I keep staring at this page, the blinking cursor, the very blinding blankness…  I just don’t know what to write.

At the doctor’s office today, during an early ultrasound, he pointed to the monitor.  Under his finger was a little blip of brightness.  A cushion of dark enveloped three of its sides.

“That’s the sac,” he was saying, “and that” he glances towards me (but not quite at me) for emphasis “is the heartbeat.”  A barely perceptible shudder in the center of the sac is my only evidence that the blip is alive.  I only see the one shudder.  It still doesn’t seem real.  It won’t until there is an obvious baby to see.

“Only one in there,” finishes the doctor.

“Phew!” Jake is kidding, but his face betrays a genuine relief.  I echo his exclamation in my head.  I don’t know how other women survive more than one at a time.

It’s 5:47 in the morning. I don’t usually get up until 7:30. It’s no use. My mind is too alert, and every pleading thought of sleep has amounted to nothing. The blankets are disappearing from my side again. It must have been a restless week for Jake too; our midnight blanket fights have increased. He’ll toss and turn winding the blanket around his body like a down comforter tortilla. I cling to the edge as it shrinks away foot-by-foot.

At least his snoring has stopped. That is (thankfully) only a side effect of his congestion, or my insomnia would be at a breaking point.

I slip out of bed, grabbing clothes I’ve strewn about the room and managing to don them without incident. I don’t know why I head to the store. Can’t think of anywhere else to go I suppose. Plus, maybe if I’m lucky, that new book by John C. Wright will be on their shelves.

It isn’t there. What a waste of an insomniac episode.

“What’s this?”

I turn off the tap and look over my shoulder. Jake is holding up a produce bag with two plums that I packed in his lunch. Each plum has a piece of skin torn off. Pretty sure they weren’t like that when I packed them. My eyes go wide, my eyebrows knit into a uni-brow.

“Uh… I don’t know?” Doubt is seeping into my mind. Did I accidentally pack partially eaten fruit? Cadence is swinging her shoulders, Jake’s lunch cooler dangling above her head. “Is anything else in there?” I gesture to the cooler.

“No, just these,” he waves the fruit. “What’s supposed to be in there?”

I list a few things. “Did Cadence give that (the cooler) to you?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

“Was it open?”

“No, the top part was unzipped, but it was closed.”

Our eyes wander down to our grinning daughter. What surprises me was that she took the plums out, took a bite of each, returned them to the bag, returned the bag to the cooler, and zipped part of it back up. She whips out a bag full of snacks and hands it to Jake. She thinks she’s pretty funny. I kind of do too.

My forehead is wrinkled, trying to remember if my mom was really here a few hours ago, or if it was just a dream.  Yeah, they were here: my mom, my step dad, and my little sister.  And now…  Well, they blew into town, and they blew out.  Little traces of their visit remain.  The clean dishes are piled up where mom stacked them in an effort to empty my dishwasher.  Stacks of folded sheets and blankets line the walls of the rooms they occupied.  Jake has popped a few of the cherries they left behind into his mouth.

While she was here, she chatted nervously about needing makeup.  I looked at her with one eyebrow propped above the other.  My mom has always been more of a granola gal.  A visit to her mother is enough to have her rattled and dashing to the makeup aisles, though. Dear old gran.  Poor mom.

“I’m pregnant,” I blurted during a lull in our dinner conversation.  Blurted doesn’t do justice to the spew that came from my mouth in a rush to be done with it.  Of course, it was preceded  by a very misleading and drawn out, “So…”  Jake shook his head ever so slightly, rolling his eyes and smirking.  I’m not so good at this announcement thing.

Mom doesn’t care that I’ve botched it up once again, this is the best announcement I’ve given her.  She’s excited.  So am I.

Today, I think I’ll delve into what happened to me as a child. Yes, that is correct, the moment that addled my brain into thinking I wanted to write.

First of course, was that overachiever phase in first grade. I could write my name in cursive, IN CURSIVE! Don’t tell me that’s not special. I remember specifically informing my teachers that it was very special, and they nodded their heads in agreement.

Second grade brought a poem assignment. I remember “What is Love” like the back of my hand (if “What is Love” was written on the back of my hand). My teacher was so proud of it, he borrowed it to show to the other teachers. Don’t worry; I demanded he return it (in a very snooty second grade voice) so I could use it for show-and-tell.

Between the first two experiences and this last one were other less significant moments, but this one sticks with me. I was halfway through seventh grade in a dying Montana town. My teacher enjoyed asking us to write stories using our spelling words. Just before she handed out a particular set of our graded stories, she announced she would read one aloud that had impressed her. She’d never read any of the stories before. Now you know and I know that the paper she read was mine, but at the time I was almost ashamed for my class to know. When asked who had written it, my teacher had eyed me, saying she would tell them if the student wanted her to. I shook my head just slightly enough that she nodded her head and pursed her lips in disappointment. The students began prodding the jock seated to my left. Josh was his name.

“You wrote it, didn’t you?”

“That was really good, Josh.”

I began to turn very red in my seat.

“No, guys, it wasn’t me,” Josh said.

It was then that the teacher betrayed my secret, setting the paper on my desk and announcing that it was mine. I’m sure I was purple by this time. The class stared at me with mouths agape. The new girl wrote that? their eyes seemed to ask. It was a day of embarrassment and a day of victory for me. At the space left below my story the teacher had written a comment on working on my writing towards publication.

Ah, the spark that never died. It obviously was not a college lit professor’s approval (I confess I took an AP high school lit course instead.), an agent’s, or most importantly an editor’s, but it was what gave me the confidence to keep writing. Now I dream a frustrated dream. Sometimes I wonder why I ever thought I could do it. I still think I can at the right times, but somehow it isn’t as fun as it used to be.

“Run!”

Cadence giggles as we race through the sprinklers to Jake. We pass the danger zone and slow down. She looks a her fist. Something red peeks out.

“You little stinker.” I pry her fingers open. “You took more strawberries.” A ripe strawberry and a tiny green one are cupped in her palm. I didn’t think she’d had enough time to grab any before I rushed her into the backyard. The girl works quickly.

I show her how to wash them off in the sprinklers. I’m not upset. At least she is finding things to stuff in her mouth that are actually edible. Perhaps I won’t have to tell her to stop eating rocks anymore (I had to do that three times today).

A stream of red juice slips from her lips. Once again, it’s a step up from a line of dirt on her chin.

The doorbell rings, interrupting a terribly important session of Sponge Bob, (or other such nonsense that Cadence enjoys). I slip Cadence to the side and heave myself out of our ancient couches. The springs (if there are any) and padding are so worn that my butt is level with my calf when I sit.

Cadence doesn’t seem to notice my departure. The man through the peephole isn’t any of the neighbors I’ve met. Maybe I need to consider a NO SOLICITING sign. I open the door, though, like the master of my house.

Hellos are exchanged, and then the line I’ve been half anticipating, “Are your parents at home?”

“No, they’re not.” I debate using the advice of a neighbor, “Just tell them ‘no’ and close the door.” The door hesitates in my hand; it’s too rude. “But this is my house. You can talk to me.”

“So you’re the mom.”

Yes, isn’t that what I just implied? This is my third encounter with this question. I’ve had three solicitations since we’ve moved in. I’m beginning to wonder how old I look.

“I’m a realtor. Will you be selling your house in the near future?” I shake my head, explaining that no we would like to hang on to our house for a bit longer as it’s been ours only a month. “Do you know anyone who might like to move into the neighborhood?” Again, I shake my head. I don’t really know people. People scare me, like this guy. When someone I don’t know does wants to buy a house, I’ll probably send them to my realtor. See, I know her, she’s good at what she does. I don’t know this guy, and his tactics are a shade desperate.

For those that can’t tell, I am in my twenties.

I’m beginning to wonder how many times Cadence will snap her finger with a rubberband before she realizes that’s what is making it hurt. The centers of her eyebrows draw up, and she looks at me. Her little finger waits in front of my lips. I give it a quick kiss.

She pulls on the rubberband again. It snaps. A howling whimper follows. The finger is back in front of my face. I suppose I should take the rubberband.

She has figured it out, abandoning the rubberband for a cushy spot next to me. I scrub away the leftover soil from her face. She has yet to realize how terrible dirt tastes. I’ll give it a week before I take the yard full of dirt away. Shouldn’t be too hard.

It’s late. Creaks and groans surface from the basement. I breathe again as I remember it’s only the sprinklers bursting into life. Tonight’s scary movie has put me on edge: albeit, a disappointed edge. One more ghost story where ghosts keep trying to kill a sweet family, but then the family discovers the ghosts were only pretending to kill them in order to warn them somebody else was trying to kill them?

Jake is snoring in the bedroom already, worn from a long graduation day. I wish I could go to sleep too.

The timer beeps. I rush to shut it off before Cadence and Jake stumble from their beds and attack me in a sleep deprived zombie stupor. The cake is bulging from the pan. About time. Maybe the fam will quit asking me to make it soon. I’m shocked the hair in my last cake didn’t deter them. Well, better try something new. Perhaps, a wasabi funyun topping will do the trick.

“Potty.  Potty.  Potty.”  My hands clap in rhythm with the chant.  It’s working; Cadence smiles and giggles, running over to her potty.  She sits on it, her pants and diaper still on.  Might as well let her give it a test run.  I take care of the diaper and set her bare bum back on the potty.

She grips the sides of the potty and smiles.  Some smiles are only possible for children (and the very elderly).  Her few teeth are all visible.  Jake calls, I put the phone on speaker so Cadence can say hi.   Something glistens in the bottom of the basin.  My exclamations cut through the conversation.

Cadence looks very pleased with herself as I hug and applaud her.  Not bad for a test run.