Tips Of My Fingers

I had it. For a brief split second…

I had it.

Things were smooth. Going well. I had a good grip on it all.

Then something slips. One thing gets missed.

Next thing you know, I’m back at the starting line.

I’m back right where I’d come from only this time more frustrated for almost having had it together.

The pieces come crashing down and I’m left with a bigger mess than I started with.

I almost had it.



Just A Little Murder

It happened on a cool, Spring morning. The sun was barely rising. No clouds were overhead. The dusty blue of the morning sky covered the sleeping land with a blanket of chill and crispness. It was time to get up but the land laid still and sleeping as I wished I could.

But the duties of a mother called and I lifted my head from my warm pillow and trudged to the depths of my cool, dank garage where the laundry of yesterday waited. My barely opened eyes struggled to focus on the brown carpet beneath my heavy feet. The stairs dropped before me and I slowly slinked my way down, down, down into the belly of our home.

Upstairs, in his small bed, my son slept on. His parted lips snored gently as his matted head of hair hung slightly off the edge of his train and truck blankets. In his quiet slumber he looked so innocent. So serene.

I should have known better.

Rubbing my weary eyes, I stopped before the door to the garage and reached out to grab the knob when my hand touched the cold metal of the door. I reached back, stunned by the heartless sting of the cold metal against my warm skin. It sent a chill up my spine as I reached again and turned the knob every so gently to open the heavy old door. I was awake now, my senses all on fire and alert to the iciness around me as I entered the bottom level with its unforgiving cement floor and the bare walls.

There was no life here. Just cold, hard forms lying motionless in the bleak air below. As my warm body broke the stillness, I knew I had to get out. Quickly.

Stepping lightly, I padded my way across the stone-cold floor to the dryer. My bare feet ached against the cement slab beneath me and my breath caught in my throat. I had to get what I came for and get out, before I was lost to the biting air.

That when I noticed something was…wrong. I slowly opened the door to my dryer and reached in, expecting warmth and comfort.

Suddenly I drew my hand back! The sickly sight within caught my breath and held it captive. A scream bubbled up but never broke free. The sight before me was too horrid to imagine. Too awful to believe.

Streaks painted the pristine insides of the dryer leaving stains of blood red running down. I stifled another cry of horror as I threw my hand against my mouth hanging agape. I tried to look away but my eyes were drawn to the lives lost in the bloody mess.

They never had a chance. The poor innocent victims of this deadly massacre laid beneath my outstretched hand. I looked beyond my fear and tried to spot any signs of life.

Everything was ruined. Stained and streaked beyond belief. Lives shattered and tone asunder by this wicked and heinous crime! I reached again, turning over the countless victims, trying to salvage something…someone.

Then I knew…it was over. There was nothing I could do. I raised my stained hands to my face and wept. Gone…lost…forever.

As I reached down to lift our loved ones in a last embrace, I heard a tinkering. Something had fallen and hit the ground. Fear raced through my veins. I was almost too afraid to look.

Was it a dismembered piece so violently shaken from its owner? Was it a hideous clue to the crime committed? What was it?

I took a deep, shaking breath and looked down to find…

The weapon of choice laid before me, motionless. Heartless. Taunting me with its innocent look. Fear…rage…sadness…grief…It all bubbled up and I choked them back. This clue, this piece left behind could mean only one thing…

Then, in the din of my grief I heard the small thud of feet touching the ground and the rustling of movement upstairs. A small voice called out for me.

The voice of the accused.

If you don’t know the post title reference, it’s from The Uninvited (1944). A great film, check it out.

One Regret

It is very human to deal with feelings of regret.

We what if our past decision and then if only our current situations. We over think the hows and whys of our choices.

It’s human to wonder how things would be had we taken a different path. A different road had we made another choice, wishing we had been able to foresee our future.

I live with one main regret. It has nothing to do with my family or the choice I made to become a mom. That decision I live proudly everyday and believe firmly that I made the best choice.

It has nothing to do with past relationships or people I no longer have in my life. I’ve mourned those small deaths, feel the sting of loneliness but have surfaced happier and healthier than before. Those decisions I do not regret and instead I praise myself for making them.

No, my regret is not emotional, it’s not romantic and it’s not involving people in my life.

It’s a choice I made about my life. About my career and about my future.

At the time, it seemed like a good idea, to step outside my comfort zone and put my foot in the door. Become known and to further myself in the hopes of securing a classroom of my very own.

A classroom where the wall decor would change from season to season, from lesson theme to theme. Where the desks would be in groups and the board would have the date neatly written everyday. Where the students were loved and inspired to be their best.

As it ended up, that was never meant to happen. The risk taken did not work out for the better and instead I left the career field I so deeply craved to be apart of.

When I grew up I wanted to teach, to touch the lives of my students and to inspire them to do great things. Instead, I took a shortcut and found myself at a dead end. And there, I buried my hopes and dreams to teach and walked away.

I know, this is where I’m supposed to be. My mind understands it and my logic proves. Yet heart is still left behind.

Left in the past, in the classroom I always wanted.

Home Making

I am a nester.

I have been since I can remember.

Since I left the womb I’ve been creating homes out of anything.

Give me a space and I’ll bring it to life. I’ll make it warm, inviting, cozy and welcoming.

I can create a home wherever I go.

My first nesting memory is in my first house. I had a Cabbage Patch outdoor playhouse. It was plastic and looked like a log cabin. Dark brown with fake wooden knots, a small swinging door painted green and a table inside that folded down so you could sit and chat on the pretend phone hung on the wall.

I loved that house. It was the closest thing to having my own space at 5 years old. My mom let me borrow her old dishes and I would pretend to make meals for my friends and siblings.

Grass, when picked and layered in a pie tin, became cakes and treats. Water was always in abundance as long as we were quiet about running the hose. Too long and my mom would hear it and come out to question us. But in short spurts to fill my play pots and tins, I could make a meal of soup and coffee appear like magic.

But I wasn’t satisfied. I wanted more. I wanted real furniture, a real house with real curtains and real carpet. A playhouse on top of a swing set was erected in the backyard when I was a bit older and I begged to have the inside of the club house furnished in the miniature scale of a real home.

My pleas fell on deaf ears.

But soon I was graced with a blessed event. My next door neighbor must have been redecorating because furniture of the real wood kind began appearing on his curb. A cabinet caught my eye and I convinced my neighborhood buddies (both slightly older boys that I had crushes on at different times but I also saw as my older brothers, too) to help me drag it up the slight hill between the neighbor’s yard and my house.

Up the grassy mound we trudged, slowly dragging the large cabinet to the side of the house that was hidden from view by the hibiscus and oleander hedges that towered over us. It was a haven and I intended on making it a home.

Into the house I sneaked, quietly like a mouse, tip-toeing into the kitchen to snatch a cup, a fork and knife and whatever other little kitchen items I saw fit to furnish my new home with. I only stole individual item as to not be caught. Small things, things that wouldn’t be missed.

I don’t know how long we were left to play house in the little hide away. Together we mingled G I Joe and Cabbage Patch toys, mixing the boys need to shoot each other dead on occasion with my need to play house and heal the wounded gunmen. In peace and quiet we all three lived out our natural instincts away from the prying eyes of our parents.

Then the neighbor snitched. He complained of missing trash from his curb. We were found and my little hide away home was discovered.

I think, if I know my parents like I feel I do, they probably scolded me lightly and laughed heartily in their bed that night, amazed at my ingenuity at such a young age.

My nesting needs were never completely satisfied. Barbie homes with scented bedsheets, boxes turned into miniature rooms with cardboard furniture and cotton ball pillows, umbrellas tucked into hedges to create the roof of an outdoor home along the hedges, forts in the living room were all apart of my repertoire. Large cardboard boxes made into a pretend fridge that was only discovered when the empty food boxes inside started to collect ants and their long line down the hallway caught my mother’s attention.

Since I can remember I’ve been creating homes.

It’s in my nature to create a place that is cozy, comfortable, warm and inviting. I’ve tended to the wounded, the ill and even in my younger days helped bring a “dead” playmate back to life a time or two. I cooked meals and made pies out of mud. I picked flowers and gave them water to bring color to my home. A feminine touch was always apparent as I decorated accordingly with towels and pillows and curtains.

It’s not to say that I was 100% maternal and girlie. Once in a while when the boys shot each other dead, I would pick up the pretend riffle and take on the bad guys myself. I could ride a bike with the best of them and even kick a ball around and scrape my knees on the bark of trees.

In the end, I would welcome all those friends into my home, offer water for tea and air for cake. Together we’d sit and laugh, making childish jokes and planning our next adventure. In my home, I’d host and laugh with them, letting my childhood fantasies seep into my bones and settle in my soul.

I create homes wherever I go.

I am a nester.

The Future

How is it that one thing can be both scary and exciting at the same time?

Both unnerving and securing?

Something that I’d could run from or that I could run to.

Either way, the future is the unknown. That feeling of “what if” and “when” that comes together in a single package wrapped with a big bow of “how”.

Many will say that you need to focus on the present because it’s all we really have. The past is but a memory and the future is only a dream. The present is in our hands, in the moment. It is now.

But…I can’t help sneaking a peek at the future. Wondering where I’ll go, what will happen and how I’m going to get there. So far, my present is nothing like I thought it would be when I was 6 years old, when I was 14 years old, or even when I was 21 years old. All these changes and unforeseen curves in the road have now made me both cautious and anxious about my future.

And this leads me to ask, have I been fooling myself? By having an idea of what I want and that idea having never come together as I’d hoped, am I making it harder on myself to accept my true path and my more likely future?

As the old saying goes, “When Man plans, The Universe laughs.”

Maybe it’s time to stop making plans and to just live.

The One In Which I Do Nothing But Complain

Today is one of those days that I woke up under nothing but grey clouds and I can’t seem to shake the chill of negativity. This is a running ledger of those nasty ol’ negative thoughts because it’s better for them to be out here than stuck inside my head where they circle round my mind, bringing me further down.

For starters, I’m tired. Both physically and emotionally.

So tired I can’t seem to find the energy to finish what I’ve started or to keep up the routines I enjoy. It’s sad that when push comes to shove, responsibilities come before the things I love, and not the other way around.

It’s also sad that I have responsibilities that instead of being something I enjoy or something I can find some happiness in, these responsibilities just drain me further. I guess if life were fair, we’d all be doing something we love and something we are passionate about while we take care of what needs to be taken care of. But that’s not reality now is it?

I’m also drained. I feel I have nothing left. Nothing left to give, to share or to have for myself. I’m starting to fear I’ve sacrificed too much and now I’m running on empty and would have to start from scratch to find myself.

And if that’s the case, then I’m no good to anyone. I’m nothing but a dead weight bringing anyone around me down. Why would anyone want to have that weight around their neck? I wouldn’t.

I’m not sure if I should cross my fingers and hope that when this passes, those who care for me are still there, or if I should preemptively cut ties to save everyone from my darkness. Why hurt those around you when you know you can prevent it, right? That’s love, isn’t it?

I feel like a 5 year old kicking the ground after losing a board game yelling “IT’S NOT FAIR!” Because…it’s not fair. None of it is. Life, being an adult, having responsibilities. I guess I just need to accept I’ve lost this round of the game and I just need to move on and try to win the next. Even though I’ll still complain that it’s just not fair.

Emotional exhaustion can do weird thing to your mental state. It makes you say and do things that normally would go against your beliefs and your convictions. It’s like you are so tired your mind starts to panic and then it allows for you to consider options you normally would be completely against. And instead of making it look like you are being open minded, it raises eye brows of those who know you and makes them question your motives.

And being questioned only makes you feel shittier. Makes you want to back track and violently unring the bell. To beat the shit out of the bell. Then panic sets in as your logic surfaces and you realize what you’ve said and how it probably looks. Damn it….that unringing of the bell isn’t working. Your words are out there and you are stuck having said all that you have.

Sigh…. I need more sleep.

And a new brain. Oh…how about a whole new body?

That would be sweet.

(This post is brought to you by PMDD. Don’t leave home without it because if you do, it’ll track you down, find you and kick your ass.)


Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart

Yeats – Easter 1916

Most everyone makes sacrifices.

Most everyone must at sometime put others before themselves.

It’s not always easy and sometimes it’s the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do.

Sacrifice makes us strong, makes us humble. Makes us human.

But, to every good there is a bad. The balance of yin and yang.

And a person can run the risk of sacrificing too much and becoming a ghost of themselves. Lost in a sea of unhappiness and resentment.

Losing their dreams, their goals and the vision of what they want for themselves.

Abandoning their happiness for the good of the whole.

The question then becomes: when can a sacrifice become too much?

At what point does a healthy obligation become a resentful situation?

Is there such a thing as too much of a good thing?


It makes us humble.

It makes us human.