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Welcome. I’m Easter Ellen.
I write stories, reflections, and imagined entire worlds. Some are arguably true, some are suspiciously borrowed from memory, some are robustly exaggerated, and some are made up entirely from the pure delight of imagining.
Mostly, I write what persists stubbornly enough that I can no longer ignore it.
If you enjoy these pieces, subscribe so you do not miss the next one.
You can find more of my writing, reflections, audio pieces, and creative work at easterellen.com.
You can also find me on YouTube at EasterEllen, where I share longer stories, thoughts, and conversations about change, choice, self-trust, and moving forward.
Welcome, I'm Easter. I love stories the funny ones, the tender ones, the strange little ones that show up with something to say. Today's story is called I Haven't Had My Coffee Yet. It was a Saturday morning a couple of years ago when my youngest was still five. A delightful five year old, if ever there was one.
Easter:She came bouncing into my room to wake me up and remind me that it was time for ballet, time for ballet, time for ballet! I was not a morning person. Emphatically, I was not a morning person. Not, not, not. Saturday morning, Saturday morning, Saturday morning, Saturday morning, Saturday morning, Saturday morning.
Easter:Those two words put together side by side should and could bring a slow stretching smile that melted over my face as I daydreamed of no alarms, no work to rush to, no high heels and pantyhose, no rushing four kids breakfasts, four kids buses, or rides to school to coordinate. Such a lovely thought. The daydream ended there. That year, the dance studio she belonged to decided that the children in her age group would begin at 08:45AM. 08:45 on a Saturday morning.
Easter:Rude. That was the breathe deep, stretch slowly. Oh, what a lazy lingering stretch feels. And I smiled at her effervescence. I was ready for one of the above lingering lazy stretches until I looked at the clock.
Easter:Oh my god. It was 08:25. Oh my god. I kicked into rush, rush, rush mode. Considering the drive to the studio was twenty minutes long, we were already late.
Easter:Rush, rush, rush, I threw on some sweats and flipped my hair up into a fast messy ish ponytail. I rush, rush, rushed her into the ballet outfit and her hair into a fast doorknob bun. I quickly grabbed her some fruit and granola and had her in the car in record time. Ten minutes. Woo hoo!
Easter:I was out of breath, slightly frazzled, proud of my efficiency and felt a headache brewing. Damn, I had not had time to make my coffee. I hated not having coffee. I've always been one of those people. I have always had to have coffee every morning, not just for the caffeine.
Easter:There was the ritual, the smell of it brewing heavenly, the first sip of roasted deliciousness and then the ah that followed every first sip. Rush, rush, rush into the car we went. Proud of myself but grumpy, I had left without coffee. Not good. So not good.
Easter:I usually woke up a little before my children as I was one of those people who needed absolute silence around me and no human interaction whatsoever until well after my first cup of coffee, preferably after my second. I like to pretend that I could actually have quiet time in the morning. In the car, on her way, grumpy but proud to have her only ten minutes late, my little one in her joyful bubbly little voice asked me, Mommy, can I ask you something? I could not have a discussion now no matter how sweet and lovely her voice was. I was fuzzy, foggy and feeling frazzled.
Easter:I took a breath and said, Sweetheart, if you could ask me on the ride home, that would be much better. Mommy hasn't had coffee yet and I'm a little bit grumpy and I need some quiet time this morning. We can talk all the way home. Okay? Fine, mommy.
Easter:But can I just ask you something? I felt guilty for it, but I was irritable and didn't wanna be, which made me more irritated with myself. I took a deep breath. I prayed for patience. Oh my little love, she was so lovely.
Easter:I smiled. She deserved my best and I meant it but that damn irritability stood in the way of what I wanted as opposed to how I was tempted to respond. Honestly, the smile was more a tight, I'm trying to smile, but I genuinely tried. Okay, my little one, but then we're going to be quiet for a while, okay? But mommy, when you were five, did you know how to be quiet for a whole ride to ballet?
Easter:Well, I didn't have ballet classes, sweetheart, but I guess I was quiet if I needed to be. I was trying hard. I made sure to give her a sweeter smile now. I sighed with relief. She asked her question.
Easter:I answered. Done. So now my angel, how about we listen to music and sing our favorite songs and mommy won't be grumpy? Okay, mommy. Silence.
Easter:Oh, I had not expected that. Ah, my lips relaxed into a little smile as I allowed the joy of only the songs to wrap their lovely blanket around us. Me, the music, and, But mommy, how did you know how to be quiet when you were five years old? What did you do with all the words that you had to say? Oh dear, I was feeling less like a good mother and more like a guilty villain.
Easter:I took a deep breath. I tried but failed, ending up giving a fake tight smile to her. Well sweetheart, think of it like this. You don't actually have to say all of the things your head thinks. You can just think them and then remember to say them later.
Easter:One second of silence. Two seconds of silence. I was hopeful. Guilty as I did not want to bruise her feelings, but hopeful. But mommy, I'm not good at remembering words to remember and I just have to talk them.
Easter:I don't know how to not say them. Now this was true and I heard a hint of distress in her voice. This child had somehow gotten the imaginative little idea somewhere along her way that meant somebody better speak quickly to fill it. Silence meant somebody was forgetting to talk, specifically her. Silence meant that she was failing at filling the void of conversation with the incessant little chattering that had come to be her norm.
Easter:She spent the days fluttering from one little activity to the next, chatting away to either me, Papoo, the dog, or if all else failed, herself. Whenever I was in the house, if she was not stuck to me like a little puppy that was always stuck to her, I could hear her sweet little voice sing songing away. There were benefits to this. It meant I never worried about how she was feeling about any particular situation. I always knew where she was, what she was doing, and who she was doing it with.
Easter:To a mom of four, that was kind of a strange relief. Anyone in her world, whether they wanted to or not, knew exactly what she was thinking. It was like a constant stream of conversation, thinking, opinions, and ideas coming from her pretty little mouth. Occasional tinkling laughter, occasional correction to the dog, questions galore, and never a breath in between. Well, sweetheart, just try to practice it for school.
Easter:Try to save your ideas and questions like a little list of special things for us to talk about on the ride home. I know you like to talk a lot but this is just a good time to maybe practice not talking. Silence. 1,001, 2,002, 3,000 but mommy! Now her voice was actually quaking.
Easter:Oh no. I felt like such a bad mother. Oh my gosh. I felt horrible. But mommy, mommy, I just don't know how to keep the words inside.
Easter:How did you learn to be quiet, mommy? When I go to school and the teacher tells us to be quiet, if she's talking or telling me a story, it isn't that hard. And we get in trouble if we talk when we're not supposed to. But you aren't talking, and I wanna talk to you, and I don't know how to keep the words inside. Mommy.
Easter:Mommy. Maybe you could talk and then I could listen, and then I won't talk. Mommy, when you were five, was it easy for you to be quiet? Did you like to talk to your mommy too? Did your mommy teach you how to be quiet?
Easter:Who did you talk to when you were supposed to be quiet, mommy? I didn't talk. I didn't respond. But I sat in the driver's seat and I listened and I smiled. A real smile with love for her spreading warmly throughout me.
Easter:Her beautiful little voice filled every second. The whole twenty minutes with my lack of caffeine and a lovely headache that somehow didn't matter anymore. Twenty minutes of talking about not talking. I started to giggle as I found it funny and rather incredible that a five year old could talk about not talking without a break for twenty minutes. I looked back at her in her car seat.
Easter:I smiled. It was only twenty minutes. Joy had taken over. As I sit here this morning, still early in the day two entire years later, I can hear her. She's in her room coloring, and I'm positive that she's making some colorful little masterpiece that will be hand delivered to me within the hour.
Easter:Our room dwarfs are both ajar. She's chattering away, even with the TV on, asking herself whether the blue or the green will look better with the pink. And should she use the smelly markers or the thin ones? Oh, she made a mistake. That's okay.
Easter:She's changing it to another color. Mommy's gonna like it better. Little footsteps. Here she is, hand delivered treasure, a beautiful picture with three colorful flowers. I am really smiling.
Easter:What a happy little picture, like happy little her. Time to stop writing about her. She has to tell me something. It's okay though. I've already had my coffee.
Easter:She makes me smile.