cotton ball towers

by willeya

“atticus, during the day mommy has two people to take care of.  there’s you, then there’s me.  you come first but i am a person too. mommy’s tummy gets hungry just like yours”  i said in my most diplomatic voice.

more crying [i don’t know why i bother to explain my personhood to an 18 month old]

he’s a sensitive soul, this one.  he wants to walk but he’s scared to fall so he needs needs to hold my thumb just so all day everywhere.  he weeps big tears for ten minutes when the cabinet door taps his head harder than a kiss.  he leans against it and stares into it’s shiny metal knob, to see if it’s really sorry.  ben pushed him playfully this morning and he crumbled.  crying (again), he walked over for a hug instead.

ben and i are both sensitive souls but in different ways so together we cover the gamet. i suppose there was no hope for our offspring.  sometimes i look through my son’s eyes to the inside and i swear i see glass.  or maybe cotton balls towers.

something fragile anyways.


it’s tomorrow (which is now today) and it’s my turn to hang the “handle with care” sign over my heart. we are very polite to take turns in this family.  i could go into all the specifics of what’s got me down, but none of it is “it”. “it’s” just this general feeling that i don’t measure up.  that whatever i do, sucks.

so like any mature woman, i asked my husband to list the things he likes about me.

he said something deep and spiritual just like the man he is, and i said no no no.  tell me something I’M GOOD AT.  something concrete; something i don’t suck at.  but i even messed that up and said “suck out”.

but he did.  and i felt better for the seconds he was talking.   now i am going to bed, believing that there’s something beautiful about being made out of glass.

or maybe cotton ball towers.