the rhythm of our love

A dark pine rocking chair.

back and forth…back and forth…

a wedding gift 38 years ago.

back and forth…back and forth…

you, swaddled anger.  screaming.

back and forth…back and forth…

tears rolling down my cheeks as I whisper “shh shh shh…”

back and forth…back and forth…

singing softly, “you are my sunshine…”

back and forth…back and forth…

helpless to soothe you.

back and forth…back and forth…

you grow and change.

back and forth…back and forth…

your chubby legs fold on themselves as you rest your head on my shoulder.

back and forth…back and forth…

you grow longer.  you wrap your legs around me to rest your head on my shoulder.

back and forth…back and forth…

You sit on my lap with your face on my chest rubbing your Lamby’s ear.

back and forth…back and forth…

We read truck books, talk about how we got groceries, sing the ABC’s.

back and forth…back and forth…

You tell me it’s dark, ask about daddy, wave at your shadow in the glow of the nightlight.

back and forth…back and forth…

It has been our way for twenty-five months without fail.

back and forth…back and forth…

And I have never regretted the decision to help you go to sleep.

This week’s prompt was to write about a rhythm in your life without using the word “rhythm”.

too ugly

One of the things about parenting that I do not look forward to are the middle school years.  Especially because I really hope my son is kind to the awkward girls.  Because we all know it’s hell as a girl to go through the judgey middle school years.

For me middle school was pretty terrible all around, but I do have to admit there were bright spots.

Art class with my best friend, Tonya, for instance.  The teacher let us listen to the radio during class, and we got to sketch things terribly and giggle uncontrollably at our horrible art skills.

Band with my best friend, Tonya, because we made the band director cry.  What?

Applied Technology class with my best friend, Tonya, because our balsa wood bridge couldn’t hold the bucket, our bottle submarine wouldn’t hover, our sailboat sunk, and we filed our nails on the electric sander, but still got A’s. (We love you, Mr. Poest).

But my best friend wasn’t in all my classes.  In fact, she was only in my elective classes, so I had to suffer get through the core classes on my own, and I did my best to make new friends.

I can remember walking into my seventh grade science class and not knowing anybody on the first day, and I was actually thankful that my teacher, one of the high school football coaches, put us in assigned seats that he declared would be ours for the entire school year.  Which meant that the person at our lab table would be our lab partner for the entire school year.  I was nervous and relieved at the same time.  I was glad I wouldn’t have to suffer through no one picking me, but I was anxious that I would be put with someone too nerdy or too cool.  What would I do?

My permanent seat was all the way in the back corner next to the door and my lab partner was Steve.  Steve looked like a high school football player already because that was his goal in life.  I was sort of excited  that I got a cute guy as my lab partner, but I knew I wasn’t one of the popular girls, so I would have to prove myself.

In front of us sat Jeremy, the nerdiest kid in the world, and Jeanna, someone who smoked and had a high school boyfriend.  If we ever had to work in groups of four, they were our automatic partners.  We were the four most unlikely group in the seventh grade.  We were like the Breakfast Club, but in science class instead of Saturday School.

We actually became quite the group…pretty close.  None of us socialized outside of class, but in class we always worked together and talked to each other about stuff other than science.  So that is why toward spring, I thought I could tell Steve that I thought he was cute.

So I did.  In science class.  In front of Jeanna and Jeremy.

I partly blame Jeanna because she told me that she thought he totally liked me.  And stuff.

Anyway, he laughs a little like I am telling him a joke.  Then he puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “Aw Kate.  You are just too ugly to ever get a boyfriend.  But you are so funny.  You’re a great friend!”

And he went back to work.

Like nothing happened.

And my face burned.  I wanted to just disappear.

But instead I thought of myself as ugly for years.  YEARS.  Twenty years and counting.

One statement.  In middle school.  That wasn’t even true.

I don’t want Eddie to EVER say anything like that. To anyone.  Ever.

How do I prevent that?  How do I teach him to be kind to all even when he is insecure about himself?

How do I show him that there is no such thing as “too ugly”?

This week’s prompt was to write about an embarrassing moment.


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Our cousin, Alyson, is running in the Chicago Marathon for the American Cancer Society!  If you would like to donate, please go here.  She will be running in honor of our aunt (her mother), our Grandma Sluiter, and in memory of Cort’s dad.

how i met your father

From the first time I ever plopped down next to him on a school bus headed for the Michigan Adventure physics trip, I knew he was going to be my friend for life.

I wasn’t even in physics anymore, but had convinced the teacher to let me come along. Not because I was so interested in physics, but because it was the end of my senior year and I would rather be waving my hands above my head on the corkscrew than explicating a Keats poem.

After climbing the familiar black treaded steps, I took my first look at who was going on this trip with me.

Almost all juniors and 100% male.

I picked a familiar face and walked purposefully toward him, “Hey Curly.  Can I be your seatmate for this adventure?”

“Of course,” he smiled easily sliding over toward the window.

I sat down casually on the green vinyl seat waving off all the protests and seat invitations from the other guys.   As soon as the bus roared to life, and Huong turned around and sat down, I decided to get to know my new friend better.

“So,” I asked looking past him to the outside brick wall of our school, “do you have a girlfriend?”

The bus hadn’t even left the school parking lot and I asked the doozy question right off the bat. I had to know if this day was going to be flirty or just friendly. I am not sure what I was hoping for.

“Sort of,” he answered.

“How do you ‘sort of’ have a girlfriend?”

“She lives in Caledonia.”

“How did you meet a girl from way over there?”


Our conversation…and our future… took off as the bus lurched forward.

This week’s prompt was to write about a school trip.
This was the most important school trip of my life.
We didn’t actually date for another 10 years, but that is another post for another time.

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the monster within

It was uncontrolled.


It lashed out at random, attacking haphazardly.

A misunderstood glance or a comment taken out of context could cause it to flare.

Bags of chips thrown, doors slammed, obscenities flooded the room.


A small, orange pill taken before bedtime put the monster in the cage.

It was identified.

It was locked up.

It was contained.

Then I started to wean.

The cage began to rattle.

But I continued to taper.

The lock fell off and shattered and the gate creaked open slowly.

My first day without any armor against the monster left me shaken.

I doubted myself.

That was his doorway.

I willed myself not to unleash the devil on anyone, but he was out of his cage ready to attack.

I fought this ogre.

My brain vibrated with each heavy footstep as he paced behind my eyes.

My head throbbed from the beatings my cerebrum was taking as he tried to assault the innocent.

My finger nails found the back of my neck and gripped tightly, puncturing my flesh.

Trying to release this beast if just a little.

Attempting to give him an inch in hopes that he would not take the mile.

The blood and tears did not work.

He was free and he was coming out.

Unless I went back.

This week’s prompt asked us to write about the first time I _____-ed after/since _____-ing.

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converted…sort of

As we pulled up to his mom’s house for our first Thanksgiving as a couple he dropped a bomb on me:

“I should warn you.  We are a family of huggers.”

I just rolled my eyes.

“No, really, Kate.  We hug hello AND goodbye.  My mom will hug you.  My sister and brother will hug you. My grandparents will hug you.  Cousins and uncles and aunts will hug you.  Just be ready for it.”

My hands started to sweat.

I was already worrying about how to hug.

Were they “your arms over, mine under” huggers?  Maybe “you go up left, down right, I’ll go up right, down left” huggers.  Maybe they were one-arm huggers.  Was there a cheek kiss involved?  Was this a quick hug or a hard hug or a bear hug or a pat-pat hug?  How did this work?

I was so unprepared.

And nervous.

People I was just meeting would be in my space…touching me.

Couldn’t we just shake hands?  I was good at that.  I have a great, firm handshake that shows I am likeable, yet confident.  I can do hand shakes.


My family doesn’t hug.

I am not sure why.  We are very close.  My brothers punch my arms or cow bite my legs frequently, but we don’t really hug.

My dad likes to poke at me and pinch me and for as long as I can remember I am always yelling, “daaaaad!  UGG!  Get away!”  And he just laughs and tells me it’s his job.

My mom isn’t a big hugger either.  Oh, my Grandma used to hug our faces off, but my aunts and uncles and cousins just don’t throw the hugs around.

And my friends don’t do a lot of hugging.

My friends from high school are mostly dudes.  Dudes don’t just hug.

My friends from college learned long ago that I am not the touchy-feely kind of friend and either force hugs on me, or give me my space.

My space.

It was about to be invaded as I met a bunch of people for the first time.

“Great.  This should be interesting,” I tell Cort as we got out of the truck and headed for for the front door.

He chuckled. “Relax.  Let it happen.  Hugs are good.”


Yes.  That first time was awkward.

And then meeting the other side of the family?  Also huggers.  Awkward.

There was a lot of awkward for awhile.

But recently?  I realized that it’s not so awkward anymore.

I’m not going in for the “wrong” kind of hug.

In fact, the other day I found myself going in for the hug and not just hoping one didn’t find it’s way to me.

And it was nice.

Not a big deal.

I am glad because I can’t imagine Eddie telling someone, “my family just doesn’t hug.”

I’d rather he be warning people, “caution:  my family will hug your face off.”

Ok, maybe not that much  hugging.

I do still need  my space after all.


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a room of her own

I hunch over my laptop at our high top kitchen table.

My feet fall asleep being there is not good place to put them.

This table is not meant for long term sitting.  The chairs are tall with very straight backs.  If I lean back, my butt falls asleep.  If I hunch forward my feet fall asleep and my back and neck ache.

Our kitchen/dining room is all open with our small living area.

The house is not large.

I have hammered out 715 blog posts–most at this table.

I get easily distracted by the TV, Cort, Eddie, life.

I have no set time that is just mine to work comfortably.  If I take my laptop to my chair, it doesn’t seem like work and I get lost in reading blogs and surfing the web getting ready to “pin” things.

Before I know it, the battery is shouting at me to plug in and I’ve gotten nothing accomplished.

I dream of a room of my own.

An upstairs room that is just mine.

With a desk under a window overlooking a yard and some trees.  Not starting at the road and silly neighborhood kids making fools of themselves in the cul-de-sac.

With pretty curtains and bright walls.

With a comfy desk chair.

With a place for all of my books and my blogging calendars and to do lists.

With soft carpet.

With an over-stuffed chair and a minky blanket in the corner next to a reading lamp.

With a sirius radio dock and speakers.

With a lock on the door.

With a set time that I am in there.

I don’t want to see laptops on the kitchen table anymore.

I don’t want us me to be distracted by emails, twitter, blogs, facebook just because it’s there.

I don’t want technology in the family area anymore.

But I don’t want to be pushed to a corner in the cement laundry room in the basement.  It’s not creative there.  It’s prison.

It’s the kitchen table or the basement.

No room of my own.

But it’s what I want.  More than almost anything.

No room of my own.

Not in this house.

No room of my own.


The prompt this week was to write about what you want most.

This is not what I want most.  But I chickened out and wrote what I want almost the most.

only the first night

First things first.

I have a guest post today over at The Kir Corner.  She is one of my most enthusiastic, loving cheerleaders supporters here in Sluiter Nation, and when she asked if I would share one of my proudest Mom Moments at her place?  I simply could not say no.

I will warn you, however, that I chose to go with something very recent and maybe not that exceptional for most moms. In fact, I am pretty sure it is totally run of the mill for most mamas of toddlers out there.  But for me?  And how stupid my PPD has been lately with this med thing?  It’s a proud moment indeed.

So go read that moment before I take you back in time to this moment….


I cuddled down into my sleeping bag that had been laid out neatly next to my cousin’s.  She was already softly sleeping, but I was yet vigilant.

I tried to close my eyes, but sleep didn’t come, so I stared up at the close green canvas.

I inhaled the dank, musty, comforting smell of my grandma’s tent camper as I listened to twigs pop and animals scurry.

The campfire had died down a couple hours ago, but its scent had permeated my hair, my jammies, and my pillow.

I rolled over carefully, knowing that any sharp movement would move the entire camper and draw out protests from my cousin.

As I slid my knees up to my chest, my bare feet felt the familiar friction of something.

We did everything we could to keep it out of the camper:  shoes and sandals off outside on the mat, a towel to to dust any stubborn grains, even a special water jug just for rinsing.  But somehow, there it was.

Sand in the bottom of my sleeping bag.

I wondered where they came from.

Most of the day was spent at the beach running across the hot sand to the lake to cool our scorched toes. Even in the water of the Great Lake sand had found it’s way into my bathing suit.

We had carried shovels and pails and strainers and boats and rafts and towels back with us, all covered in sand despite our best efforts to rinse and shake out.

However that evening after dinner we had all climbed the Dune.  Maybe this sand came from there.

It was always a race to the top.  All seven first cousins and an almost countless number of second cousins and other Camping Crew Kids that may or may not have been related to us sped up the mountain.

My aunt and Grandma were among the Dune climbers.

My Aunt Sandy would yell at us to be careful of the little kids, to not go into the undergrowth because of poison ivy, and good gracious this was a lot of work!

Grandma would encourage and hoot and holler as we kids made it to the top one by one.

Once to the top, the adults would have a sit down to rest while we all explored or just marveled at the Great Lake that stretched below us.

It wouldn’t be long before someone would make the call and begin the downward plummet back to the bottom.

Soon everyone would be hurling down the mountain, our legs getting carried away and turning to rubber.

Some of us would fall and roll in a spray of sand.

My aunt would pick us up, tell us to hold still, and attempt to rub the sand out of our hair, eyes, and crevices before we would all march exhaustively back to the camper or down the road to the General Store for ice cream.

Or maybe the sand at the end of my sleeping bag marched in from the campsite sand.

We would ride our bikes, play catch, and then bury our feet in the dirt by the fire as we made Hobo Pies and S’mores and listened to Grandma and her brother’s yodel and sing.

And maybe I had been too tired to get it all cleaned off before climbing into the bunk next to my cousin.

So now there was sand in my sleeping bag.

And it was only the first night.

red with pride

It was a typical Sunday evening in Sluiter Nation.

Cort had made a “take and bake” pizza from our local Meijer deli  for our dinner, and we were in the clean up process.

Plates were being cleared and rinsed, Eddie was being wiped up, and in the middle of it all the phone rang.

The house phone.

The house phone never rings unless it’s one of our moms or our grandparents.

Or a telemarketer.

“I’ll grab it,” I said.  I was expecting a call, but I thought it would be on my cell.

The caller id showed a cell number and area code that I did not recognize.




And then a pile of giggles.

I was on speaker phone in a car and two bloggers whom I had never met were dying of excited giggles.

I quickly indicated to Cort that it was for me and I wandered into our bedroom to take the call without distraction.

I knew this call was coming, but I had no idea what it was about.

The butterflies in my stomach were raging.

Can I call you this weekend?  I have something I would like to ask you.

I gave out my phone number without a second thought.  I trusted her and respected her.

Yes, she is a role model to me as a blogger, but I also look up to her as a woman and a mother, so when she asked if she could call me?  I put aside my hatred of the phone.

I smiled at their giddiness to be on the phone with me.  I wasn’t expecting both of them.  And I immediately knew what it had to do with, but had no idea what the question could possibly be.

“We’ve called to ambush you!”

More giggles.

I was dumbfounded, but trying not to sound dumb.

“Yay!  I love an ambush!  What’s up?”

My voice sounded weird to me.  I was trying to be cool.

I am so not cool when I am trying to be.

Both of them started talking at once.

You don’t have to make a decision right now…we want you to think about it…talk it over with Cort…we just want to put this out there…we want to make some changes…do new things…you’re so energetic….your writing is so lovely…you are exactly what we need…but we know you are so very busy with your million blogs, being a mom, and teaching…but you are exactly what we need…you are so lovely.

All I heard was “We love you.”

I have struggled with owning the title writer for quite some time.

I have hit publish and then checked in on my posts with my hands over my face, just barely peaking between my fingers. What would people say?  Would they even comment?

In that instant, I sat up tall on my bed and looked at myself in the mirror while they kept gushing.

A smile broke out on my face and I interrupted them.

“Yes.  Just…yes. I don’t need to talk about it with anyone. I am so honored…and proud. Yes.”

We kept chatting for another 20 minutes about ideas and when the partnership would take place, but I was hardly listening.

I must have sounded very simple to them, and I am sure they hung up the phone wondering if they made the best choice.

But the fact of the matter was that I had been blown away.

In a simple phone conversation, many of my insecurities were swept under my bed.

I am proud of my writing and proud of where it is going.

I am proud to be part of the leadership at The Red Dress Club.

Thank you Cheryl and Nichole.  You will never know what that phone call meant to me.

the right wrong

It’s a mistake to think things can’t get worse because they always can.

The day can be normal, and with a quick, routine glance at the computer, life changes.

I had gotten a brief email earlier stating the minimum:  He had been laid off.  Unexpectedly.

Yes, the company was having some financial troubles, but who wasn’t?

Yes, we were expecting there to be layoffs, but not BOTH salesmen–certainly not someone who went from sweeping the floors in the shop to being the go-to guy for inside sales.

We were in shock.

My mind was reeling with questions and worst case scenarios as I drove home in the autumn sunshine.  The day seemed so happy and light, but I was slowly sinking into my catastrophic thinking.

The next day he was supposed to collect his stuff.

And then apply for unemployment.


The word felt like sour rusty metal in our mouths.

It was for the rest of the country.  Not us.

Family business meant security.

If anyone was going to lose her job, it was me.  Our district had been making cuts left and right, and I had already held one of those pink slips.

Pink paper is heavier than other colors, and the weight of that slip nearly broke him.

My husband is strong.

I watched him hold himself upright with dry eyes at his dad’s funeral just days after having abdominal surgery.

He had held the pieces of me after I broke from two miscarriages.

In that moment, my steadfast partner lost his sparkle.  He was starting to fade.

From that exact moment that he had to look at me, and not just type out the situation to me, he began to lose something.

I suddenly stepped into a role that was unfamiliar to me.

We will be ok, I heard myself saying.

Even though on the inside I had completely lost my shit.

Even though there was a buzzing behind my eyes of worry and anxiety.

Everything will be fine, babe.  Really.

Sometimes you just say things and hope they are true.

For seventeen months we were blinded by budgets and money scrapping and never saying no to extra opportunities.

And the whole time Eddie was given the gift of a stay at home parent.

He was given his daddy.

It’s a mistake to think that everything is wrong.

Because sometimes the most important things are very, very right.