by Sara Barry | Sep 15, 2014 | fall, what I love, writing
Right now, this week as we settle into September, I’m loving . . .
- being alone in the house with quiet to work
- packing away the sprawl of summer, sending bathing suits and towels and flip flops up to the attic
- running again filled with the energy of fall
- kale—it’s been waiting for me all summer, and now that fall is here, I have it almost every night, sauteed with a little olive oil and garlic.
- letting go of the weeds, knowing I’ll clear the slate for a fresh start next spring
- the enthusiasm bubbling out of my kids when I pick them up from school or get them off the bus
- the notes I find all over as my big girl pieces letters together, hoping to make a word
- re-engaging with a writing project I was stuck on (I ‘m still not sure where I need to go next, but I’m writing again, trying to write my way out of my sticking point)
- these notebooks and prints, especially these four pleasures—write, read, walk, dig
- re-engaging with a writing project I was stuck on (I ‘m still not sure where I need to go next, but I’m writing again, trying to write my way out of my sticking point)
- making these love lists and getting ready for Write What You Love tomorrow (you can still join us).
What are you loving this Monday morning?
by Sara Barry | Sep 10, 2014 | finding time, milestones, parenting, writing
It’s quiet in the car. The radio i
s off as it often is so I can hear what the kids are saying from the back seat.
There is no one in the backseat.
No buckling. No “When we home can we . . . ?” No “Is Melissa open? Can I get a donut?”
I pull my own seatbelt across me. Click.
It’s quiet. Still.
It’s not so much that I want to cry as that I am aware of the space around me. This space and quiet I’ve yearned for.
I waited so long. It went so fast.
My baby girl has been ready for this day—first day of preschool—for two years. She knows the routine: hang up backpack, wash hands and sing ABC, sign in. Today, what’s different is she gets to stay.
I squat next to her at the busy play dough table. Watch her, check out the other kids, the other moms. Ask what she’s making. I glance at the clock. It’s almost meeting time.
“Can I have a hug? I’m going to go now.”
It takes a minute for her to pull herself away from the play dough. She looks at me and lunges into one of her superhugs—arms and legs entwined around me. She lets go with one arm, presses her cheek to mine—one arm hug.
She doesn’t like hugs herself, but she has a whole repertoire to give, each tight, each heartfelt, each connected. Her hugs lift me and fill me like Henry’s smile used to.
I remember when my big girl started preschool, how I waited impatiently for the end of her day to find out how it went. I worried and wondered how she was feeling and doing in her new environment. This one, I’m not worried about. I don’t imagine her thinking about being there alone without me, the way I find myself focused on being here without her.
From now on, when I go to the market or stop for coffee after drop off, I won’t unbuckle and buckle. I won’t field requests to buy a pretzel or a donut or put money in the piggy bank for the ambulance fund. I’ll buy what I need, chat for a minute. Go back to the empty car. Drive home. Do what I need to do.
I told people it wouldn’t be all the different this year. I’m used to doing drop off and then working most of the morning.
But I’m not used to the empty car as I pull out of the school lot. I’m not used to coming into the house alone. Maybe once we settle into routine, it won’t feel so strange, but right now it feels empty, quiet, still.
I waited so long for this. It went by so fast.
Your Turn
Write with Me:
Have you ever had somebody say to you, “Enjoy every moment! It goes so fast”?
You hear it often while you’re up every couple hours to feed a baby or recovering from (or still dealing with) a meltdown in the grocery store. That really little stage does go fast, though it doesn’t always feel like it at the time.
Today, I started with the idea of it goes so fast. Try that or pick another cliché. How do you feel when somebody says it to you? What situation from your life does the saying apply to (or not apply to)? You might respond to the cliché, use it as a theme, give an example, or tear it apart. Write your cliché at the top of your paper—then just write what comes to you.
Share It:
I love reading what you write. Share your writing in the comments, add a link to your blog, or email me at sarabarrywrites@gmail.com.
Whether you have a little extra quiet, still time with the kids back in school or you’re still dreaming of it, take a little time for three days for yourself. Write What You Love starts next week. Sign up now.
by Sara Barry | Sep 8, 2014 | baking, parenting, what I love, writing
Right now I’m loving this cool, dry air after a few sticky, icky days and the return of energy that comes with this cool weather.
I’m loving the urge to bake and the cinnamon-coconut-almond smell wafting out of my oven with this morning’s batch of granola. I’m loving the crisp gingersnaps I baked yesterday—and the homemade ice cream sandwiches I made with them and peach ice cream.
I’m still loving my early morning time, both the quiet and focus itself, and the calm i
t brings to the start of my day—even when one little one wakes up with wet undies and the other rages that she is too tired to get out of bed. I handle this so much better after a few minutes to myself, a chance to pee and brush my teeth, a cup of coffee.
I’m loving my new writing notebook—and the hour I spent yesterday with my art-loving girl doing collage. I’m loving the memory of making a collage notebook with my friend Kate years ago that cascaded into a string of other memories of lazy-productive weekends spent marbling boxes and constructing jewelry holders, taking a glass fusing glass, baking dozens of cookies on a snowbound afternoon, stirring jam on a steamy summer afternoon in my old apartment.
Writing prompt for Monday
Think about a person you’ve known for a long time. List memories you have of being with that person. What places does that take you to? what stages of your life? Who are you with this person? Has that changed over time or does being with them bring out a certain part of you?
What are you loving right now?
Write What You Love starts next week! You can sign up here—it’s free.
by Sara Barry | Sep 3, 2014 | Uncategorized
The room is loud as we go in: bright, tight parent voices, a faucet running, a brief wail. The entry way is a maze of bodies and backpacks. We wait as other kids find their, as yet unfamiliar, cubbies and parents crouch beside them, phones out to take iconic first-day of school pictures.
I fumble in my canvas bag for my camera, squeeze the plastic tab and slide it along the nylon cord opening the camera bag. No cell phone, and my camera seems oddly out of place. It doesn’t matter, because my girl is turning her face away with a frown, her butt-length blond hair falling over her face despite the plum colored sequined headband.
“OK,” I give up on the picture. “Let’s wash hands.”
She hops up the gray wooden steps at the side of the sink, turns on the water, rubs with soap, rinses. She pushes me out of the way as I reach to hand her a paper towel.
Laurie welcomes her to the room. She points out the sand table, and even as I wonder if K will choose to play with coarse sand and brightly colored tools and cups I point out the mound of giant Legos on the next table. I see “The Kissing Hand” in the book rack behind the primary color alphabet rug, a book we’ve been reading at bedtime all week.
Teachers sway through the crowd, bending to say a welcome or offer an activity. Parents hover and hug and wonder when to leave.
I’m behind Kathleen, surveying the room over her head, as we hover between entryway and the room proper. Her hand—so soft, so small—slides into mine as we enter the room, uncertain at first, and then insistent, tugging as she sees where she wants to go. I wend through waist-high people following her lead.
Kathleen pulls a puzzle—multicolored hot air balloons—off a shelf, plops down on the low-pile rug, and dumps it out. She starts trying pieces and I try to refrain from putting my hands on them to shift them, refrain from telling her where they go. But one of my hands, large next to hers, nails short, slips the first piece into place as she starts to pull it away. Then she gets it and the rest of the picture comes together quickly.
Without a word to me, she puts the puzzle back on the shelf and pulls down another. “I guess I’ll go now. Dad will be here in a little while to pick you up. I love you.” She keeps working on her puzzle, as I hug her, her hair silky, the tulle layers on her skirt scratchy. I’m not even sure she said bye, this girl of mine who wouldn’t let me leave the house for a run or to work for two hours without a hug and a kiss.
I make my way back through the little people exploring this new place, back to the entryway where the crowd has thinned, the cubbies filled mostly with backpacks and sweatshirts. I pause for a moment, glance back, and then step out of the room, up the stairs, out into the bright September sun.
When I get back in my car, it’s quiet. Three hours to wait and wonder what happened during the rest of the first day of school.
Your Turn
Write with Me:
I wrote yesterday about the first day of kindergarten, but poking around in my files, I found this description of the first day of preschool. What a change for my daughter.
Did you send one of your kids off to school recently? Do you remember one of your first days in particular? Describe that experience.
Share It:
Share your writing in the comments, add a link to your blog, or email me at sarabarrywrites@gmail.com.
And if you’re ready for a mini-back to school for yourself, join me in September for this free online class. Sign up now.
by Sara Barry | Sep 2, 2014 | baking, milestones, parenting, traditions
Seven years ago, I sat on my front porch and watched as my neighbor got on the school bus for the first time. Each September since, I’ve been out at the bus stop on the first day of school, even though my kids haven’t ridden it yet. Somewhere along the line, we added coffee, sausage, and muffins to the morning.
Today, that little girl I watched seven years ago climb tentatively on the bus leaves early for the regional school.
Today my own little-big girl will climb on the bus and leave for her first day of kindergarten.
She’s got her first day of school outfit. Her backpack is packed. And I’ve made the muffins.
First Day of School Muffins
(good for breakfast or after-school snack)
½ cup sugar
½ cup brown sugar
½ cup butter, softened or melted
2 eggs
1 + cup mashed overripe banana
2 cups flour (white or whole wheat)
1 tsp baking soda
½ tsp salt
1 cup chocolate chips
- Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
- Cream butter, sugar, and eggs until fluffy.
- Add bananas and mix well to combine.
- Add flour, baking soda, and salt and stir until just mixed in. Gently stir in chocolate chips. (You can skip the chocolate chips if you want, but they are most definitely not optional at my house.)
- Spoon into greased muffin tins and bake 20 minutes or until golden. (Also works well in a square cake pan or loaf pan, but a loaf will bake longer).
What are your first day of school traditions?
