::baking alone::

The benefits of baking alone include:

-listening to whatever music you want (currently, Stereomood's "It's Raining" playlist)
-getting lost in the task at hand and not being distracted, causing you to miscount ingredients and have to start over
-taking the time to knead dough by hand, instead of using the stand mixer, for therapeutic reasons
-licking both beaters and not feeling guilty about not offering one to whoever else may be home
-being the first to eat a hot, sticky cinnamon bun fresh from your oven
-having the time to clean up and throw away any baking that didn't turn out as planned, so no one is the wiser :)

(photo courtesy of Diana's Desserts)

::big girl::

Fuzzy tangerine hair catches the sunlight bouncing off our cream walls. Cerulean eyes, wide as saucers, catch mine from beneath fiery feathered lashes. Your brows jump suddenly, you lift your arm to flop your chubby, knuckle-dimpled hand up-down-up-down, in a wave.

"Hi!"

There, hanging in the air, like you've said it a million times before, is your first word. A greeting. An invitation to interact. An acknowledgement of relationship. A verbal expression of acceptance.

"Hi!"

I say it back, and mimic your wave, hoping to hear it again. That sweet voice that grew within me from a seed, until I ballooned and birthed you into this hard world. The little breath of anticipation you take just before you speak, the breath that reminds me how simple all of this really is, that I too often lose simplicity in the shuffle of daily tasks and expectations.

"Hi!"

And I smile, I am sure bigger than ever before. I can't help but approach and say, "Up?" just to see you lift your arms, waiting for my embrace.

To be a mother renders me full, satisfied, saturated in peace.

***

I have been participating in imperfect prose on thursdays, a blog initiative spearheaded by my friend, emily, at in the hush of the moon. Please click on her button below to read the posts of other participants through her blog.

::posting season::

The red light bulbs dangle, lonely in the windows, signalling emptiness. Barrenness. Expectancy. Silhouetted against the faint glow of vacant homes, hazy light thrown in by prairie-sky and the smiles of children playing carefree on the street. Motionless, the bulbs hang, telling the neighbours' stories, all the same, yet all different: another family sent to another base. And a different family, embarking on the long journey here, to take their place - to take up residence in the teal-/turquoise-/cream-sided duplexes, to replace the hanging red lamps with flowing curtains or venetian blinds. Not long ago, the creaky buildings wrapped themselves around their service families, guarding precious together-moments, fearful tears, infant squawks, childrens' squeals, and lovers' sweet nothings. Now, they stand at attention, unblinking, ready to greet their new families, these "foster homes" of sorts. And our new neighbours will greet the house, in turn, with open doors, fresh air, a new adventure. And the house will stand at ease, enveloping its new family and inviting them to turn house into home, for a time.

*  *  *

I have been participating in imperfect prose on thursdays, a blog initiative spearheaded by my friend, emily, at in the hush of the moon. Please click on her button below to read the posts of other participants through her blog.