Fridays are for writing for five minutes.

Only five minutes.

Stream-of-consciousness style. Like you did when you were in 9th grade.

Write and see what comes out. There’s no right or wrong.

Got 5 minutes? Come and spend them writing <—click to tweet this!

1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking
2. Link back here and invite others to join in.
3. And then absolutely, no ifs, ands or buts about it, you need to visit the person who linked up before you & encourage them in their comments. Seriously. That is, like, the rule. And the fun. And the heart of this community..

OK, are you ready? Please give me your best five minutes on:

::

Expectation…

:

GO

Born into the heart of a Michigan winter he was big from the beginning.

I didn’t believe he’d make it out. I didn’t think I had it in me to bear the birthing him. Tonight he lies beside me and sniffs my hair. Asks me what shampoo I use and tells me he loves how it smells. I tell him I think my shampoo smells of strawberries.

He burrows small nostrils deeper, inhales. No, it’s more like flowers he says.

I think.

Flowers. Yes, my new perfume. I remember I’d sprayed some into my hair.

At 6.15 we’re getting ready for his preschool graduation evening and he’s wearing his first tie. I’m aching looking at him in what he now calls his “handsome” clothes. I tell Pete that he wants some cologne. It’s sitting on the bookshelf of all places – as usual.

But Micah dips his head. Points at his hair, “here – spray my hair.”

I can’t swallow.

He tells me not to take photos, not to laugh at him, not to wave.

I sit on my hands to stop them from stroking back that wisp of hair that is still part baby from his forehead.

Micah.

Micah.

Born on a Michigan evening to a girl a long way from home.

Micah. How very far we have come.

STOP

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::

I think motherhood should come with a super hero cape and a cheerleader.
My {free} ebook The Cheerleader for Tired Moms might be the next best thing.
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