I stop working to write this.

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I have been having trouble writing about parenting.

No trouble with the parenting itself, but with writing about it, which is why, when my friend Teresa asks without asking why I haven’t written a post in a while, I write: “I don’t want to write updates that few people other than my mom and other parents care about (Mariel says “hot!”), but I don’t feel like I can write about the real things that are on my mind because they’re, I don’t know, something….”

*
All around me there’s trouble with words.

Quiet conversations about infertility and decisions about second children.

The never finished email to a pregnant friend.

The unsure talk of two mothers just acquainted- How deep can their conversation go? How fast?

Friends parenting in another country, isolated, mostly, fighting. Not close enough to ask them, really, “Are you ok?”

The unasked, and thus unanswered question, “Why are you afraid to hold her?”

**
She is up all night vomiting.

First, it is the milk that churned back up through her stomach, coating my shirt like a thick, white paste.

Then, it is short spurts of water.

Today, in the background as I hold her, “Polly wolly doodle all day” punctuating a song every 12 seconds.

The woman’s voice is something I can’t describe.

All I think is what her voice would sound like if we talked about something difficult.
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