The memoir I won't have to write

Two weeks ago, I am at Children’s Hospital, waiting for the results of my daughter’s blood test. I am convinced my future looks bleak, hers even bleaker. Which is strange, considering I’m usually such an optimist. How am I going to write this scene in my memoir, I find myself wondering? How will I describe this night in the years and pages to come?

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#YourChildMatters

I’ve had a version of this blog post written so many times. I’ve lost count which shooting it came before, or after. And for some reason, I’ve not published it until today.

Hold up, not true. I know exactly why I’ve not published it until today:

I’ve been too scared.

Scared I would offend someone. Scared I wouldn’t say the right thing. Scared I was wrong. Scared I would anger some, or step on toes.

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The one where she talks about her collection

One of the writing prompts in my #braveblogging course was to finish the sentence:

 “I collect …”

It’s an interesting idea, except that I couldn't really think of anything I collect. Having moved around so often in my twenties and thirties (I count eleven moves in as many years), there wasn’t really much point. I do love kitchen gadgets, but I don’t love them enough that I can’t give them away and start over every time.

So I don’t actually collect much that’s worth anything.

But then I remembered I do have one collection.

It’s one I’ve been working on my whole life. It's never taken center stage, never been given serious shelf space, but I drag it with me in every move. In fact, with each move, I probably add a little more to it.

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