The Cookie Lady

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My sister bakes cookies.

One night, I was staying at my sister’s new home in Utah, when I wandered upstairs for a midnight snack. The house was dark, save for the well-lit kitchen. The lights concentrated on my sister, Bethany, while she concentrated on cookies. Flour coated her cheek, mostly just a light layer of dust except for one thick stripe along her cheekbone. She had her hair pulled in a messy bun, potential flyaways tamed by a small, stretchy headband. She’s short and her counter is tall. She pounded and rolled cookie dough from a giant mound she’d been working on for hours while the Game of Thrones played in the background. I get to see her all the time, but she struck me then as particularly beautiful.

Just Fathering

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Today was one of the very first days of my life where I felt like all of me.

I write this post in Winnemucca, Nevada. It’s a small town, population >8,000, but a motel on every corner. There is one main street, and then other lateral streets are labeled First, Second, and Third Street. I don’t believe it goes higher than Fourth Street.

And believe it or not, it’s been in this tiny town, with basically only four streets, that I felt like all of me. Because today I got to be a mom and a teacher.

The Baggage of Yes

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To start, let me acknowledge that this post makes a few generalizations, for which, I apologize. Ish.

Recently, I was at an airport traveling solo, when a white man (I feel like the term “dude” is maybe a more accurate depiction, if I’m being linguistically precise) popped down next to me, headphones in. He was groomed and professional. After several minutes of not speaking to me at all, he pulled out an airpod and asked me to watch his stuff. At the airport. 

Bothness

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In a series of grueling experiences, I’ve had to learn how to sit with cognitive dissonance.

And just the other day, I was sitting in the car realizing just how good at it I’ve become. I’m the opposite of myself–or opposites exist within me, just… no longer oppositionally. 

Collection

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It’s 5:24 am and it is unclear whether or not i have actually gotten you to sleep. You have a noises I don’t yet understand, but it’s a good bet that every grunt belongs to the effort of somehow wrestling your hands to your face.

Baby, you love your hands. You use them as shields, as clasps, as antennas, as feelers. You need them near your face, preferably above your face. I thought I was going to love your feet most, but Hudson, it’s your hands that define you. 

Over Achiever

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Don’t panic: I don’t want this to become an infertility blog anymore than you do. It has been, is, and shall remain a blog about what ever random thinking I happen to be doing at the time. But at this current time, I just so happen to be thinking about infertility– specifically mine–so here we are.

Person

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Today, I felt the sunshine for the first time this year–really felt it. I let myself get sticky in the sun rather than running for shelter, seeking respite from the heat in a shaded, air-conditioned room. I let myself believe I had time for a run along the Hudson, and I let myself feel the weight of the pavement against my shoes. I let myself believe I could be a person. It felt foreign, but it also felt good.

To The Man That Caught Me

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I tried to approach this post from a literary perspective–I tried to weave in all the literary Toms–Sawyer, Riddle, and Robinson–that made an impact on me. It was a little trite. I’ve bonded with these characters (yes, even Voldemort), but our relationship exists on a page. They don’t really compare to my first and preeminent Tom. Such comparisons were hollow and ineffective because Tom Sawyer didn’t dig a grave for my lizards, Hercermer and Cheerioh. Tom Robinson (from To Kill A Mockingbird, trust me, it was confusing for me to disassociate when I first read that book in sixth grade), didn’t hold me for hours while I sobbed when our childhood dog passed away. And Tom Riddle certainly didn’t help me through bleary eyes, rinse Hufflepuff’s habitat out when it was her turn to go.

The Absence of Joy

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The Absence of Joy

“Joy….Joy…?”
The teacher called from the front of the room
With no response, she finally looks up.
The students blink blankly back
Like cursors on a computer screen.
She filled in a bubble.


Joy was absent.