31:31 -- Buntings and Slices...

This winter, I hatched a brilliant scheme -- recreate the seersucker buntings bedecking Magnolia Bakery's ceilings in New York City...for Reid's big boy room.

I was resourceful -- I enlisted the help of a talented friend, who just happened to have in her possession a Cricut system which whipped out the most perfect pennants from preppy patterned scrapbook paper.  She offered me some hints; she'd made buntings before.

I was studious -- I researched bunting construction to ensure I made ours correctly. Effectively.  Stylishly. I read articles, searched Pinterest for advice, and looked at hundreds of pictures on Houzz for ideas to drive my own work.

I was crafty -- After researching, I tried some of my favorite ideas on for size by creating mock versions of potential bunting styles.  I toyed around with the order of paper patterns, the spacing between each pennant on the twine, the strength of the twine (should I double or triple its weight?)...before finding
what fit best for me and this specific project.

I was driven -- I plugged in my latest acquisition, a hot glue gun, one cold evening and set to work constructing as many buntings as the organized-by-pattern pennant stack would afford.  My project deadline was March 1. No excuses.  I dreamed of hanging them up in Reid's room as soon as possible.

Tonight, reflecting on this month's slicing challenge, I connected these two pursuits. After all, they followed similar trajectories...

In February, I hatched another scheme -- slice for 31 days straight and comment on as many other pieces as I had time to enjoy.

I was resourceful here too -- I took the advice Ruth and Stacey offered leading up to the challenge's start.  I followed their hints to write early and organize a bank of pieces to share...if this felt comfortable.  I unpacked past challenge experiences.  I examined my writing territories.  I donned my writer's glasses, looking for awesome amidst ordinary everyday.

I was studious here too -- I read so many wonderful slices this month, and with each one, I took the time to notice what the writer 'was on about.'  How did they do their tremendous work?  And, after I noticed it, I named it -- for myself, for the writers in my comments.  Then, I saved it up in a giant treasure chest of ideas.

I was crafty here too -- The treasure chest of ideas provided daily writing inspiration. I tried them on for size: like the way Ellen Spears writes to her son and addresses him throughout her pieces as, "You...," like the way Christy Rush-Levine used the analogy of trying on slices just like she tries on clothes, like the way Ruth Ayres writes deep and true...unapologetically...always.  These pieces, and many more, pushed me outside my comfort zone to tailor slices that were informed as a reader and then transformed as a writer.

I was driven here too -- The decision to slice for 31 days straight came amidst my return to work from maternity leave.  Honestly, I didn't think I'd make it because sometimes packing bags, bottles, and lunches each evening and rising early each morning to prepare for school left little margin for creativity (or my perfectionism!) to grow a blog post I'd be comfortable sharing.  I stuck to it though, because I knew all my busy e-friends were plugged into the challenge too.  That's why it's called a challenge, right?  Because sometimes there are moments when you think it just may overtake you...

But it didn't.

And there is one reason why: community.  The caring one here who encourages through kind words and meaningful feedback.  The talkative one here who shares bits of their lives to connect with my own.  The faithful one who stops by everyday to see what I'm up to...what I'm trying on as a writer.  The growing one here that, which each passing year, attracts and connects more like-minded teacher-writers who want to capture life's moments through words.

The buntings hang up in Reid's big boy room now...and the 2013 Slice of Life Story Challenge is in the books.  Closure on both projects is tempered by looking toward what's next.  For my family, it'll be updating two baby books.  For this community, it'll be reconnecting on Tuesdays over a few yummy slices.

Congratulations everyone!  And, thank you...

Write on,
b

30:31 -- Return debate...

Pulling up to a loading bay full of pickup trucks, we arrived at the blue and yellow Swedish megastore this afternoon. Finally. After a month of trepidation.

And sweat.

And nervousness

And confidence.

And then regret.

The four mixed in a unattractive recipe. One that always left me feeling unsettled, unsatisfied.

$300.  The dresser, although handsome and spacious, was nothing more than a glorified piece of cardboard.  And, better yet, it collected more scratches and dents than an appliance warehouse sale. This is the dresser we bought to stand up to Reid's growing up years.  But, somewhere in the middle of the whole assembly process he didn't even get the chance to test its durability -- because we couldn't make each and every component part (and there were hundreds) fit flush and plumb and...

Disaster.  Drilled holes in backward position does not a pretty dresser make.

Which is why we made the trip to the store again today.  To return it.  

Anticipating an unpleasant conversation with sales staff at the return counter, I folded and unfolded my receipt on my way through the gigantic glass doors that led toward Ikea's inner workings.  I shifted my stance and rocked in place (phantom baby syndrome, I guess) while waiting in line.  I watched other transactions.  I saw an opening with a new clerk...

Politely explaining the defective dresser piece, I felt like a human pin cushion.  She listened...and let me know that she'd seen the same problem this morning but the company doesn't offer cash refunds on products already in the assembly phase.  "Do you want to talk with a manager?"  

Nooooo, but yes.  "Yes, please."

She arrived; I issued my complaint, again.  Nonplussed, she stated that what is returned for cash is the store's jurisdiction and that my research call to corporate for preliminary answers was a waste of time:  "They just tell you what you want to hear to get you off the phone.  We have to check the piece out here to determine the real problem before we can do anything else.  It may be as simple as providing a replacement part or offering store credit."  Stunned at her candor toward corporate policy, I watched them wheel the dresser back to their makeshift repair lab.  Yellow shirts encircled it. Hushed voiced discussed it.  Workers laid on the floor around it. Out popped a drill.

I peeked back from time to time, which seemed to stretch out like a country highway with no real scenery to get excited about except the occasional old farmhouse.  They moved, I jumped.  They stepped closer to the return register, I jumped.  Yet, our destination...our verdict...remained out of sight.

Finally, she returned.  Her unnaturally bright pink lipstick spit out the words that had paved our 100-plus mile trip: "We'll just issue you the refund this time."

The first clerk, the empathetic one, stepped in to finish the transaction.  We glibly chatted while I signed the receipt. 

The sweat, nervousness, confidence, and regret separated and left.  I left too, learning a valuable lesson.

You get what you pay for.

(And, luckily this time, I wasn't stuck with what I paid for.)

Write on,

b

29:31 -- New life...

I've been nagged every time I'm out running errands...or at a clothing store...or walking past the Easter aisle at the grocery store during the past two weeks.

One voice in my head antagonizes.  "Good moms buy their kids Easter clothes. Matching clothes for siblings.  Look at all these cute tops and bottoms.  They're cheap."  And, the final blow -- "Everyone else does it."

Which, may or may not be true.  However, I heard on the radio the other day that the average Easter expense per child tallies a whopping $150.

The other rationalizes.  "The clothes don't matter.  We have more than enough clothes hanging in our closets to wear something special for Easter Sunday.  That's an unnecessary expense.  And, besides, the holiday isn't about pastel-colored fabrics as stores would lead consumers to believe.  You know this."

So I buy nothing...nothing at all.  Even though I continue my search by knowing what each store offers and at what price.

By today, the nagging followed me around like insistent toddler seeking permission.  I cave.  I want to be a good mom who has cute pictures and builds sweet memories.  Easter clothes are like birthday cakes. The baby and I head toward a close outdoor mall -- the sun feels so nice and we can walk between stores.

The first shop highlights adorable gingham shirts.
The second shop offers nothing; it's picked over by well planned moms.
The third shop boasts cute but expensive seersucker pants that, luckily, don't come in my sizes.

The clock's ticking; we return to the shirts.  Pleased with my diligence and their last-minute sale prices, I pay.

$35 for two shirts and one pair of oh-so-tiny baby khakis; Reid already has his at home.

$35.

Not a lot in the grand scheme of things...our western-thinking scheme that is.

But, elsewhere -- wow.  $35 would be enough to provide families with daily necessities.

Safe water.  Running water.  Power.  Clothes.  Clothes that fit...and are clean.

The antagonizing voice quiets.  The smaller voice invites me to reflect on needs and wants, culture and providence, self-sufficiency and submission.

The stillness of our car ride home closes with a bump up onto the driveway. The garage door ascends and while I wait, I notice something...

New life.

Which, isn't that what this weekend is really about?

New life.
New perspectives.
New responsibilities.

The baby sleeps, so I process my thoughts by slicing about them.

And, maybe this whole inner conversation isn't really about Easter clothes; maybe it's much bigger -- like about the kind of steward I am -- which, I know, could use some new life.  I'm being nudged in the manner of my 2013 One Little Word.  Refine.

New life...

Write on,
b

28:31 -- Buyers' remorse...

In the store chock full of cheerful little clothes, I waited to checkout behind a woman whose arms were loaded clumsily with fluorescent pink glittery sandals, and sunglasses, and an equally special Easter dress.

"You'll have to get in the next line, Ma'am," the clerk instructed.  Ma'am?  We're peers. You would've been in my kindergarten class, but...  OK, calm down.

With a stylish orange and yellow sun suit in one hand and a tired baby in a pumpkin seat and purse in the other, I followed directions.  Now, I waited behind a middle-age woman and her ready-to-pop daughter.  They were already carrying a bag from this children's store...

I didn't pay attention at first; I hoarded the seconds over analyzing my prospective purchase.  The cutesy little sun suit for my future niece...or the really, oh-so-practical terry sleeper?  The inner debate roared as I celebrated the chance to actually buy pink, ruffly clothes from the girls' side of the shop.

Slowly, the pumpkin seat turned to lead in my arms.
The woolen scarf around my neck turned tight and scratchy.
The chocolate sweater I wore turned into a sauna.
My attention focused on the conversation ahead.

"No, Ma'am, they're not," the young clerk stated.

"Well, you have these little socks and shoes displayed underneath the 40% off sign," she continued her case.

"But, they aren't 40% off.  The sign is for the clothing over there, not the accessories.  The accessories are 25% off."

The expectant daughter chimed in, "Mom, I guess the signage is only for the clothing. That's what she's saying..."

My wondering eyes darted around the store for other onlookers.  There were some. These words sprinkled heavily on them, too.  And, feeling like I had more time than sense at this point, I mentally tried some wishful comments on for size.

THESE LITTLE SOCKS YOU WANT -- WELL, THEY AREN'T AS DEEPLY DISCOUNTED AS YOU THOUGHT.  ARE YOU LISTENING?  THAT'S WHAT SHE'S POLITELY TELLING YOU.
Too obvious.

IF YOU CAN AFFORD FOUR-DOLLAR SOCKS, YOU CAN PROBABLY AFFORD ONES THAT ARE SLIGHTLY MORE EXPENSIVE.  WHO CARES?
Too offensive.

ARE YOU REALLY HOLDING UP THIS LINE OVER AN AMOUNT THAT WOULD TOTAL LESS THAN ONE DOLLAR?
Too commonsensical.

WHY DON'T YOU ASK AGAIN?  MAKE THIS POOR CLERK TELL YOU ONCE MORE THAT THE SIGNAGE IS FOR CLOTHING, NOT ACCESSORIES.
Too mouthy.

All my quips were completely unflattering, gaping at all the wrong places on my soul. The only answer that fit like a glove was to remain quiet.  I tugged at my scarf and fidgeted, embarrassed for this shopping duo as they filed the clerk down with their words.  I wanted to escape -- but I had Carter's bucks to use.  Today.  I shifted my gaze back toward a row of minuscule bathing suits.

"Well then, maybe you ought to say that on your sign -- CLOTHING ONLY," the insistent mother offered like a slap to the cheek.

The daughter agreed snottily, "Yeah," just one sentence away from echoing her mother's uncomplimentary behavior.

They noisily shoved the sweet, little pink and white striped socks back into their plastic bag and spun  toward the door.  The clerk's eyes were a fireworks display, although her voice was a snowy morning.  "Can I help you?"

"Yes.  You can.  This will be easy," I encouraged, "I just need to buy this sun suit using my Carter's bucks."

With relief, she authored the transaction which took less than one minute.  "Thank you.  Come again."

I walked out to the car, happy that I had tried my remarks on for size before wearing an unflattering one.  I could've looked really ugly...

Write on,
b

27:31 -- Plus one...

I snuggled you at the restaurant this morning as we sat across from my friend, Andrea, pleased as punch to be carrying her own little you.  Inside.  At 22 weeks, she dreams of what he'll be like all while staring at you.  Your big blue irises beckon anyone who looks long enough to get lost in their wonder.  She does.  There are nursery plans, and diaper subscriptions, and name discussions.  You smile, and gurgle, in response...like you understand: her words are aimed at me, but her heart is tethered to you.  You are her hope, at 38, after a miscarriage, after five years of marriage.  She coos, imagining what her new life will portend.

I could tell her,
this baby will be the sum of your hopes and dreams,
just like you are.

I could tell her,
this baby will bring you faith and more love than you thought you'd ever know,
just like you do.

I could tell her,
this baby will bring your family together,
just like you have.

I don't want to spoil the surprise though.
Her 'little you' will reveal these blessings soon enough...

You did.

Write on,
b

26:31 -- Time's up...

If anything, you start out with time.

After all, there's no point in going to the grocery store if you don't have it.  The aisles, guaranteed, will be full.    The checkout lines, guaranteed, will be long.

You have to have time to go to the grocery store, and I had it today....because one baby didn't want to take his usual three-hour morning nap.  So after a few failed attempts that resulted in a little red face, and small crocodile tears, and one mommy who was tired of waiting for sleep to be productive, we grabbed our list and headed to the store.

Inside the woolly pumpkin seat situated in the back of the cart, one tiny guy rode through the aisles.  He made eyes at me...he stuck out his tongue at me (not offensively, this is his new trick...and it's cute)...he checked out the advertisement art hanging from the ceiling...he watched the shelves blur into a colorful mosaic.  He was pleasant.  We had time.

Until it started to disappear like flour through a sieve.  I couldn't gather it in my hand fast enough to finish our list.

His eyes turned red.
His little voice began to protest,
softly at first and then louder with each pause of the cart.

Our shopping pace increased steadily...and then rapidly...until we made it to the checkout line.

With no time left.

We picked the checkout lane with the shortest line.  In front of us in aisle 12, a caramel-haired woman, with two young grandsons, stocked the conveyor belt.  They were busy with corn and candy and chatter while I pushed and pulled our cart in appeasement.  I sh-sh-sh-ed, gently at first and then with gusto commensurate to my stress level.

Then, the frustrated 'I'm-done-with-this' cries set in.

"Oh, look, boys.  There's a little baby in that cart.  Maybe he's hungry.  You were that tiny once with a little voice like that," she looked at them through the glasses of her memory.  They surrounded around us, offering factual birth order tidbits and information of no consequence.

A polite smile plastered itself onto my rocking body.  Don't stop moving, he'll REALLY cry then.

The three of them returned to mounding and piling and talking and planning...until they stopped, turning toward us again.

"Would you like to go ahead?  I know he's ready to get home and you probably are too.  Please."   With outstretched arms, she bulldozed her perfect piles to make room for ours near the checkout scanner.  With empathetic eyes, she beckoned.

Never one to impose, I gathered my words with mounting confidence. "Yes, I'll accept. Thank you.  We missed our nap window this morning, so now he's over-tired...and well, just...done."

She nodded, backing up her cart.  "Boys, please move out of the way so she can go ahead of us."  They moved, absorbing in real-time the the life lesson their grandmother handed them.

The cashier sensed we were out of time too.  She speedily scanned and bagged baking goods and Easter fare and seven kinds of soup.  Swiping my card, signing my name, and transferring the bags to the cart became one fluid motion moving us closer to the car.

I turned, connecting my dark brown eyes to her green ones.  "Really.  Thank you.  It was so kind of you to make things easier for us today.  I'm grateful."

"It's my pleasure.  I remember those days.  It's nice to be able to help."

And there we all stood  in the 10' x 4' checkout lane at Target, our eyes glued to each other and swimming in her remarkable act of kindness...feeling like we had all the time in the world.

Write on,
b

25:31 -- Wallflower, Spring

I thought you came, Spring.  I thought you brought along warmth, and flip-flops, and sunshine.  I thought you'd unpack souvenirs of green grass, and budding leaves, and colorful blooms from your travels...once you settled in.

But like in a house full of relatives, where one leaves while the others stay, and one arrives while the others enjoy coffee and dessert in the living room, you came while Winter couldn't bear to part.  Too greedy for the next course.  Too worried he'd miss out if he left early.  Too insecure he'd be so easily replaced.

Our backyard winter wonderland...

So, today, you're both here...although one is quieter than the other. Spring, you're the wallflower relative, sinking into the corner upholstered chair while Winter loudly takes center stage, demanding all eyes on him.  Spring watches the goings-on, while Winter tailors them to his likeness and benefit. Winter flourishes under your observant eye, yet inside feels a little... egocentric...and bossy. All the while, you wait for a chance to jump into the conversation if the time is right.  Maybe.

So, today, we'll be like you, Spring.  We'll sit inside and stare, with contempt, at Winter's nervy frosting outside.  We'll dream of the sunshine, warm on our faces, and the delight in our hearts while we enjoy one of your beautiful days to come.  We'll imagine the baseball games, and trips to the park with no jacket; bike rides with or without training wheels, and washing the car on the driveway.  We'll try on sandals and skirts, bolero jackets and Bermuda shorts in hopes that they still fit, in hopes that we can meet again soon.  For real.  Out there.  With no chills or second guesses.  And, after the fashion show, we'll sip hot chocolate with mint marshmallows because it feels good to be warm...and the warmth with radiate into our hearts and minds. We'll remember what it's been like before...and pine for what it will be again. We'll bring the warmth this time, Spring; next time, though, it's your turn.

Write on,
b