When I was seven or eight years old, my mother gave me a cloth-and-porcelain doll she’d loved as a girl. I loved that doll, despite the arm falling off at the seam. My mother sewed a new arm on her.

My doll was my baby. I put her in a doll crib at the foot of my bed. I changed her clothes. I rocked her to “sleep.” She “napped.”

At some point, I moved on and left her in my closet. She’s still there somewhere.

Almost nine months ago, my firstborn son was born. I admit that I did try every single newborn outfit on him within the first days, just because he was the most adorable baby I’d ever seen, better than any doll. But I love him. I rocked him to sleep, day and night.

Now that he’s squirming and crawling, he’s less doll-like. But he’s perfect, and caring for him is my life every day, 24 hours a day. Even when I get a break, I am thinking about him, worrying about him, loving him. I’m constantly writing things to him and about him, in my mind.

At some point in my life, I’ll probably go back to work. I may write a book: fiction, nonfiction, who knows at this point. When you turn to the About the Author page, you’ll probably see my picture with a description like this:

Rebecca Reid is the proud mother of — and the wife of —. She loves her family with all her life.

It won’t be unusual, though, because everything in the book, fiction or nonfiction, will relate to motherhood, family relationships, and the love of a mother for her child. That is my line now, but it is also my imagined happy ending.

True response to Write on Wednesdays: What is Your Line?, Write Anything: About the Author page, and Sunday Scribblings: Endings.

True response to Sunday Scribblings prompt: Guide

I grasped the robe. The volunteer secured the blindfold and nudged me forward.

I stepped tentatively in the dark. Then I heard the voice.

“Let go of the rope!”

I knew the voice: a teenager a few years older than me. He was supposed to make this harder. Another voice joined his.

“Come here! What’re you doing? Where do you think you’re going?”

I’d known they’d try to distract me, and yet I felt disoriented hearing them while blindfolded.

“Let go of the rope and come here!”

“This is where you want to be!”

I held on and stepped forward, ducking beneath a branch and nearly stumbling on a log.

Then I heard another voice: “Rose.”

Rose, my middle name. Only one person called me Rose: my bishop. My heart calmed.

“There’s another log; step more to the left.”

I felt it and stepped around it. The other voices still called, but I didn’t hear them.

“Don’t let go of the rope.”

I held on and walked forward. Then the rope led to two new ropes: one going one way, one the other.

“Choose the rope on the right.”

I followed the rope on the right.

Soon it was over. Taking off the blindfold, I turned to where the voice had been, but my bishop had gone to help the next person.

As my bishop was my guide on the obstacle course, so God provides me a guide on my daily course: His Holy Ghost, a quiet but sturdy, familiar voice amidst the chaos.

When I first heard the prompt “Guide” I tried to think of something more “secular,” but this experience and sentiment kept returning. It reinforces what I said in the About page to this website: my religion is an incredibly important part of my life, and as such, I can’t separate it from my writing.

It wasn’t fair! I was two years older, but I still had the same bed time as my little sister. I complained every night, stomping and whining.

Finally, my parents succumbed. My bedtime would be 8:31 p.m. Her bedtime would remain 8:30 p.m. I was appeased.

Someone would turn off the lights, and I would lie awake, listening to my dad playing the piano—a lullaby to go to sleep by, he always said. I would remain awake, waiting for the music to end so I could sleep in silence.

Sometimes, my sister would stir slightly in her bed on the other side of the room.

If I knew she was awake, I’d make noises with my spit.

“Stop it!” she would complain. “That’s disgusting!”

Sometimes she’d stomp out of the room. The piano would stop mid-phrase, and I’d hear her voice. I would smile into my pillow.

Some evenings, my parents would go out. I don’t know where our older brothers—our babysitters—would be. But my sister and I would go to our bedroom. She would stand by the window while I jumped from her bed to mine and back again, bouncing and laughing. Then I would stand by the window and she would bounce. When I saw the lights for our car in our court, I’d shout: “They’re coming!” She’d stop mid-bounce, and we’d quickly resume a more innocuous activity, like practicing our headstands on the bed, she against her wall, me against mine.

(One night, ten years later, my mother wondered out loud why those mattresses wore out so quickly. My sister and I glanced at each other and grinned.)

Other nights, we got mad at each other, sometimes for doing nothing worse than existing. While we were not usually physically violent with each other, one night we were. We threw things. I don’t know who threw the winning object, but it met its target. The glass lamp shade, dotted with little blue and pink flowers that matched the wallpaper, fell to the floor and broke. We stood over it in silence, staring at the sharp shards of white on the blue carpet.

Eventually, the “cat fights” got to be too much for my parents. The day my oldest brother left home for college, my parents moved my sister’s furniture, clothes, and knickknacks into his room.

At ages 10 and 12, respectively, my sister and I finally had our own rooms.

That night, I dragged my pillow and blanket into her new room, ready for our sleepover.

We had fun.

To my sister.

(True response to Sunday Scribblings #114: My Nights.)

Daily Writing Tips and Copyblogger have both posted about very short story writing lately. Copyblogger even held a contest for very short stories, limited to 140 characters. Not 140 words: 140 characters. I felt inspired after reading the entries. The winners are found here, or see all the entries and be the judge yourself at Smithereens Blog.

I unfortunately didn’t find the contest in time to enter and win, but here are my three attempts, each one exactly 140 characters.

Three Word Wednesday #88: Blurred Illegal Match

My eyes blurred when I heard sirens. Another, I groaned inside. I didn’t know the turn was illegal! Yesterday’s ticket did not need a match.

[Note: I had a hard time keeping the words in order. And then I realized I probably didn’t have to. Oh well. There you have it.]

Sunday Scribblings #113: Curve

We studied together for the exam, sharing notes and answers. Test day came and I did well: 100%. But no one would face me: I set the curve.

[Note: I hated it when teachers graded tests based on curves! When people then do well on the test, they’re socially ostracized.]

Writer’s Island: Extravaganza

One night each month, we set aside homework, turned on the music, and danced: six 19-year-olds acting like girls at a homemade extravaganza.

These were so incredibly fun to do! If you want to try, link or paste yours in the comments!

If he wasn’t born by 3 p.m., I would die. I would quit, that’s all.

“I can’t do this!” I said again.

“You are doing it!” the midwife repeated.

At 3 p.m., I decided not to die. Thirteen minutes later, with one long push, my son appeared, blue and squirmy and tiny.

That night, alone and exhausted, I held my fussy newborn in my arms, willing him to sleep: “I can’t stay awake much longer!”

And I realized I will never quit on him: after birthing him without medication, I can and will handle anything in the challenge called motherhood.

I lift him above my head: his mouth opens wide in a baby-grin and he laughs loudly, soaring above me, arms outstretched. I smile too, my heart memorizing the sound, the sight, and the feeling of chubby childhood joy.

***

I turn away: in my mind I still see the tears on his pumpkin-covered face and in my ears I still hear his constant scream of baby indignation. I sigh and grab a towel to wipe away the blood on my finger, wishing someone would kiss my sore better.

This is motherhood: a daily dichotomy.

My unpacked bags were under the kitchen table. It was Saturday morning, and I perched on the edge of a kitchen chair, drinking a glass of water and telling my mother about my amazing week at the religious retreat. Then the telephone rang.

The excitement of my week of teenage socialization hadn’t worn off on the one-hour drive home. I wanted to tell her everything: she could not get off the phone soon enough.

I don’t recall how she told me. I just remember the feeling of euphoria ebbing out of me, like the sands in an hourglass.