I’m participating in a creative challenge by the new-to-me and very lovely writer/artist Christina Rosalie. There’s only one thing to do, to soothe the itch in my fingers that begs me back to the writing board every day — write. This will be a fun kickstart. And maybe it will finally force me to store my 3,233 photos somewhere other then my phone, for the love of god.

The 5/5 Creative Challenge has two pieces: five snapshots that represent your day, five minutes of writing words that represent your day. You can find more detail and read about Christina’s recently PDX-transplanted family on her blog. Meantime, here’s my first go …

She always asks me back for one more hug. Mama, mama, huggie. She still says that word, even now at seven-almost-eight. (She still loves her own freckles, still eats noodles with her fingers.) I escape her bedtime room, leaving daddy on the floor in the dark to talk her into dozing. Out here, the dishwasher is shushing and through the patio door I can see a stray fork on the picnic table, forgotten when we cleared dinner. It’s warm enough to eat outside, most nights, now.The juniper are stamped out of the dusk sky. I keep thinking, in two days it will be summer vacation and we will wake up at 9:00 and sometimes eat popsicles for breakfast. In front of me are packets of wildflower seeds, waiting. For mulch, for me.

Our first CSA bounty arrived from the valley, smelling of mud and honesty: small potatoes, carrots, lettuce, kale, garlic, a massive onion, a little treasure box filled with dark red strawberry gems that we sliced, sluiced with cream, and ate immediately.

By the kitchen door is the blue laundry basket piled carelessly with towels and the crumpled picnic blanket from our weekend day at the river, with friends from out town. I miss them. I miss their girls and the full, right feeling of a flock of children wandering through my house, someone needs to pee, someone is hungry, someone won’t eat that, someone is bored. I love all of that delightful mess, like a mother hen. The oldest made us meringues from scratch and they tasted like toasted marshmallows. Which reminds me, somewhere we have weird vanilla taffy candies from Chinatown. It’s 9:49, see. This is when I scrounge the back corners of the pantry for hidden sweets and wonder if he’s fallen asleep in there, on her floor, again. The cat (the fat one) scratches on the glass to be let in for the night.