Consistency is Key

... and mine are locked inside. Seriously, anyone got a number for a good locksmith?

Of all the times I say I'm not going to let this sit and I'll start writing here regularly again, poor Little Pink has fallen by the wayside in these chaotic times.

The truth is, between writing for school, writing at Many Kind Regards, and starting to write freelance (yup, I'm taking the plunge!), I'm pretty "write"d-out. But tonight, the call was strong and the urge was not to be ignored to hop over here to my own little space, even if just to ramble.

Things have been going, to say the least. Today was "a day," said in that tone that hints to more than just a day. It started out awesome, but then of course things started going down hill. I won't bore you with all of the details, but let's just say I'm glad to be sitting and doing nothing.

I feel like I'm approaching a crossroads, and maybe that's what motivated me coming here. So many things are happening, a lot of them good, but it has me facing a multitude of decisions. It's like there are so many paths I can choose to pursue but I kind of want them all and I kind of want none. Would it be completely ridiculous that maybe, possibly I am afraid of success? Does that even make sense? It is. It is completely ridiculous. Isn't success what we strive for? Isn't the reason for attempting anything to be successful? So what am I really scared of? Well... what if being successful, even a little bit, is too much? What if I end up completely overwhelmed? What if I can't keep up? What if I am putting my eggs in too many damn baskets because they are all just so pretty and sparkly and appealing? I suppose it inevitably comes down to... what if I fail? There it is. Success isn't the fear, it's the taste of success followed by the crush of failure.

Oh, dear anxiety, how I love you and the "what-if's" you bring to my brain. As if there aren't already too many thoughts whipping around in there, as if processing the things that are actually happening isn't enough, let's add some maybes, could be's, and what ifs to make a delicious stew of fear and apprehension. Yum.

In other less whiney news, my kid is in Kindergarten. And it's full day.

"Wait, stop the presses, what?!" those of you who've hung around all this time are saying, "Little A is in all day school already?" That's right, folks, little A ain't so little anymore. In fact, she refuses to hear anyone say they are baby sitting her - it is only Big Girl sitting these days.

Little A becomes Little Rach more and more each day. Seriously, I see myself in that kid's mannerisms, behaviors, and thought processes every day. Thank God she has her father's eyes.
The funny thing is now that I've noticed how much she is like me, I can really pick out specifics. She likes to sing randomly and make weird noises. She's constantly talking to herself or her friends (that are visible only for her). There are several times after she's gone to bed when Jesse and I are hanging out and I'll say or do something and one of us will say "Holy shit, that was so Ariana." It's quite alarming at times. The really funny part is there are so many times where she'll say or do something and I'll ask where in the world did she pick that up from?! Days, hours, minutes later it will be pointed out to me that I'm doing what I was wondering about. Hello, this is Captain Obvious calling, is Rachel there? We can't forget of course, that she does have her individuality and she's quite assertive. That kid is, as cheesy as it sounds, the light of my life. Sure, she drives me nuts sometimes (makes sense, since I drive MYSELF nuts) but she is so funny and intelligent and caring and it is just so neat watching her grow that being her mom is my greatest gift.

So, yeah, things are pretty good. We're pretty happy. We have our down days, and we're not immune to our fair share of struggles (like today being "a DAY"), but when all's said and done, we're content, we're together, and we're frickin' rockstars. And that's all that matters.

My Abandoned Garden

When I was first widowed, I searched for advice to proceed along this new journey I had been so unfairly placed upon. I read widow self-help books, what to expect books, articles, and conducted numerous searches. I wanted to know if what I was feeling was “normal,” and if I was doing everything “the right way.” There was a lot of useful information and tips in these resources that helped guide me along: not making any big decisions in the first year, financial advice and cautions, information about grief stages and emotions, and general pick-me-up and keep living encouragements. As helpful as some of these resources were, though, I still found them lacking in grit. It’s as if some subjects were too taboo to be put into written form and distributed widely, and it was often those taboo subjects I found myself most confused about. Here are some things I’ve learned along my 5+ years of widowhood that “they” aren’t likely to tell you in those books. These may not only aid a newly widowed person in handling some of the confusion, but I have hopes that they might also shine some light on what a widowed person is feeling for those who are supporting her or him. 
There have been many times over the years where I’ve been approached by the friends of a new widow asking, “What can I do?” or wondering not only how they can help but how they can better understand and empathize with their friend. Remember in reading these that grief is extremely individualized and what may help one person cope may be the exact opposite of what another needs or wants.

The Ticket That Ruined It - Writing Prompt Wednesday

Hey there, here we are again with another edition of writing prompt Wednesday (except it's on Thursday). Excuse the absence, it was spring break for my little one and therefore I was breaking from life as well.

Today's prompt reminds me of one we did in my creative writing class that I really enjoyed, where we took a family story that had been passed down and changed the perspective of the story teller. Moving your story into someone else is such a fun way to merge nonfiction with fiction, to blend what is real and what you imagine could be real for others. Without further ado...

Prompt: Choose an incident from your past - it could be an ordinary occurrence, such as a family dinner - or a significant event, such as an achievement or a mishap. Write about it from your perspective, then write about it from the perspective of someone else who experienced it with you.

It was sometime before fifth grade. I know that much because Rose moved away in the fifth grade, and she was with us, like she often was - up until fifth grade. She and I were in the back of my parents' car. Was it a van yet? My guess it was a minivan, but I could be wrong. In fact, I can't even remember if my little sister was born yet. I don't recall her being there, so I'm guessing I was probably around six years old. If memory serves, it was the light blue Dodge Caravan my mom had. It was her first minivan. We had gotten ice cream cones, as we often did in the muggy Maryland summers, and as per usual, Rose had painted her face chocolate. We stopped at a gas station. I believe it was one of the "Sunday Drives" that were a fun family outing for us when I was a kid. We would just hop in the car in drive. At each stop sign, someone would yell a direction and on we would go. There were no smart phones or portable GPS systems back in these days. There was a Rand McNally Atlas stored under the mat in the trunk space, but we never needed it. Someway, dad never got lost. I was sure he must have had maps of the whole world stored in his mind. As we drove, dad would tell ridiculous stories starring a character he'd created and named Formaldehyde and Rose and I would laugh and laugh until tears streaked the dirt and chocolate down our adolescent faces and we were doubled over in laughter cramps. We enjoyed our journeys to no where, mom pointing out her dream house along the way (a real fixer upper) and me pointing at horses. So, we stopped at a gas station. Most likely to refuel and stock up on napkins. Somehow, a lottery ticket got involved. Mom or dad bought a scratch off. I wanted it because scratch offs are so neat and so fun to do. I was told no. I was a bratty, spoiled six year old and I didn't like the word no. I threw a fit. Crossed arms over my chest, I pouted and said I was having the worst day ever. Rose tried to cheer me up, but I turned away from her. I was the world and the sun, at that moment, was the lottery ticket, without which I simply could not survive. Rose attempted to get dad to resume the Formaldehyde stories, but the magic of the moment was lost by my grumbling and grievances and the laughter was muted until we arrived back at home.

Told from Rose:
I always looked forward to time with Rachel and her family. Her dad was the funniest guy I knew and her mom was the most caring woman. Rachel was my best friend, and we always had a fun time together. They liked to go for drives in their van, along back roads and scenic routes, pointing out anything that interested them. I was just happy to be out and along with them, one of the gang, part of the family. You could always tell they liked you and considered them one of their own if they picked on you. I might have had a bit of a problem eating. In fact, it might have been a huge problem. My face just seemed to catch the food (especially chocolate ice cream) before my mouth could. We laughed and laughed at how bad I was at eating. Formaldehyde was the true star of the laughter with that family though. The adventures of Formaldehyde and her stinky misfortune were the funniest tales, I often stopped breathing mid-tale, my giggles taking precedence over airflow. While Rachel was my best friend, she could be somewhat of a... well, she had a temper. She really liked getting her way. She could also be bossy. And if things didn't go her way, well, you'd hear about it. After exhausting every napkin in the van (and trust me, there were several), we had to make a pit-stop to get gas and refill on things to catch my mess. Her parents had bought a scratch off ticket that Rachel insisted on being hers. I saw a look exchanged between the lady behind the counter and Rachel's parents. They weren't allowed to buy it for her. I guess Rachel didn't see it, because she continued to insist they give it to her. I bet they would have given it to her had she not asked in front of that lady. Something tells me someone could have gotten in trouble, at least, that's what it felt like. So we get back in the car and Rachel is in one of her moods. With a huff, Rachel plopped in the seat, arms tightly over her chest, crying and howling. It kind of hurt my ears. Even though we'd had a really fun day, Rachel forgot about all the stories and sights we had seen and declared this the "Worst day ever." I couldn't believe she had said that! "Come on, Rachie" I tried to coax her out of her bad mood, attempting to get her laughing again. "What happened next with Formaldehyde?" I asked. Her dad began the story but Rachel kept up with her sounds of disdain and the story was cut short. I ended up having to go home because Rachel couldn't get her act together, and her mom had warned her. I wasn't happy. I was supposed to spend the night that night (and I knew I'd just make it the whole night this time!) and I was having so much fun. That girl had quite a temper, I hate that she let it ruin our day.

Now I suppose it's time to go ask Rose how close I got it ;)

A New Project - Dear Snuggles

Well, I've decided I've neglected my little corner of the internet for long enough. I miss being here and I miss putting my thoughts into words and I miss all of you (is anyone still out there?). So, in order to help myself keep up with writing and visit here much more often, I'm trying a new project.

Every Wednesday (possibly more, but let's just start with one day) I'm going to post a writing prompt and... well... write about it. I know, it's totally different than what you're used to seeing here at Little Pink, but I promise it will be interesting. I'm going to start with a relatively simple one, to ease myself into this new idea.

So without further ado, let's just jump into this, shall we?

PROMPT: Write a love letter to an inanimate object that explores why you appreciate what you're writing about, what its special qualities are.

Dear Snuggles,

My nearest and dearest, the fuzziest, snuggliest non-breathing friend, I write to you with the most sincere appreciation for your life long friendship. As my first toy, you had quite a lot to live up to. How long would you last? Would you end up in the garbage, at a yard sale, passed on to a new child, or quietly ruminating in an adult's bedroom? No one knew then that it would be the latter. No one realized that your soft brown fur and beady eyes would provide one girl comfort for an eternity. No one expected your Steiff tag to be a source of pride for an Army brat born in a cold country she no longer remembers. No one could have possibly known that your plush body would hold the scents of true home, the most comforting aroma to breathe in.

I expect when you arrived with me that you were actually larger than me. As a new babe, you might have been ginormous, unfortunately I can't remember our first meeting. I know with certainty, however, that I was never fearful of you, regardless of how much larger than me you might have been. I know that you accompanied me on a transatlantic flight and I wonder if you helped me feel safe.

As I grew, I could not sleep without you by my side. You traveled with me to many a sleepover parties and handled squealing girls like a champ. I accidentally dropped you in a mud puddle before Rose's birthday party. I really wanted to go, but there was no way I was staying over without you. Thankfully, my mom took you home and washed you and brought you back to me. I wonder if you would have appreciated that night off? Or did you feel as lost without me as I you when we were apart?

I needed surgery in second grade. Tonsils and adenoids, no big deal. I was allowed to bring one "comfort object" but at first the surgical team didn't want to let you come with me because of your glass eyes and metal tag. I assured them you were the only one I wanted, needed rather, by my side and somehow they waiver. Maybe mom took you before I went to surgery but I know you were next to me when I awoke and let out a scream. I bet you remember that scream. Like my mom, you probably wonder how in the world I could scream like that after having surgery on my throat.

I held you during awkward teen years, squeezed you during breakups, confided all my secrets in your ever-listening ears and knew all my fears, pain, anguish, and insanity were safe with you. You followed me to college, and it's probably best that no one else can hear your sweet whispers because oh, the stories you could tell. I'm sorry I subjected you to that.

You accompanied me when I moved and found a spot in our bedroom in North Carolina. You watched my belly swell as new life grew inside me and you probably wondered if you would befriend this new child, as well. You were clutched under my arm as I headed off to the hospital to meet our new friend. In anxious anticipation you watched her enter the world and I'm sure both our hearts grew exponentially.

You probably still wonder if I will someday pass you on to our little friend, but I've selfishly kept you for myself. Maybe one day I will find it within me to surrender you to my most prized person but for now I let her visit while I keep a close eye on your whereabouts.

And when I need you most, I hug you close and inhale deeply, flooded with scents, memories, and feelings of home and comfort.

Words cannot thank you enough, my dear Snuggles, for being the epitome of a "comfort object." You encompass all things a teddy bear should and you are not only an object to me, but my friend.

With much love and adoration,


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