Down the Rabbit Hole

Broken Promises and a Box of Jello

We have been trying to sell our house and find our new home. It is an exhausted process that has consumed my mental energy as my brain seems to continually reset and recalculate based on the potential homes we have seen. I find it emotionally draining as well as I am tore between loving the home we have made with our desire to provide more for our daughter; more space to grow, more yard to explore and more neighborhood children to befriend. At the same time I excited by the prospect of moving into a new town, closer to family, I am loathing the thought of moving and leaving the familiar spaces behind that I have always loved. In the midst of all this emotional and financial processing, I have done very little writing. I have watch deadlines slip past and made myself promises that I would get back to the grind as soon as things were more settled. As a result, my creativity feels bottled. My muse sits in the corner pouting and that neglect wakes me at odd hours and leaves me feeling restless. In an effort to fan the flames and distract myself from a multitude of other things, I'm going to take up today's blog challenges and see if it helps shake anything loose.

"Blogging Circle of Friends "
DAY 2017 May 25, 2018
Write about the life of a box of Jello.

Caroline dragged herself up the walkway, dragging her nine-year old feet and her backpack along the ground as she came. Her face was a hot mess of spent tears and painfully familiar frustration. Seeing her face I thought, not for the first time, how damn difficult it was to be a young girl at this age. I wish I could spare her from the push and pull of those fickle young friendships, the drama of preteen woes and wishes.

"Tough day Abbie?", I asked her and I opened the screen door and ushered her inside.

She suddenly hurled her backpack into the corner of kitchen and burst into tears.

For the next twenty-two minutes I listened to how "her best friend Lizzie had decided she liked Samantha better and, did I know the two of them had a sleepover together last weekend and didn't invite her? Also, Lizzie had called her "immature" when Abbie got upset about that. She got mad and had to sit alone at lunch and oh yeah, lunch had been cheese ravioli's and she hated cheese ravioli's because they tasted like rubber. Then on the bus Tyler Marshall told her she had a bee in her hair just to be funny and also she sat on someone's old peanut butter sandwich!" At this point, my daughter wheeled around and pointed to a wide stain on the seat of her pants with exaggerated annoyance.

I held out my arms and she ran into them, burying her face in my chest and giving into fresh, hot little tears.

"Okay, okay" I soothed her, rubbing her back and thinking how to best subvert my daughter's rotten day.

Then I remembered a box of jello I'd tossed into my shopping cart last week, blue raspberry, Abbie's favorite flavor.

"I know how we can turn your day around Abs, let's make a special treat." I fetched the box of jello and jiggled it in front of her pretty nose.

"Blue raspberry, your favorite..." I coaxed.

Abbie wiped at her tears with the back of her hand.

"Do you have any cool whip?" She asked hopefully.

I threw open the fridge and gleefully pointed to the new can of whipped cream.

Two hours later we sat side by side on the porch swing, slurping cubes of unnaturally blue globs and took turns spraying dollops of whipped cream onto our tongues and laughing. I told her not to worry about Lizzie and Samantha, friendship can be complicated but eventually you find the right ones and it makes up for all the drama. Eventually her world seemed to right itself again, and all it took was a little love and a box of blue raspberry jello. I knew that one day her sorrows might not be absolved so easily but for now, as the lightning bugs ushered in a mild evening and I could feel the summer waiting in the wings, I was grateful my little girl would go to sleep with a smile in her soul tonight.


"Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise"
DAY 1620 May 25, 2018
Write a story or poem about a broken promise.

Jacob opened his eyes and took a few more minutes to realize the pounding in his head was an actual, physical reality. He tried to sit up, moved to quickly and closed his eyes, moaning, as the nausea threatened to overtake him in white, hot rush. The pounded continued, relentless, accompanied now by someone calling his name.

Jacob looked at this watch. The illuminated dial told him it was 10pm and he was exactly two hours late for his shift. His brain made the frantic connection, driving him up to his feet with the painful realization that he was in no shape to report for duty. Jacob sank back to the floor. His eyes fell on the empty whiskey bottles that littered the floor. Four months of sobriety, flushed out by the amber-colored elixir, the taste of which still clung to the roof of his mouth, the bitter aftertaste of a broken promise.