Slow, really nice and slow

I sometimes complain that life is rushed.And then I rush you.I complain everything is fast, and busy,And then I busy the life out of you.You do it so very well. Living slow.The toothpick falls.

Slowly, you get of your chair. You crawl under the table and find not only the toothpick, but also a ball and a spoon. This delights you.

Your mouth curls into a mischievous, satisfied smile. Your cheeks deliciously go along, not wanting to miss out.

The cheese is lost.You check your t-shirt. Your pants. Your chair. And find it under the table a few minutes later.

Slowly, you push the chair away and I restrain myself from bending down to just do it for you. Your little fingers rub the cheese, relishing the texture. To me, it looks unappetizing. To you, it is a piece of gold.

I tell you to hurry up and finish eating.

You twist around on your chair in an everlasting dance, bumping your plate and your milk. All I can see is the possibility of spilled milk and all you see is the crumbs in the shape of an airplane.

Staring at the ceiling, you contemplate…something? You can’t and won’t […]

The time I wanted to break my legs, otherwise titled, ‘In which I feel like sh*t”

I’d like to have energy and feel great. That is to say, I wish I did not have fibromyalgia.

That is to say, I wish I did not have continuous headaches, I wish I did not have a sore throat and earache 6 out of 10 days. I wish I didn’t feel like I was burning right under my skin down to my bones on the worse days. Like a huge elastic band snapped back and stung all over on the better days.

I wish I didn’t have lower back pain, shoulder and neck pain and I wish I didn’t have sharp pains in random places and I wish I wasn’t exhausted and feverish-feeling all the time. I wish stirring porridge and mashing potatoes and lifting children and fastening seat belts and sitting and standing up and not lying in bed all day with a hot water bottle didn’t hurt and exhaust me quite so much.

I wish I didn’t have muscles that tell me I have an infection that really is just a figment of their imagination. Who knew muscles had an imagination?

I wish that even though I do have those things, I didn’t have the depressing feeling […]