Old Faces on New Friends

Every morning,
the “Walkers” powered past my house,
merrily chatting away as they exercised. 

Trim and fashionable in their cute outfits,
and bright athletic shoes,
this cluster of women was oblivious of
my longing to be included in their lives.

New to the neighborhood and
new to parenting,
I was desperate for a friend.

Still dressed in my pajamas,
with my hair in a wadded pony,
I wanted to holler out the window,

“Hey! I’m lonely.
Would you be my friend?”

Figuring that strategy might make them walk even faster,
I devised another plan to intercept them.

Many evenings after supper,
I put my baby in his stroller and casually traced their route
hoping for a chance meeting that
would get me invited into their circle.

Instead, I encountered Bob,
an elderly man with thick, white hair and
sparkly blue eyes.

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Mary or Martha. . . Becoming My Own Object Lesson!

My son’s room was a disaster area.

Stacks of magazines, motorcycle paraphernalia, and

a week’s worth of socks and underwear covered the floor.

He had one little bitty space on his huge desk that

wasn’t covered with paper or doodads or books.

The bed was disheveled and the window blinds were all catawampus.

How could a kid whose brain organized data to get straight As live in this chaos?

When he invited me in to talk, I hesitated at the doorway.

He was wearing a sad face and a T-shirt that read:

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