Author Archives: Whitney Cruikshank

My Christmas wish

My Christmas wish

Of course my children all got poop in their eyes. One is three years old, and really, the story could stop there. Instead, I’ll fill you in on all of the shitty details of my weeks past. “Just wash all of your hands more,” the doctor says last week, as she and I wiped the… Read more

Bitter and sweet

Bitter and sweet

Time slipped away on me once more. I had plans to stretch the construct of time this parental leave, and yet six months has come and gone, leaving me crying by myself in the Tim Horton’s drive-thru. One last leave, I blubber to the employee, as I key in my pin for the three dollar… Read more

Scrubbing freckles

Scrubbing freckles

The sand sits on the bottom of the tub amongst the bubbles and bath toys. It’s lonely there, as lonely as the girl washing it out of her long sun bleached blonde hair. Her tears collect in the bubbles. This bath is a hard one. As is the ritual each year the week back to… Read more

I hope to

I hope to

You sleep beside me because I want you to. When you’re close I can watch your hands twitch as they find their way to your resting pose- your right hand’s thumb lodges itself in your pouty lips and your left arm raises straight above your head. That’s the sweet spot. I hope I remember you… Read more

Realizations

Realizations

We braid now. We are finding the time. Like my mom braided for me on Friday nights when she’d race home from the city after five days apart. Like she’d do for me Sunday mornings before church, even if we were running late. I hated the braids, actually. Hated the hurt of it all. I… Read more

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