potatoes

My eldest girl was sick and you were concerned. It was just a cold, I assured you. I could hear the worry in your voice. You wanted to come over and help me, you’re an Aunty, it’s your job, didn’t I get that? You didn’t understand that it would take me over an hour round trip to pick you up and bring you back here, and that the kids needed to sleep. And that I was actually fine and just wanted to go to bed.

Finally, I convinced you that you could help me more by being on the other end of the phone.

Your parting advice: “Potatoes. Feed her potatoes.”

on documenting

Last night at my writing group we did an exercise where we had to write down a scene with action that related to our individual projects. Something that illustrated the conflict in our stories.

I sat and sat and sat, twiddling my pen while looking around the room at the tops of everyone’s heads. How can I begin to describe what it’s like to have a sister with Down syndrome? We ate breakfast. We went to school. We fought. We grew up. We left home. We got jobs. We got married. Where’s the action in that? The conflict? The interest?

Why would anyone want to read this?

These are the questions I mull over.