Mother of Invention

photo by: Stillframe Motherhood, like all good dwellings, comes with a basement, by which I mean a place to store the boxes of things which make us sad (or scared) to look at, or which simply crowd the main floor. We don't unpack them, for the most part. Instead we appear generally preoccupied, until we remember not to, like when our son says, "Look! I drew you smiling!" as if this were a terrific artistic leap on his part. What's in my boxes?