Sunday, November 04, 2007


I have no risk of shortage of writing ideas. The problem with them, I sometimes think, is that they usually center on hearth and home. Perhaps it’s still in reaction to what I’ve written about before, the fateful day I ran into an ex co-worker who noted that life had turned me into “a baby factory”. I was holding my gurgling third son at the time. Whatever happened there made me skittish of being labeled “just a mom”. My writing would encompass more, I promised myself.
This weekend, nearly three years later, was the answer to that bubbling angst of taking myself much too seriously. I answered the call of domesticity with enthusiasm. Dropping business forecasting plans to organize my scrapbooking room (a mommy past-time I’m glad I stumbled upon, but is difficult to explain seriously to others despite the multitudes of my fellow addicts the world over. The Zen of cutting and pasting while humming “a charmed, charmed life” is salve for surprisingly big problems.), board game playing with my sons, doing those piles of laundry, making homemade salsa that manages to incorporate broccoli in a very believable way, and reading Phyllis McGinley’s charmingly retro “Sixpence in Her Shoe”, I am unapologetically nesting. I am ready for tomorrow morning’s early writing stint, but today will find me cozy and domestic. It’s amazing how that ladylike talk wears off on one. Good thing I don’t own a pillbox hat or gloves or I’d be tempted to wear them to church to shepherd in my brood with.

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