Southern Woman on the Skids

  My dad often tells us that mom knew it was really important to start traveling with us kids. She said before they knew it, we would be out of the house, so she wanted to make memories while she could. She had a travel agent, but her and our dear family friend Mrs. Roberts scoured Fodor’s for the best hotels and excursions so that they could have a blueprint of what we would be doing. Our bookcase was stocked with worn travel books from all over the world. Little notes in the margins with times we  would arrive at a place or if it was miserable. Those vacations are some of my very best memories of my mom. She worked so hard to make them wonderful. And even when things got mixed  up or a flight was delayed, that was all part of the adventure.  Things are more complicated now. It should be easier, right? It’s not. There are  so many sites that once you fall down a “vacation hole” as Rob calls them, it can be impossible to decide which choice is best.  Well, in honor of my mom and her ol

 Sometimes life pulls the rug out. Other days it opens an antique door with a perfect stained glass window. I’ll explain. I love houses. I love OLD houses. I scroll away my stress on Zillow and Circa:Old Houses. I remember wandering through homes for sale around town with my mom, who also loved houses.  One is deeply rooted in my memories. I was maybe five years old. It was a grand Victorian off the Marietta square and she was glorious. My mom stood chatting with the realtor as I explored. Dreaming of running up and down the stairs at Christmas and finding secret treasures in the attic.  I begged. I pleaded. “Mom please! Can we please buy it!”  She shook her head. “It just needs too much work, Megan.” When I pass the house now. Beautifully restored and pristine, I think of standing in it with my mom. And then mine appeared. I was in a “I’m not looking for a house” phase. But I was sitting on my porch. The sun was warm. And I was just sitting there so why not just see.   It wasn’t the o

  Sometimes I forget that my writing is not mine alone. Let’s be clear. I’m pregnant. Very pregnant. Yesterday I was  feeling all of my 28 weeks. I am also geriatric. Forty six and pregnant. It’s not easy. Thankfully I have Rob. He brings me chocolates when he runs errands. He is a super dad. He holds me when my heart breaks over my mom. He smiles and says, Ok. Tell me,” when I get some idea or another.  I am not alone in this. I have a little tribe of people that stand behind me daily.  So yesterday when I vomited out my pregnant sleepy emotions on the page and threw it into the stratosphere, I may have broken some hearts. Within moments my sweet mother in law sent me the most thoughtful and encouraging message. My husband sat with me and held my hand.  I am not alone. I am not in a corner. And Rob was out there sowing the rows of our life while I had my tantrum.  Today I’ll get up and help him.

  My life isn’t really my own. People see me as flighty. Scattered. Not the brightest bulb. Someone who isn’t one to count on. One who is disorganized and discombobulated. I don’t dress well and I can’t make much work. But I am funny. So I’m good for a laugh. But don’t ask me about anything important. Because I will fail.  It’s wearisome. And frustrating. I feel the dirt under my nails from  trying my damndest to make my little life bloom. But somehow I’m stuck in this place. Some seat in the corner. And I know I need to just stand up and get out of that corner and back to digging in the dirt planting my own damn life. 

  I think my adrenaline has run out. Rob and I have been rowing our tiny boat against stormy seas for months, and now we are just bailing the water out and trying to stay on course. So my drive to just survive is gone and I can feel all the pain.  I went to church today. My mom’s funeral was at the church where I went as a kid. The church where I was an acolyte. The church where I discovered what faith meant to me. It was an Episcopal church and it felt like home. So I went to the local Episcopal church in our town. I had been before but for some reason at the time it wasn’t the right place.  Today it was. It felt like home again. Weldon toddled around and I tried to listen to the liturgy through the big wooden doors. Finally, I wandered back to the nursery and just let her play.   There was no one else there so I sat in the rocking chair and just let myself feel safe. I cried for my mom and my sweet sick husband and my heart that was beating too fast and knew I wasn’t alone. 

  Yesterday was my moms funeral. Because Rob and I are both crippled at the moment, my sister set to planning it. It was beautiful. There was a trumpeter and amazing food and music. People from every stage of moms life filed in and gave hugs and cried along with us. My friends and their parents held onto me and reminded me that I have a team of mothers to help me through this life. I wailed alongside Ziggy through the service. But at the end. The priests stood over moms ashes. And they gave her back. That was what they said. We give her back to you Lord.  It struck me.  I know that my children are not my own. I raise them and love them but I believe they belong to God. It’s my job to love them like Christ would and let them go.  And that's what I had to do with mom. She was here to ferry me on my way. And then she had to go back. She belongs to God.  I knew it in my heart, but seeing the priest pray over her. Seeing my son weep for her. And being surrounded by all the people whose