Showing posts from May, 2012

Ear Worm

I don't know about you, but I have always been highly susceptible to the ear worm phenomenon.  No, not the Wrath of Khan kind of ear worm, the musical kind.  It doesn't matter whether I initially love or hate a song, I will eventually be begging for it to PLEASE! STOP! REPEATING! because once I learn even a fraction of the words along with the tune, any given song can go into continual loop in my head.

The '80's were particularly hard on me.  It's like most of the music from that era was actually written in ear worm format.  "Oh, Micky" almost killed me (and, just for the record, I started out hating that one).  "Karma Chameleon".  Please.

The '90's weren't so bad.  First of all, I was in my twenties.  For me, this meant spending a lot of time killing off those pesky brain cells that caused this musical malady.  Secondly, during the times I was repetitively singing songs, it was considered cool and introspective.  Drinking wine and t…


After nearly 19 years, I find that all of my memories are wrapped up in the details.  Fragments, moments, glimpses stitched together to make a picture of the woman who raised me and was then gone without warnings or goodbyes.

A scar and a misshapen fingernail, the remnants of a long-ago childhood fight lost to a wringer washing machine.

The smell of perfume and cigarette smoke mingling as she sat on the edge of my bed to say goodnight before heading out with her girlfriends in her long suede coat.

The sight of the steam rising from her early morning cup of coffee as she sat in the reclining chair reading a book in the early morning quiet.

The twinkle of mischief in her eye when she laughed.

The fire in her voice, born of years of self-reliance, when she was angry.

The feel of her standing behind me at the stove, my short legs aided by a chair,  as she taught me all of the secrets she knew to cooking while my tummy grumbled happily.

The way she fell asleep in her chair after long hours…

Back Seat Driver

As I mutter under my breath at the line of traffic that stretches before me, blocking my path to our current mecca, Chik Fil A, I hear a voice from behind me say, "Why did we stop, Momma?"

"See all of those cars in front of us?  We have to stop because they stopped.  It's called traffic."

She looks out the window at the cars.  "Come on, dude.  Let's go."  I have no idea where she gets this stuff other than directly from me.

Soon we are moving again.  The Nugget doesn't miss a thing while we're driving anymore.  "Red light, Momma!  We stop at red lights."  "Yellow light, Momma.  Why didn't you slow down?"  "Oh, no!  That was a stop sign, Daddy!  You were supposed to stop!"

No more rolling stops for us.  The cops are actually in the car with us now.  Just in the form of a very bossy and rule-oriented three year old. 


Why did we teach her the colors.  And WHY, for the love of all that is holy, did we …

Rock On

Since The Nugget was a newborn, we have spent her sleepy time in the glider in her bedroom, rocking and singing.  In the beginning, her sleepy time often coincided with mine.  We would doze together in the glider, a pillow tucked below her tiny body to keep her close to me even if my grip was loosened by sleep.

This snuggling and rocking is one of my favorite rituals.  Early on I learned that I needed to embrace this time and not allow any thoughts other than this beautiful task to invade our sacred moments together.  I used to sit with my infant and make lists about other things that needed to be done once I got the baby to sleep.  It didn't take long to realize that not only did she pick up on this energy and not settle as well, but that I wasn't allowing myself to be present for one of the most precious things I did with my child.  Once I let go of the task-oriented thought process, I became the one who wanted to rock longer than necessary and enjoy our quiet time for just …