And…Action!

She bustles effortlessly throughout the kitchen loading her pre-prepared toddler meal in the microwave while her newborn lies across her chest; swaddled in her left arm, asleep, nipple splayed openly under the baby’s chin while two glasses of wine swaddle themselves under the mothers belt.

It was all one motion, one scene.

Perhaps it was all one act.

 

 

 

Love – The Valentine Edition

He dips her in chocolate: She is his strawberry.

He sips her from a long stemmed glass: She is his champagne.

He gives her space to watch her grow: She is his garden.

He risks it all: She is his heart.

Sucker For Punishment

She waddles through an empty hallway, taking in the silence before the storm. She tries to embrace the solitude knowing full well it will be the last time she hears herself think or thinks of herself, perhaps forever. She sips her tea, warm in her hands and saviors the heat, will this be the last time she drinks a warm drink before it turns cold. She pees with the door unlocked, not expecting another little person to desperately need to be in that same specific space. She calls a friend, for one last uninterrupted conversation.

She laughs, at how she’ll probably do it all over again.

 

 

 

 

A Day In The Life Of…….

I didn’t start my day with sun salutations and blessing the world for another day.

I didn’t count back from five and shoot myself out of bed like a rocket ready to take the day by storm.

I didn’t drink a glass of cold water to kick-start my digestive system and shake my body alive.

 

But I did insist on a morning kiss and cuddle from my son, a must I never waiver.

I did let him try coco pops for the first time in an effort to distract him from wanting Jam on toast. (Sugar swap)

I did get on my hands and knees, pregnant belly bumping the floor, as I wiped up spilt milk covering the couch and floor.

I did add extra milo to my milk.

 

I probably won’t fold the laundry today.

I probably won’t empty the dishwasher.

I probably won’t prepare dinner.

I probably won’t talk to another adult today.

 

I probably will nap after lunch while my son watches his Ipad.

I probably will make some excuse as to why we can’t go to the park.

I probably will use Facebook to stay connected to a world of lies, misery and misfortune.

I probably will use my heavy belly as an excuse for all of the above.

 

I know, that I will do this all again tomorrow. Some parts better than others.

A ‘did not’ might become a ‘did’ and a ‘probably not’ might border on ‘maybe I will’.

Motherhood

In The Air

The clouds rolled in like a silk dressing gown being draped along her shoulders. The grey blending in and taking over the blue, tiny drops of water dressing the air like pearls along her neckline. Leaning out the window watching the day change colour as if taking hours away and turning day to night, she leaned out further, to feel the breeze sweep through and remind her that nothing stays the same.

Genre

Fiction felt a little lost on her these days. The peaks were weak and the endings were unfulfilling. Yes she could pick them up and put them down without having lost all sense of the story line. She could tend to her children, put on the washing or get sucked into the monotony of everyday without losing her place. There are perks to today’s fiction. In these times of busyness, short attention spans and tiny bursts of consecutive minutes, today’s fiction is just enough to make you say, ‘Yes, I read’. But she was lacking. No longer the girl that could sit around all day, head down in a world of other peoples imaginations. Now a woman who wanted to fill those tiny quiet moments with truths, wisdoms, inspiration; She herself, was becoming a whole new genre.

Slow Jog

She felt as if she needed to pace.

Pace around the large square patch of shaded grass that she called her front yard.

She needed to walk heel to toe barefoot and feel the sea breeze wafting onto her skin.

She wanted it to blow away the old tapes in her head: fill them with salt until they could no longer wind but instead rust and fall.

She wanted the pacing to steady her heartbeat but not as much as she wanted it to fix something.

That something was too big and perhaps the problem was that she’d been pacing far too long.

She needed to run.

She needed to run so fast that the fear in her shadow would be lost in her tracks, kicked up in the dust.

She needed to run so fast that the goal couldn’t escape her or be at the edge of her fingertips.

It needed to be in her hand.

She needed to hold its tangible proof of her worthy existence.

She stopped pacing.

Looking out toward an ocean that made the world seem far too big for someone so small.

Yet it whispered on white wash, that in fact the world was too small for someone who wants to be so big.