Home Is Where The Crazy Is

Home is

having a glass of wine with my husband

while all my chickadees are in their nests

sleeping upstairs.

Home is

chaotic, rushed mornings with all my favorite littles around the breakfast table

our golden retriever

circling around

lapping up our crumbly mess,

– and-

too much laundry to do,

toys scattered everywhere,

the sounds of my children

rough- housing,

arguing,

laughing, running, jumping,

Loving.

It’s crazy.

It’s Home.

I wonder – has home changed as you’ve gotten older?  What parts have remained the same?  I wonder what my children would say home is?  If you have children, what do you think they would say home is?  I may just ask mine!

A big thank you to Never Trust a Jellyfish for this inspiration and 1reason2write!

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Dear New Blog

I love writing again. I love meeting other writers, poets, readers, parents, runners, potential friends. They are all new inspirations for me to write about, with, and for.

I am nervous about exposing my truths because, I think , I do not really know what those truths are yet. That’s the joy and anticipation of writing. We discover and rediscover. I’m frighteningly looking forward to what you’ll bring.

Thank you for-
1reason2write

Let Me Look into Your Eyes

He said to write about our golden.

She’s resigned resting on her bed,

lazy and peaceful?

I call her name so she’ll look up and I can take a quick snap shot of her

to post.

She won’t have it.

A glance.

A sigh.

And then a glare? glance at

the obstruction I’m holding in front of my face.

She’s a dog,

but she’s over the screens

stealing the very eyes she’d like to see.

Then I continue writing.

Irony at its best.

My reason for stopping.

Good night.

Watching Her Grow

She’s only five.

Her fuzzy Frozen themed robe hugs her little body while she grasps Dollie, eats a lollipop, and gazes at the cartoons.

She has no idea she’s my reason to write.

She has no idea every time I look up she takes my breath away.

Lost in her innocence.

Both of us.

I want to reach across the room – from my armchair to the red couch that holds her –

and

touch her soft cheek,

kiss her forehead,

brush her hair away from her face,

whisper

I love you.

She’s my reason for writing right now.

She’s only five.