Tiny Hands – Essay by Debra Arbit

To What We Lost – Debra Arbit

How bittersweet the moments that were joyous but now belong to the arms of the past. Debra Arbit eloquently talks about this as she fondly remembers her early motherhood days.

Tiny Hands

I miss how tiny their hands were. The way they could barely wrap themselves all the way around my thumb. I miss how their razor sharp little fingernails would scratch my chest in uncoordinated jerky movements as they ate teetering somewhere between tickling me and scratching me. I miss the overwhelming need to put their entire hand inside of my mouth in some strange animalistic desire to eat my own young and it taking every ounce of self-control not to bite down with full force and eat their index fingers for a mid-morning snack. I miss searching every detail and measuring each finger to see which baby had my thumbs or my grandmas crooked knuckles or my husband’s flat, square nail beds.

I don’t miss cutting their paper-thin nails and nicking their delicate skin. I don’t miss having to personally wash six hands before and after every meal and art project and outdoor adventure. I don’t miss constantly being touched for endless hours a day or having my hair yanked or being afraid to wear earrings in case a toddler decided to stick their pudgy pinky through the hoop and pull them clear through my lobe. I don’t miss watching as they would carelessly touch every germ-infested surface at the mall play area and then stick their hands in their mouths with reckless abandon. I don’t miss repeating the trope “hands are not for hitting” on an hourly basis. I don’t miss trying and failing to get all five fingers inside of winter gloves before leaving the house.

I will miss carefully painting “no bite” nail polish on my youngest’s thumbs to curb his thumb sucking. I will miss when I can no longer feel both of their hands on my back because they still don’t reach all the way around my body. I will miss the upper thigh squeezes when their fingers dig deep into my legs as they try to prove to me how strong they are getting. I will miss their tiny fists they make when they show off their super hero muscles. I will miss watching them awkwardly try and then master new skills like knitting and cutting cucumbers. I will miss how willing they are to take my hand when it’s offered and walk proudly in front of others with their hand enveloped in mine. I will miss when we can no longer count their ages on one or two hands. And more than anything, I will miss some day not seeing or touching or washing these six hands that I created every single day and think how very lucky I was to be the first person to ever hold them in mine.


Debra Arbit is a woman who is a sucker for a goal. After recently starting her second business (athenastrategy.co), she can officially be termed a serial entrepreneur. In an effort to not become a “boring old person,” she enjoys writing about her weird and funny life. When she’s not wiping peanut butter off one of her three kid’s faces, she loves to write and feed people to the point of bursting. She’s a big fan of cream in coffee and can usually be found asleep on her couch by 8:15 with her husband Alex by her side.

Lice Isn’t Easy – Humorous Essay by David-Matthew Barnes

A Dash of Whimsy Series –

Come read a fun and humorous essay about a young writer and a school play! You don’t want to miss David-Matthew Barnes’ entertaining work!

Lice Isn’t Easy
by David-Matthew Barnes

My playwriting career began with a typo.

As a child fevered with constant creativity, I lost hours flipping through dictionaries, fascinated by the meaning and sources of words. I conquered all competition at spelling bees, relished in my power to nail grown-up vocabulary like humanitarian and sassafras. I read everything I could get my hands on: TV Guide, cereal boxes, countless Nancy Drew books. While my friends tattooed the playground asphalt with chalky hopscotch squares and x’s and o’s, I devoted recess time to scrawling smudged haikus about sunsets and crocodiles.

I wrote my first short story at the age of seven. The assignment from my second-grade teacher was to write a few paragraphs about Halloween. I was charged with a sweet surge of adrenaline; the rush of a previously unknown exhilaration. No one had ever asked me to write a story before. I accepted the challenge and sharpened my No. 2 pencil. Lead hit paper and I experienced a state of reverie. While other kids wrote about ghosts and candy corn and haunted houses, I wrote a five-page story titled The Blue Witch. The mini epic told the tale of a sad witch named Isabelle who was suffering from a deep depression. Shunned by others, Isabelle decided that she did not want to be a witch anymore; she was craving friendship and true love. The reaction to my story was one of shock and awe. My teacher kept me after class. She looked down at me as I sat at my desk, paralyzed with fear. I watched her mouth; her lips curled up into a proud smile as she breathed on me, “You have a special gift.”

If writing was my best friend; television was my secret crush. I was thrilled by the plights of Electra Woman and Dyna Girl, mesmerized by the escapades of Charlie’s Angels. Unlike my friends, I wasn’t drawn into these shows because of the action and the actresses; I loved the stories. I would faithfully tune in to watch each episode, captivated by the story arcs and plot twists.

By the time I was ten, I graduated from reading young adult books by Judy Blume and Norma Fox Mazer to the risqué worlds of Danielle Steele and Jackie Collins. My television viewing habits shifted, too. Summer vacation became a boring blur of reruns of The Jeffersons and One Day at A Time. It was around that time that I found a new passion: The Young and The Restless. I discovered the show by way of my grandmother. She introduced me to her favorite program and I was instantly hooked. The show appealed to be on many levels; the parallel storylines, the emotional conflicts, the nail-biting suspense. It was by watching The Young and The Restless that my voice as a writer began to form and emerge.

At the age of eleven, I unintentionally wrote my first stage play. As my devotion to The Young and The Restless was bordering on an obsession, I had been inspired to write my own soap opera. For months, I filled up spiral notebook after notebook with characters existing in a world I titled Life Isn’t Easy. The epic story was set in a small town in Georgia (although I was born and raised in California), rich with love triangles, conspiracies, lustful doctors and nurses, god-like private investigators and ingénues that could have been canonized. My characters had glamorous names like London Crèbach and April Montgomery. The dialogue was riddled with backbiting insults and heated innuendo. The settings were decadent and populated with the affluent.

In sixth grade, I was a student at Theodore Judah Elementary School in Sacramento. It was there that I would meet a woman who would forever change my life: my first drama teacher. When the sign-up list for after school acting lessons circulated around class, I eagerly penned my name, anxious to discover a new universe that would eventually become an extension of my soul. Mauvey, the curly haired drama teacher, was everything that I wanted to be: hip, cool, bohemian, artistic, and fearless. She inspired me, challenged me, listened to me and most importantly, encouraged me. I delved headfirst into the world of drama and I swam like an Olympic medalist.

Two weeks after afternoons that consisted of charades, improvisational games and trust exercises, Mauvey announced to the twelve of us in the after-school program that she had decided we were ready to produce a play. In her professional opinion, we had each learned a mutual respect for drama and had potential to be great actors. To my eleven-year-old ears, this was the first form of assuredness that I had received that being creative was a good thing. While the words of my second-grade teacher stayed with me, this felt much bigger, more important, as if I were being initiated into a secret society.

Mauvey said she wanted suggestions: what play did we want to perform? Most of us had never read or seen a play, so the group fell mute and shifted with a collective awkwardness. Finally, I spoke, “I wrote a soap opera. It’s called Life Isn’t Easy.” I shoved a few of my ratty notebooks across the shiny wooden floor of the school auditorium. Mauvey raised an eyebrow and took the notebooks. We all sat and watched as she thumbed through pages for ten minutes. My best friend, Christina, sat next to me and squeezed my hand. She had read every single word I had written; she knew how important the moment was to me. Finally, Mauvey closed the notebooks. “You wrote this?” she asked and I was scared to answer. I nodded in reply. She smiled at me, seeing something in me that would take me years to discover on my own. “This,” she said tapping the cover of the notebook on top of the pile of others. “This will be our first play.” I gulped, swallowed and Christina tightened her grip on my damp palm. Mauvey looked at me and with her words, my confidence was boosted. “You’re a wonderful writer.”

I had an identity, then. I was no longer just a face in the hallway at school; the boy in the back of the classroom who was always lost in an elaborate daydream. There was a description, a bon-a-fide explanation that described who I was: Mauvey had anointed me a writer. I suddenly had purpose, a sense of being, a new soul. Immediately, I started to see the world from a different perspective. I noticed the occupations of people around me: a waitress, a secretary, a doctor, a teacher. I was a writer.

Mauvey put us to work at once. We spent three weeks painting vividly detailed backdrops, building ornate sets, making glamorous costumes, casting roles, learning lines and rehearsing, rehearsing, rehearsing. Each day when I walked into the auditorium after school, my mind swam with excitement and pride. Through Mauvey and my classmates, a world I had imagined was coming to life. It was overwhelming and I floated through my life in a permanent state of wonder.

Two days before opening night, Mauvey came into the auditorium looking a bit dismayed and flustered. She had a stack of lemon colored papers in her hand. “Look at what they’ve done,” she told us. She put the stack on the floor for all of us to see. They were promotional fliers for the show. They looked wonderful but the printer has made one awful mistake: he had changed the title of the play to Lice Isn’t Easy. “Oh my God,” Christina said to me, who had been cast in the lead role of Lisa McGall. “Everyone will think we have lice.”

We all started to scratch our heads as if we’d been simultaneously infected. Christina whipped out a comb from her backpack and ran it through her hair violently. Derek, a future hottie with a body and the hero of my play, ran to the nearest drinking fountain and tried to maneuver his skull beneath the spigot. Stephanie and Wendy, the inseparable best friends who only spoke in unison, declared at once, “We’re gonna die!” and held onto each other as if our plane was going down.

“No,” Mauvey said, exuding authority. “We can fix this. It’s a minor setback, but as they always say, the show must go on.”

Christina stopped combing. Derek returned with wet hair. Stephanie and Wendy let go and began to breathe again.

Mauvey, the miracle worker, pulled out a black permanent marker from her mirror beaded purse that reeked of patchouli. With one single glide of her hand, she saved our reputation. She changed the “c” to an “f”. It took hours but we all changed every flier.

Friday night the auditorium was packed. Parents and siblings and teachers filled the room, all of them anxious to see Life Isn’t Easy. My mother worked the concession stand and sold her sticky Rice Krispie treats for a quarter a pop. My younger brother had to be blackmailed into being on his best behavior with promises that someone would take him to see Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo.

I was backstage, where Christina and I and our co-stars clung to each other in terror, wracked with nerves and fright. Mauvey, our creative mother, calmed us down, skyrocketed our spirits with a positive pep talk and reminded us what a talented group we were.

The curtain rose. The lights came up. The actors took their places. Their mouths opened and I watched, and I listened as my words filled the air around us. I know, I know. The play was only produced in a school auditorium at an elementary school, but in my eleven-year-old opinion, Life Isn’t Easy was way better than any episode of The Young and the Restless.

Today, the faded lemon flier hangs in my home office. Each time I look at the scripted black “f” that covers the botched “c”, I am reminded that even a typo can’t stop fate.


David-Matthew Barnes

Author. Playwright. Poet. Screenwriter.

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