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Brooke Conley

Tuesday, January 12, 2016

We Made It

It's a cold day out, but the sun is bright and the sky is clear. By noon, most of us have exhausted our coats and hats and gloves; a few are even warm enough to have stripped down to short-sleeved shirts. 

I'm standing on the bright green grass, just slightly right of centerfield, shielding my eyes from the sun and working hard to absorb all of the magic around me. I hold tight to my children and we yell and shout and whoop it up as we watch the runners cross the finish line. We clang bells and shake pom-pons and congratulate everyone by name as they end the race exhausted yet exhilarated.

I don't run. I've never had an interest, and I'm more than happy to sit back and watch others inflict upon themselves the dual-edged sword of pain and pride that running a marathon seems to bring. However, this isn't just any marathon. On this day, at this finish line, I'm surrounded by friends and family and as the runners pour in, my husband and close friends are among them.


Tuesday, January 5, 2016

To Whom It May Concern

Who is in charge of making the Days of the Week panties? I need their address and their email and probably their social security number, because I want to personally ask them what the hell they were thinking. 

You, sir (you know a man did it), are causing an abundance of problems in my domestic life.

I am a fairly organized person. And by fairly, I mean that I sent this text to my husband yesterday:



I am clean and systematic and a creature of habit. I know what every single person is doing and where every single piece of our property is at all times, to the point that I feel sorry for my entire family because I WILL KNOW if you ever cheat on me, sneak out of the house, do drugs, lie, steal, or breathe.


Tuesday, December 29, 2015

Right In Front of Me

We're at the beach. She left her glasses at home, so I can clearly see the gray in her eyes and the sand on her lashes. The salt and humidity has caused her curls to tighten, and ringlets dance around her neck and face. 

"Bury me all the way to my head, mama," she says.

"Oh, we don't have a shovel big enough for that, baby. Maybe tomorrow," I distractedly respond. 

Our shovel is not too small, I just don't want to do it. I'm tired and groggy and have no energy to dig holes for little bodies today. 

Depleted from the expectations and excitement of the holidays, I feel over-fed, over-served, and in a fog of exhaustion and distraction. I usually spend this week after Christmas taking mental inventory of the previous twelve months, which always seems like a productive thing to do, but ultimately only adds to the feeling of paralysis.


Monday, December 7, 2015

Elsewhere on the Internets...

Thanks to one of my favorite publications, Mamalode, for publishing a piece that is very near and dear to my heart. If you haven't already, you can read the story of how my son's teacher gave him a small but powerful gift here: I SEE YOU

Also, it's a hard subject for many of us to talk about, but I opened the conversation about the R-word over on The Mighty. Please check it out: Why I Don't Want People to Apologize When They Use the R-Word in Front of Me
I'm having even more conversations over on Facebook, so feel free to join me there and like my page for updates! xo
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