hopeLESS

 Jack Johnson, Banana Pancakes

My youngest daughter still comes in the bed at night. I can't tell her, but I will be devastated when she stops her nightly snugglefest. She ventures over, tranquil and cool (her tiny feet are always cold and she nuzzles them in my side for warmth). This little before dawn traveler is always a little chatty. When she was three, we'd chat. Mommy, you hewre. Yes, sweetpea. Mommy, I love you. Lots of big squeezes and forehead and/or cheek kisses ensue. Last night was particularly smushy. You know what mimi, you da best mommy evah. I try not to talk back anymore, but sly child that she is, she knows just what to say and I forget my silence. Mimi, you want me to scratch youwr back. Being pure kitten myself, I couldn't resist. Truth be told, I love having all three of my sweetpeas in the bed. We cozy up. Left, right and center. Everyone purrs. My brood of kit, kitten, kitty and kittycat.

secrets...s...sh....sha....sham....shame

I'm not quite sure why, but if you have a secret, it is safe with me. Maybe it's because I'm the least judgmental person you can call a friend. Maybe it's because I give good advice. Maybe it's because I had a secret of my own. Maybe it's the timing of when it happens and I just so happened to be nearby when you felt the need to spill the beans. But, if there's one thing I know for sure, I know EVERYONES' secrets. And I don't tell a soul. It's pretty fascinating too. So much better than television. Big screen movie worthy, real life stories, that I have the pleasure and privilege, and in some cases, the horror, of experiencing second hand. Having an affair? Tell me. I will let you drip all the juicy details of it and not once looked horrified or disgusted. Secretly hate your child? Tell me. I'll tell you it's you you hate and will give you straightforward advice without criticism. Tell me you're a childhood sexual abuse survivor and I'll try to fix you with my love.