Tag Archives: Home

Extending Condolences

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Connecticut is so small. I mean, we pretty much all went to college together. And if not, we all know how to cheer for the Huskies. And our parents all worked at the same company, Be it Pratt, or Aetna, or Travelers.  Hell, we  all get stuck in the same traffic on 84 or 91. We are from a small place, and no clearer is that reminder this week. Too many are the six degrees, or far less, of separation from me to one of the lives taken in Newtown. Oh C.T. my heavy sighs for you this weekend are extended.

Give me my ‘A’ in Scarlet.

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Yeah, thank-you for that blank stare,
that one you gave, when you realized
what you let-go from your mouth.

Oh yes, that was ignorance defined.
You ask, “how do you do it,
don’t you miss them when they’re away
from you? I couldn’t do it.”

Miss my sons? But it’s only been two hours
since I’ve seen them last.
Who is taking care of them?
Their father.

“Oh but daddies just don’t
do it like mommies do.” Read the rest of this entry

nearly blasphemous.

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Pastor: He has Risen.
Congregation: He Has Risen, indeed.

I know that, and every line of the Easter service,
-Can tell you every parable, quote you all the verse,
sing you all the lines from the hymns.
I spent Easter Sundays as a child trying to count the lilies on the altar,
but always lost count somewhere after a hundred. Read the rest of this entry

Don’t Mind Me –

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— I’m just going to post some stuff I wrote a ways back.  Because, well, I want to.

This one I wrote back in the day (and by back in the day, I mean last year),  when I was in the worst of the ppd. I thought I’d post it again, because I was praying about a friend and her parenting struggles, but then I started thinking about six other friends, and all the things they go through every day, and I thought it could use some reading again.

April 7, 2010

April is a month set aside for poetry, and I stumbled again, on this clip of a mother who cares less about what others think of her than I am capable of. I want to be this mother – sign me up for the tattoos, the sweater, the cropped haircut, even the skull and cross-bone broach. If it means, that I can stop caring about what people think. Read the rest of this entry

normal.

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“Normal things make you feel normal,” my Mom said that to me in the middle of a panic attack one night. I was in Boston, she was home. We were connected through a hundred miles by a phone line.  ” ‘Normal things make you feel normal’, Gram said that to me once in the middle of the only panic attack I think I ever had”.

Dinner. Pull out all the stuff, work like the French chefs do. Mise en place. Everything in its place. Pretend that everything isn’t out-of-place. Read the rest of this entry

Dear . . .

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Dear trees,
feel free to keep all your branches tonight.

Thanks,
the homeowner who enjoys both her slate roof and her electricity

Dear Gods of snow days and delayed openings,
any other time of the year you are most welcome, but during exams, you make everything wonky.

Yours truly,
the teacher who enjoys things unwonky

Dear food, stop being so good.

No seriously,
the woman who would enjoy wearing some of those old size eight jeans.

Dear children,
Today when I said I quit, and my name wasn’t mommy anymore, it was Tara, and you would have to go to the Mommy Store and pick out a new mommy– yah, sorry about that. After you went to bed, I totally stashed away some money for any therapy you might need in the future.

kisses and hugs,
your mommy, who promise she won’t ever quit