“You,” my Mom looks at me with a blend of certainty and empathy in her face, “are so much like me.” “Moooom,” I whine as I roll my eyes, “I knooooow.” I couldn’t possibly have kept track of how many times I’ve heard my Mom tell me this in my 30+ years. Typically, it wasn’t a welcomed comment on my end, probably because my Mom usually tells me about our similarities when I’m being stubborn; in the depths of my stubbornness is not the time for me to ponder generational resemblances, . . .
I'm baaaaack! My husband and I returned home to dark clouds and snow after a gorgeous week in sunny Cancún, Mexico. It was as if Reality slapped our cheeks, looked us in the eye, and firmly instructed: "WAKE UP, KIDS. VACATION IS OVER." So that was rude. Before getting back into regularly scheduled programming over here, I want to share a couple of posts that were published elsewhere while I was away. I'd love for you to read, comment, share, let me know your thoughts, etc. First, . . .
In 6th grade, I tried out for the dance squad at my junior high school. The coaches taught us a choreographed routine, and then we had to perform it in front of a panel of judges the following day. In the horrifying case that we forgot a part of the dance, we were instructed to smile and bounce in place until we could jump in on the next part of the routine. I literally smiled and bounced my way through the entire two and a half minute routine. The whole dance moved so quickly, that once I . . .
Growing up, my family was heavily involved in a performing arts ministry at our church. One year, I was somehow wrangled into singing a [horrific] solo while wearing a gigantic sunflower on my head, complete with a hole cut out in the middle for my face. Sometimes saying “yes” takes us to the most unexpected places. I’m recalling this memory so vividly right now because I want to write about how we should be more like flowers. It’s a strange concept and not a perfectly formed analogy, so I . . .
Every Thanksgiving, my family gathers around the table and, with wild amounts of delicious food at our fingertips, we go around the table and each share something we are thankful for. It is a tradition I loved as a child and looked down upon as a teenager; I still remember my token response throughout my high school years: “My friends.” I was full of angst and attitude and wanted to make sure my family knew how much I valued my friends. High school Mallory was a real treat. These days, most . . .
One of the best parts about my writing life is the community of writers I get to know. Gina Butz is a fellow member of The Redbud Writers Guild, and she is blessing me and us with her words here today. Have you ever considered what you might say to your younger self? I love to imagine what that conversation would be like. Here, Gina gives us a peek into the words she would offer Gina the Kid. Imagine your eight-year-old self. If you could talk to her, what would you say? At eight my hair . . .