TiffinTalk Blog

. on a pillow under a pillow under a sheet on a nightstand in the medicine cabinet tucked in the bathroom mirror on a toilet seat top in a pocket of pjs/robe tucked into exercise clothes in a shoe in a bagged lunch in a diaper bag in a briefcase in a purse in a backpack tucked in an ipad case placed against the laptop screen peeking out from under a keyboard in a coffee mug or taped to the bottom on a window sill in the fridge (under a recently purchased fav desert is optional) in the coffee canister…
I’m just not a big fan of the holiday blog posts. I generally cannot relate to the happiness quotient. They irk me as much as those holiday letters that reflect an entire year of only perfect moments in someone's else's less-than-perfect-but-shhhhhhh-don't-tell-anyone life. I get the magic of the holidays – but only if I pause long enough to stare into the eyes of my now-young-adult-but-not-so-long-ago-much-younger daughters. But, I have to say that even they are very tired of the muss and fuss; of the retail season that is thrust upon everyone one of us months in advance; of the "take…
It won't help us reach world peace at warp speed. But I am convinced that if we all paid a little more attention to the smaller details in life and the people who accomplish them then maybe we could all have more peace . . . For instance: if we appreciated those who magically get the “little” things done (you know – those things you long ago stopped noticing how or when they got done because they’ve not been un-done in any memory you care to scare up); or if we thanked people in our lives for the expected stuff…
We know that our children are being raised with extraordinary levels of anxiety these days. You might argue that your anxiety as a child or teen was just as horrific. But hell, you made it: you grew up and now you are raising your own family. So what’s the big deal? I beg of you – just as we hated when our parents compared their growing up to our childhood – can we just stop comparing our childhood anxieties to those of our children today? When has a comparison of fear, anxiety, trauma, or bullying, ever led to a legitimate…
There is a ball pit of empty water jugs in my daughter’s bedroom. You see, she went to college and took her service dog with her. So I’m filling her room at home with her dog’s favorite toys. Lots of them. The floor is covered. Maybe it’s my coping mechanism. ** Four years ago, my oldest daughter's college president had welcomed anxious parents with anxious freshmen with these words: “Your children will miss the family dog – their pets – more than they will miss you.” I have honestly forgotten anything else that man said. I think I immediately tuned…
Warning:My writing Don’t Tell. No, Tell was unexpected. The content of this blog speaks frankly to abuse and may be triggering.   Let’s have at it. If it didn’t happen to you, it did happen to someones you know. And yes, that is plural – more than one someone. Likely it happened in your teens. But also likely that you were a preteen. Or younger. Or older. And highly likely you never told anyone about the assault. Maybe you didn’t want to call it an assault. You didn’t want to call it anything. Safer that way: if you didn’t name it,…
“You Can’t Save Them All” and Other Words of Advice I Can’t Stand to Hear Recently, I lost a teen to the world of her unwell mother. The presiding courts were in a different country and a different culture and will not rely on the expertise of mental health professionals – yet. It is changing, but those changes will be too late for this young woman as well as her brother. For them, the damage will be done. I cry and I rage. Present tense. Still. Friends and family have cried and raged with me. But occasionally, I would hear…
You know how you “win some; you lose some”? Well, two years ago my youngest lost some. Her plan went south; which meant, incidentally, that my plan also went south. At first, it veered. Then it tumbled. And then it plummeted. Her plan? Go to college. Her reality? Her health. And that translated to: staying home another 2 years and training a service dog. So that then she could go to college. And, for me, that translated to: so much for empty nest and downsizing and missing my daughters and re-thinking my life, what I could do, where I could…
My armpits are lonely. My cuddle cat passed away. She died. In my arms.  She was a petite Siamese with that stubby, crooked Asian tail; whenever I pet her, my hand continued along the “cat tail arc” long after her actual tail had actually ended. What she lacked in tail, she gained in character – as if she needed any more. Her favorite place to be was wherever I was. Under my feet – as I walked (cat-danced) down the stairs. At my side – when I fell down the stairs. Talking at me as I walked in the door…
  on a pillow under a pillow under a sheet on a nightstand in the medicine cabinet tucked in the bathroom mirror on a toilet seat top in a pocket of pjs / robe tucked into exercise clothes in a shoe in a bagged lunch in a diaper bag in a briefcase / purse in a backpack placed against the laptop screen peeking out from under a keyboard tucked into an ipad case peeking out of that junk drawer in a coffee mug or taped to the bottom on a window sill in the fridge (under a recently purchased fav…
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