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December 2017 Editorial and Table of Contents

By Jennie LaFortune

Driving home from a long day of work and a half-done to do list, I let the familiar blare of Christmas songs fill my car. It was dark at 5:30 p.m. and I noticed how much the neighborhood square looked like a corner of Stars Hollow. Christmas – the magical time of year. Or so …

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What You Say When You Say You’re Too Busy

By Sandra Clark

Get the kids to gymnastics, sign up for soccer, preschool co-op volunteer obligation, optimize your investments, update your will, register for summer camp, plant some annuals so your yard isn’t as barren this year as it was last, crank out the hours on the part-time hustle, take cookies to the fireside, teach your kids to …

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Creating Space

By Jen Bosen

Our mulberry tree was a jungle unto itself. Despite its constant exposure to the blazing Phoenix sun and a sporadic watering schedule, it had become an impressive, if unshapely, beast. Last summer it was full and green and lush, with leaves bigger than my husband’s hands – limbs stretching toward the endless blue sky. And …

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Tentatively Untitled. Because you’ll see why.

By Brooke Benton

Here’s what we need to just get out of the way:

My writing is crap.

Also, if another child gets out of bed to tell me something “important,” I may actually start crying. REAL tears.

It’s not that I don’t want to listen to them tell me their importants, but I don’t really want to listen. (Because that makes sense.) (With the italics and all.) But by nine pm, my brain needs to not process anything else relating to a child. I’m serious. Math, friends, book reports, lost flip-flops, guitar lessons, oral hygiene or lack thereof, personal hygiene or lack thereof, pet feeding or lack thereof, and/or anything relating to any episode ever filmed in any season of River Monsters.

I find that my mental capacity these days is perfectly suited for something like Facebook: I open it. I scroll through the ticker tape of declarations. I laugh. I roll my eyes. I like a thing or two. And then, I’m done. It’s night-night time for me. Until my husband reminds me about our 90-day-reading-the-Book-of-Mormon challenge, in which case I roll over the pick my iPad back up off the floor and say, “OK. But NO DISCUSSING.”

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