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In the mornings I get dressed. I make breakfast for my three little ones, make coffee, pack lunches, brush hair, take a sip of my coffee, sign reading folders, and get the kids to school. Then I come home. I warm up my still-full mug, and sit down to work.
Soon my littlest is home for lunch, the dryer buzzes, the stack of dirty dishes threatens to topple, and there is dinner to be made. My two oldest burst through the door with stories and papers and energy they’ve been waiting to release all day. My piano students arrive, then bedtime stories and snuggles, more students, dishes, laundry…
The gentle sunlight is gone. My organized papers are buried beneath a blank grocery list. I have to fight for space with a fairy princess picture. And a talking sword. And, thank goodness, Judith Viorst and Arnold Lobel.
This is where imagination lives. It burrows under fallen logs and runs with the river beneath winter’s ice. It nestles into footprints left by animals and hikers and my own boots. It breathes and it thrives in the open and … Continue reading
Sometimes I fall out of the habit of writing. Days and weeks go by and I am so distracted by work and parenting and cleaning and being busy that I ignore the words. I go through my days as if … Continue reading