Category Archives: MamaKat

Harvest Banquet

It tastes like the horizon right before its fade to blue-black.

That vibrant hue of fat round pumpkins,

leaves that have gently released their hold on an overcrowded branch


fruit that dangles, trusting the heavy green boughs of the orchards.


Drink it down,

licking the sweet slick from your lips

until you’re pleading another (just one more) sip-

When you’re full, pulpy, radiating the glow of an oompa-loompa, you’ll rival the sun

eyes stinging from the burn of citrus spray your thumbnail released…


Some people want to taste the rainbow-

but this time of year

I’d rather swallow a sunset.


For MamaKat’s Writing Workshop:

Write a post (or, in my case, some poetry)inspired by the color ORANGE. 

Mama’s Losin’ It

The Orange Chair


I remember my feet not touching and white patent leather shoes.

My memories are blurry, fuzzy as if I am looking into them through the filter of a gauzy sheet. But I remember colors and the way our enormous living room was cut in half right at the built in curio shelves. There was a good side and the one with the brown couches, where we’d ask each other to make room by bellowing “square over” as we maneuvered ourselves and a favorite blanket onto a personal piece of that coveted real estate.

The brown couch smelled of sleep and lingering colognes. Perhaps Loves Baby Soft or my mother’s Tova. We were allowed to bring bags of popcorn and bowls of Apple Jacks onto that side but the good living room was off limits unless there was a family meeting or ‘company.’

Where the brown couches faded into the background becoming part of our family landscape until you required a place to sit while you took in General Hospital, the colors of  the furniture on the other side of the room stood out, giving the room more light than the wall of windows they faced.

There was a couch, French provincial style, the color of round, plump pumpkins and if felt like  soft suede boots. I would run my fingers across the skin one way, making lines, marking my territory and then take my palm and push the material back to its original state over and over again.

That couch was hoity. And toity.

If I had a voice it would have been British and condescending.

And it had a sidekick; a chair that complimented and completed it.

Striped, with a wood trim that I would touch lightly every time on my way to the sunroom or the front door to check the pile of mail that would have been pushed through the built in metal slit at the bottom, I think of that chair as the centerpiece of my life in that house.

Sometimes, when the house was quiet or empty, I’d plop down in it, throw my legs over the side and read the books I stole from the space between the mattress and the headboard of my mom’s bed. But it was never comfortable or cozy.

That chair was a conversation starter, a “piece” or prop for family pictures, a place to stand behind for prom.

I was kissed in that chair once, long and sweetly, hands sneaking up the back of my sweater, and sometimes years later, I could still taste peppermint every time I glanced at it.

The chair, not the couch, was selected as worthy when my mom moved to a new house to begin a new life with a new husband. It sat in the basement like a regal guest and we we’d pile presents on it for Christmas Eve’s or position the boys in between its wide arms to stage candid shots of them in Grandma’s house.

Just like me, they were growing up with the orange chair in the background; the chair resembling a cousin you might only see a couple of times a year but enjoy the company of.

I didn’t give the chair another thought one way or the other until my mom had a yard sale earlier this summer.

See, myparentsaremovingtoSavannahGeorgia. 

 I have taken to saying it quickly, before all the air leaves my lungs as I imagine a world in which my mom isn’t ten minutes away.

And they needed to start emptying their houses in preparation, so I stepped up to their open garage doors and into a web of nostalgia one hot and humid (similar to everyday in Savannah, I am thinking) morning in July.

Books from our childhood, clothes we wore as toddlers, plaques that adorned our walls and the makings of a nice kitchen from patterned table settings to sophisticated glassware.

Tiny pieces of our life, for sale.

And sitting on the edge of the collection was the orange chair.

Peripheral, as it often was, and seemingly out of place. Like a backwards ball cap at the Kentucky derby.

“Are you selling the Orange Chair?” I asked; my voice catching.


I walked over, running my hand over the colorful material and then along the smooth wooden trim. I sat down and placed my hands on the arms, mentally saving the way it felt under my fingers.

“Take my picture!” I yelled to my husband and he came over and snapped a photo of me looking up, the sun in my eyes.

The sale went on for another day, on Monday morning my mom called. Exhausted but happy, she told me about what’d they ended up selling.

“Someone is coming for the orange chair today.”

“Oh.” I said, unexpected tears pricking the edges of my eyes.

“The woman who bought it wanted for her daughter. She just got married and is trying to decorate her new home. We sold it for $30 and that mom was so excited about the colors and the price I couldn’t think of a better place for it.”

My heart suddenly lightened.

The chair would be used, sat in, perhaps even made fun of for its bright colors and pretentious manner of appearing like it was too good to be around other furniture. Perhaps someone else would tell a story like mine about it years and years from now, in the middle of another life.

“Good.” I said, meaning it.

I thought of my feet not touching when we first got the chair and all the pictures we’d taken in it, all the times we ran around it during games of tag, and how I hated moving it to vacuum every single week. The  recollections came fast and furious as I allowed the memories of my siblings and our childhood to just wash over me.

Our orange chair had served our family well.

And I’ll always be so happy about that last picture.

Mama’s Losin’ It


My last picture in the orange chair. 



For MamaKat’s Writing Workshop:
4.) Throwback time! Share an old photo and tell us about it.

The 7 Ways My Husband Has Made Me a Better Mom

One of Mama Kat’s prompts this week was to share something your husband does better as a parent than you do.


But when I started thinking about it I kept coming back to something I’ve been trying to put into words for a while now.

I don’t think either one of us does things better; I mean are we really going to compare how we wipe a butt or which of us can talk our kid into breakfast for dinner more quickly? Parenting is better when you’re employing a tag-team effort anyway so it doesn’t do any good to want to keep score.

Your job is to keep your children alive, healthy and semi clean and not kill (or hate) one another in the process.

So when it comes right down to it, the truth is that my husband and the kind of dad he is simply makes me a better mommy.


He “buys in” before I do:
From the moment he saw those two little embryos growing in my uterus he was all in. While I fretted and worried (and of course given our infertility situation he did too) he never doubted for a moment that we’d bring home two babies to parent.

That hasn’t changed. I have been known to stand still and just be unable to move mentally when I’m not sure how something is going to go or I jump in my heart and not my head. . John simply goes along and makes it easy for me to see that our decisions made together are impulsive and rational because both of us are there making them.

He knows he’s part of the team:

I had color coordinated our outfits long before the boys came along; when they were born I took total control over the clothes we wear, the colors we’re sporting on a daily basis. We’ve been teased and made fun of many times, but damn we look good. Like a man who loves a team sport, John is comfortable with calling us “Team Piccini” and looking to me for a daily outfit. As a woman it’s nice to know that my husband doesn’t believe that allowing me make some decisions slices away at his masculinity and he’s teaching the boys the same thing.  *Bonus*


Plus as a team he knows it takes more than one coach to get things done. We might each have a way that we think we should deal with something but we take the approach of being small parts of a bigger whole. Rob Base had the right idea: “it takes two to make a thing go right.” 


He knows what’s important:

A day off for a picnic? Sure!

Giving up a Saturday to go to mall? Okay.

Missing the first game of The Stanley Cup Playoff to go to a play? Well….

John is a die-hard NY Ranger fan. The Blueshirts haven’t gotten to the Stanley Cup Playoff (that’s code for the BIG SHOW!) in 20 years and he was as happy as I would be if you told me I was getting a new pair of shoes for free every month for the rest of my life. We were all happy. Until we realized that we’d bought tickets to see Beauty & the Beast for the evening of the first game.

First, I never thought about John not going to see this show with us, he is sports fan that love Broadway shows too. Second, I never worried about him begging off. Sure it wasn’t game 7 (and honestly if it had been I also know what’s important. Game 7 is important!) but he came to show with no complaining or regret. Yes, he checked the score on his phone, yes, he was eager to get home to watch the 3rd period but he never let us feel like we weren’t as important as the game.

He never does and that is huge. He has things he loves but I never worry if we’re one of them.

I know we are. This is an incredible lesson to be teaching our sons.


He lets us be who we are:

John and I have a lot in common; we have the same kind of humor, like a lot of the same music and come at things from a familiar place. Yet, there are things about me that are so far from what he is used to that I used to wonder why he fell in love with me in the first place.

I know that I can curse too much, that I can like an off color joke a little too often and I have very strong opinions and a very big mouth with which I will tell you about them. This is far from who my husband is. However, he lets me be who I am. This freedom has filtered down to our sons.

Jacob wants to pretend he’s Billy Joel? Okay, let’s show him some classic Joel videos and play his greatest hits in the car. Gio wants to do play-by-play hockey in the living room? COOL! I’ll just set up old footage and teach him math in the process. Jacob wants to take a drama class?  No problem, let’s help him find his bliss.

One of the biggest reasons that I love my husband is wrapped up in this, he simply allows us to be who exactly we are. I want to write or daydream or nap all day, he never gives me a problem, never makes fun of me or is condescending to me. He accepts the good stuff and the bitch I often become when I’m sad, frustrated or disappointed, he’s a fantastic cheerleader whether he knows it or not.


He’s helpful:

And not in any traditional way; sure he takes the dog out, he is charge of the garbage and vacuuming (Yep, I’m that lucky) but what I’m really talking about is how he helps even when he thinks he isn’t.

When the twins were born and I was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia we realized that our routines would need to shift. Stress and lack of sleep were my worst enemies and both would lead to awful migraines and me generally feeling lousy for days.

John knows when to step in. He knows that I can get so much done if he is simply sitting on the couch lost in his phone but present for the boys while they surf Curious George movies on Netflix. I can make beds, clean bathrooms and fold clothes much easier if I know that he’s “keeping them alive”. He’d tell you that he’s not doing anything but he is. He’s making my experience less stressful and that’s worth an awful lot.


He knows how to lose his shit:

I remember the first real fight I had with John. It doesn’t matter what we were arguing about the point is that I was coming from a place where I wanted to fight. I wanted drama and fireworks and expressions.

I grew up in a violent house. There was yelling and hitting and solving problems with our hands instead of our heads.

John grew up in a very different house.

So when I came at him with words that I knew would set him off I expected what I always gotten; A slap, ugly words or both. Instead he stopped himself short of all of it and looked at me “I won’t fight like this with you.”

I understood in that moment that my life and relationships were about to change.

So when I get ragey or out of sorts and my temper flares (and sometimes it does) I look to him. He knows how to lose his shit in a way that isn’t going to have lasting repercussions and that makes not only a better mom but a better person.

He’s a great dad:

This is a gimme but it’s the most important one because when I think about being a mom sometimes I want to run away and hide. I want to disown my kids, my husband and find a cottage on the edge of the ocean and stay there ALONE for a very long time. But what keep me here in the middle of the chaos, the clutter, the constant chatter of 6 yr old twins is this man and his belief in things like faith, fun and family.

He is funny, he is supportive and he is true blue.

John would tell you (because I’ve heard him say it to other people) that I’m the glue that holds our family together. He would praise me for my mothering skills and go on about he doesn’t know how I do it all but in this space and now before we celebrate Father’s Day I want him to know that I am a better mom because of the kind of dad he is.

Happy Father’s Day honey.



Mama’s Losin’ It

 Linking with Mama Kat


If I Were Brave…{Mama Kat’s Writing Workshop}



I often just watch him.

I’ll ask him; “Do you want to go on the swings?” as we watch Giovanni pump his little legs and squeal in delight as daddy pushes him higher and higher into the sky.

Many times, he doesn’t even answer, just waves his hand at me, channeling a little old man who is tired of my questions, instead of a lanky five year.  “No thanks, I’m going to play Harry, and go on the slides.”

“Jacob, would you like to go on the carousel?”

Again his head hangs as he shuts down my question, “No thanks, but Gio look at that giraffe! Or the Blue Horse, you love blue Gio!”

I sink to my knees, eye to eye level with my son, “Baby, I’ll go with you, I’ll hold you and you won’t fall off.”

He ignores me and runs to watch Gio pick his own horse marveling at how he is the best cheerleader for his twin and he excels at it as he waves and shouts to his brother, but refuses to pick his own horse, his own ride.

I wonder why he shies away from it.

“You’re five now.” I  say in my mother voice, “you’re a big boy who can try the swings and ride your own horse.”

The waving hand again as he pulls his cape on and perfects his spells in front of the mirror.

“What are you still so afraid of?”  I silently ask.

And then I look inside my own heart and I know…


Because if I were brave:

I’d ask for what I want

I’d believe in my own abilities

I’d have more confidence

I’d submit that piece to that site and that site, and yes, even that site.

I wouldn’t stop people when they are trying to pay me a compliment.

I wouldn’t think you’re my friend just because you feel like you have to humor me.

If I were brave….

I’d know that the things I call my weaknesses are really my greatest strengths.

I would tell my honest stories, no matter what you thought of them or me.

I would stop being ashamed of my past.

I would hit PUBLISH.

I would finish the novel and stop the listening to the voices in my head that say “not as good as”, “not as interesting as”, “not worthy of writing those words”

I would tell you exactly what I think about that.

I would stop second guessing my  own worth.

If I were brave…

I would come to you

I would make the call

I would say I’m sorry first and stop the blaming

I would believe that I belong here, in this space.

I would not be afraid of the things I know are good, amazing and awesome about myself.

I would just accept the things about me that are not so good, amazing or awesome.

If I were brave…

I would believe you when you told me you liked me, you loved me, you respected me, you thought the world of me.

I would understand that some dreams take a little more time to come true

I would believe that my dreams….WILL.

If I were brave…

I’d be proud of the things I do, instead of the things that I don’t.

I’d forgive myself

I’d try new things, write new stories, live with abandon.

I’d hold on and hang in, I’d be patient and stop being envious.

I’d reach for my stars and shine the light of the spotlight on myself sometimes.

I would love myself as much as I love the other people in my life.


Over the weekend, I asked him again…”Would you like to go on the carousel?”

He hesitated, but only for a moment, before he reached for the tickets and ran for a blue horse of his own. His brother was over at the bounce house, but he was here, smiling for the camera, asking me to hold his wand so he could hold on.

And he did it because he was finally ready and he was brave.


If I were brave…

I’d just be myself (and nothing more) just knowing that my own dreams are patiently waiting for me.

Because how can I teach him about bravery if I don’t have a little of my own? 


written in response to a prompt over at

Mama Kat’s Writing Workshop

Mama’s Losin’ It

Write a post based on the word Brave.

Thank you for stopping by and reading.


Words,Words, Sweet Glorious Words {Mama Kat’s Writing Workshop}



My love for Quotes and Harry Potter is deep and true.
























Mama Kat asked us to share 6 of our favorite quotes as one of her Writing Workshop prompts, I couldn’t decide and then didn’t want to stop at 10.

I love quotes, I am literally surrounded by them everyday in my workspace, on my phone, in my bathroom and in every room of my home.

Mama’s Losin’ It

Thanks for visiting and reading my favorites, if you leave a comment, I’d love you to share your favorites too.


Pardon Me {Mama Kat’s Writing Workshop}

Mama’s Losin’ It


There are quite a few things that I am not especially good at.

Baking from scratch (honestly wouldn’t know where to start and truthfully? Don’t want to)

Camping  (ummmm, No. Never)

Blogging (honestly 8 years in and some days I am quite sure that I don’t know what the hell I’m doing)

Telling a short story (never going to happen. So if you meet me, buy a drink, sit down and get comfortable)


But there is one thing that I am truly terrible with: Forgiving myself.

I hang on, I despair, I worry, and I think too much, judging myself more harshly than even my worst critics.

For most of my life I have found happiness in being a people pleaser.

I got to see the smiles and feel the affection that comes from doing for others without asking for anything in return. Sometimes it meant that I sacrificed small pieces of myself.

But even now looking back, I don’t regret letting people into my life, even the ones that hurt me,especially them I think because every cliché  ever written will tell you that they came into my life for a reason, that they were there to teach me a lesson.

I’d like to chalk all those lessons up to considering myself a moderately decent student.

Yet, the one thing I have never gotten proficient at is forgiving myself for not knowing when I was being used, manipulated and blamed for things that were never my fault, or not accepting the fact that some things in this world are completely out of my control and far from my reach.

Here’s the thing about people-pleasers, if you need to be FORGIVEN, we’re your target audience.

I don’t judge people; I don’t cast stones or presume to know more than I do.

Every story has 3 sides right?

But what I do give away freely is my forgiveness, for EVERYTHING.

So cut in front of me, ignore me, judge me, forget my birthday, steal my things, say things behind my back (or better  right to my face) and I can assure you that I will forgive you. The double edged sword of empathy is that I can find a reason to understand how you were feeling and why you acted that way.

Hey we’re all human (and flawed) right?

But when it comes to forgiving myself I fail miserably.

Test over.
Put your pencils down.

Big red F on my paper.

I blame myself for other people’s action and choices. I take on all the responsibility for every action and reaction, (and what’s worse in not pardoning myself I am normally bestowing that forgiveness on someone else instead, believing that they deserve it more than I do.)

I’m also an equal opportunity blamer.

I couldn’t forgive myself for all those boys I dated, couldn’t find mercy for my body as it refused to get pregnant then couldn’t find any for the  pregnant body that needed bed rest and extra help, couldn’t be lenient with myself as I navigated the worlds between being a working mom and having my boys in daycare, couldn’t be sympathetic when I forgot an important date or when I didn’t meet my own expectations.

Yet, I have so much understanding and acceptance for every other woman (heck every other person on this planet.)

It’s as if I truly believe that there is something in my past that makes me worthy of being left out, being passed over, being not  enough so that when good things do happen to me, I convince myself it’s a fluke and I never deserved it.

At 43, maybe it’s time to shed that skin.
Maybe it’s time to become skilled at the gentle art of releasing myself from the pain, to remind myself that the love I give other people so freely and easily is a gift that I should present myself more often.

It’s hard to admit but I desperately need a crash course in forgiveness of self.


I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded; not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night.”
Khaled Hosseini, The Kite Runner


In response to one of Mama Kat’s prompts:
tell us something you don’t know how to do

(this was supposed to be a list of 10, but honestly, this one counts for all those doesn’t it? )

Thanks for coming by!



Red Revolution

With a pencil I outline, laying out my territory, giving myself a map to follow.

While there is pink swept up the landscape of my face, blues and grays fighting to kiss my eyelids and a lavish brown brushing my lashes, holding them like soldiers at attention, the tint cannot be watermelon or rose.

This is no time to be Switzerland.

It needs to settle between Fire Engines and Cherries, Patriotic and Primary

A shade that will offset the black dress that is hugging my curves, embracing my hips like a lover and brushing my knees with satin ruffles.

Breathe fire into my countenance, twinkle the baubles dangling at my ears, enhance the spike of my three inch heels.

I judged the worthiness of it, scrawling lines of it against second rate cousins on the fleshy part of my hand, near my thumb. Standing in the aisle utilizing a lesson I was taught when I helped other women pursue a tube that would boost their attitude, heighten their own conquest.

It proved an ally, a true accomplice in my own battle.

It spoke to me of passion and hearts beating beneath lacy camisoles.

Leaning close to the mirror I apply the stain, painting inside the lines I’ve made.

Pursing my lips, allowing the color to saturate and soak into my skin like blood.

Finally, a sweep of gloss, my lacquered mouth resembling a carnival candy apple, hard and sweet.

If it spoke it would whisper, “Kiss me

I stand back, smile at my reflection; war paint in place.


Mama’s Losin’ It

 For MamaKat’s Writing Workshop this week one of her writing prompts was write a post :

Inspired by the word RED.

This is something I wrote in 2011 but it is still one of my favorites.

Thanks for visiting.



I’m Thankful Every Day For the Gift




Little or Large.

Wrapped or Unwrapped.

A sweet or (insert tears) unwelcome surprise.

I love gifts in all their costumes.

The everyday miracles:

the giggles of my sons

an email from a colleague

                                an unexpected call from my best friend or text from my husband.

                                Sometimes it’s just the store I love having a sale I didn’t know about.

And then there are the Life changing presents:

                A call from the nurse saying “You’re Pregnant!”

A knee bent, a ring offered, a voice I love asking me to share its life.

                                                Someone saying “I love you” every single day.

A family that holds you, hugs you, understands and supports you, through every good and bad time.

A voice that calls you “Mommy” or “My best friend” or “Sister”.


I’ve even grown to appreciate the gifts I never really wanted,

refused to accept and stuck in the back of a drawer, my mind or my broken heart.

                                The people who said goodbye long before I was ready.

                The broken body and heavy spirit that kept my dreams of motherhood at bay.

                                                                All the times I was told “no”, “you’re not the one” or “maybe next time”

I was being taught Empathy, Forgiveness, Patience, Acceptance,

HOPE, Faith and true LOVE & Friendship.

Enough to be able to give them back with a full heart.

and I’m thankful every day for those gifts.


Mama’s Losin’ It

Mama Kat’s Writing Prompts have always made me think and write with purpose. This week is no different.

The Prompt I chose:
5.) Take a line from a song you love and turn it into the title of your next blog post. Let the content follow.



THE GIFT is a Christmas love song that I’ve liked for a long time, but this line of the song doesn’t always remind me of the guy that gives the best hugs, sweetens all my dreams and has given me so many gifts (ones that sparkle and others that just warm me with the knowledge of how deeply I’m loved). This line brings to mind all the GIFTS we’re given, not just at Christmas but throughout our lives, that fill the shelves of our hearts and even the ones that collect dust in the back of our minds.

You never know the true value of anything until you just accept the gift of what it *Really* is.



Mama Kat’s Writing Workshop:The Silly Songs of Childhood

(This post first appeared here as part of TRDC RemebeRED in 2011, I brought it back, because whenever I think of this day I still smile…and sing.)

Mama’s Losin’ It

August 1978

You think that people would have had enough of silly love songs…..

My bare feet are trying to avoid the parts of driveway that are bathed in sunshine, when my toes accidentally hit those places a crazy hop and skip ensues, the scalding tar pushing “OUCH” out of my mouth.

But I look around me and I see it isn’t so..oh no…..

The small battery powered radio resting precariously on our brick wall has its antenna high into the sky, like a hand reaching for an AM radio station and Paul McCartney is singing a melody that will bring summer to me like a long lost friend for the rest of my life. Today, it’s just bringing me a Saturday afternoon.

Some people wanna fill the world with silly love songs…..

It’s a good day, my mom is inside doing laundry and my dad is cracking jokes, there is no fighting or tension lingering in the air, the only charge in the atmosphere is our laughter and squeals of glee as my dad points the hose at us, releasing a stream of icy cold and welcome water our way.

And what’s wrong with that? I’d like to know cause here I go again…

We have taken this sweltering August afternoon and decided to wash the car. My sister and I are dressed in bathing suits. At 8 years old, I am years away from the vanity of my teen years, choosing to be dressed in close to nothing on this humid tropical day. Two blue buckets are overflowing with sudsy water and oversized porous sponges. We dip them and wring them out, scrubbing away at the dust and dirt on our wood paneled station wagon.

I love you

I love you

I love you

Dana and I go between helping and choreography, replicating old recital moves and dancing in circles, just happy to be  outside and peaceful today. We are children; acting like them. Handling instructions from our daddy, spraying the white wall tires with something that smells clean and citrusy, asking for the hose to wash away the grimy dirt we have rubbed away.

Love doesn’t come in a minute, sometimes it doesn’t come at all

I only know that when I’m in it, It isn’t silly, no it isn’t silly

Love isn’t silly at all.

Soon that wagon is gleaming, standing in our driveway sparkling in the late afternoon sun. My mom has come out to admire our work; we are all giggling and sipping iced tea, basking in each other and the reflection off the clean windows. My dad twirls the keys on his finger and says “Let’s go to Chapman Lake”.

How can I tell you about my loved one?

My sister and I don’t even wait for them to change their minds. We rush around the house, gathering our towels, shovels, beach balls; tossing them into the backseat and jumping in, ready for our adventure and singing out through the open windows as we prepare to put some new dirt on this car.

You’d think that people would have had enough of silly love songs.

But I look around me and see it isn’t so…

And what‘s wrong with that????


Summer is going to end this Saturday and I wanted to say goodbye to it with this song again.

My Summer Song…my guilty pleasure from Sir Paul.

 Linking with Mama Kat, gosh I’ve missed her, for her Writing Workshop.

What one memory from your childhood always makes you smile, no matter what?

(inspired by Not Just Another Mom Blogger).

Capturing Memories: Kind & Hopeful

I am Kind and Hopeful

I wonder what it feels like to have all your dreams come true

I hear the door to my heart open wide every day

I see all the sides and colors of this crazy, wonderful world.

I want to know the end of the story

I am Kind and Hopeful

I pretend to be stronger inside than I am

I feel the constant rush of emotions that flood my heart

I touch pause and make a wish

I worry that I am not being the best person I can be, that I’m not loving enough

I cry when I feel that way

I am Kind and Hopeful

I understand that things are not always black and white

I say that Love is always the answer

I dream of the day that our world knows that

I try to keep hope alive in my heart

I hope that my children grow up to be these two things:

I am Kind and Hopeful.



Linking with Alison and Galit for Memories Captured July   

I didn’t get to do The “I AM”  poem last Thursday, because I have Proud Mommies that day and I always miss hanging with Mama Kat, so I decided to use it for my Memories Captured Link Up instead.