The Birds of America and Toddlers of this House are Sleeping.

I'm rereading "Birds of America" (still), and this morning, "Charades" had me laughing like a goon, alone out on the dark sunporch.

Therese mentally measured the length of her body in front of her and wondered if she could do it. Of course she could. Of course. But would she? And then suddenly, she knew she would. She let her hip twist and fell straight forward, her arm at an angle, her mouth in a whoop. She had learned to do this in drama club when she was fifteen. She hadn't been pretty, and it was a means of getting the boys' attention. She landed with a thud.  

"You still do that?" asked Ann with incredulity and disgust. "You're a judge and you still do that?" 

"Sort of," said Therese from the floor. She felt around for her glasses. 

I'm having a hard time making time and cultivating headspace these days, but this is still my work, part of it, anyway. For that I am grateful.

If I'm lucky, I have an hour to wrestle with this thing that I hope and pray will soon be a story and--if the gods shine golden--will, as if by magic, cure all that ails the collection. No pressure!

update: About ten minutes after I wrote this, a sleepy kid stumbled onto the still-dark sunporch and said, "You wanna go night night, Mama?"

"Of course," I said, and closed Word.

"Here," she said, and pulled my stocking hat off. "I put this here so you can have it in the moe-nin."

Though these two parts of my work often seem at odds, this morning I am thankful for both.

Professional Haircuts? Not part of my work.