gather a group of six friends. I do not take that for granted.

Thank you, Drew for sending flowers to my office. The lavender kind—both a smell and a color that I really enjoy. Thank you also for the Rib-eye. My mind’s eye/stink eye surely did not deserve that. With mint pomegranate relish on top.

Thank you to friends, near and far, who reached out with well wishes.

Thank you to the friend who wrote this letter. It was enough to kick me out of a pretty annoying, self-absorbed slump.

So with a humble and thankful heart, I lift my bottle of Dayquil to all and say ‘here’s to getting better.’

In all senses of the word, better. Because another year is not a right, but a privilege. And I should be sure to bring my best side out to live it.