My son — he has an imagination. Possibly more than me. I don’t recall making up the stories and adventures that he does
Why am I so stressed? Because of The Mess. Why were we late? Because of The Mess. Why didn’t I get that task done? The Mess
A final pin inserted in my balloon, and I am falling, completely deflated. Is my wish for a thriving business nothing but a pipe dream?
Because being a cliché means I’ve matured into myself. It means I’ve attained a level of security so that I no longer feel the need to announce myself by standing out in the crowd
Wishful thinking! howled my inner critic. He’s eight! He’s not interested in your fancy educational approaches!
Now, with a home of my own, including recipe books and a husband who makes fun of my old-fashioned cravings, I understand
I’ve tended to Tante Masha the way a daughter would have; the plants are witness. And yet, I can’t pretend this hodge-podge of feelings is grief
I resisted. I was haunted by the world that was. A world that had burnt, frozen, starved to death, or fled to distant shores
The ambulance revved up. “We’re trying your husband constantly,” a kind EMT reassured me. “And we’ve got an emergency team waiting at the hospital”
I’m in survival mode, using every ounce of energy to keep my house running, have supper on the table and clean clothes in the drawers