Southern Woman on the Skids

  I keep dropping the ball. I will start to write a post. Then I put it down. Tomorrow is my parents 55th anniversary. So I couldn’t look away. I went to see my mom a few weekends ago. I warned the kids that things had gotten worse. That this may be the last time they see her. That she may not recognize them. That she may not recognize Ziggy. Which blows me away. Ziggy. She sat for hours rocking him his first weekend of life. He would do the same for her in her last moments if he could. She didn’t even look at him when he sat with her. He just held her hand. I could see his little heart crumble. He wasn’t ready. I’m not ready.  She is just a whisper now. I keep thinking, “I should call mom.” And then I remember. I can’t.  My family and I met my dad at the High Museum this last weekend. I think it was a bit overwhelming for Dad and I. So many memories of mom. So many moments there as a family. Museums were sacred to her. And to my dad. So I followed him around looking at him like I was

  I had daydreams about being a March girl. Not Beth clearly. Jo. The one who wrote and chopped off her hair and directed the other girls in plays in the cluttered attic of their lovely but somewhat disheveled home.  I also had this image of having daughters. Daughter that would wear messy brains and run around barefoot and would smirk at the establishment. They would do their own thing. Sneak off to read and laugh and walk around picking flowers in our overgrown garden.  Most of that has come true. Of course our messy garden is smack in a neat and tidy neighborhood. Sorry to our neighbors. And I have a son thrown in the mix. But they all are perfectly unkempt without looking unfortunate. They run around barefooted. They smirk at the ways of the world and march to their own beat.  Charlie has bonded so much from being home with Welles for school. She is growing into an incredible and living older sister. I imagine Welles toddling into her room in the next year or so and crawling into C

  I have missed a few posts. More important moments were kicking up some leaves in our life. Winds changing and all that. So I’ll give myself a break. It will all be good. But for the moment I am stuck right where I am. Waiting on something that is or isn’t.  Life is crazy when you get those rollercoaster moments. You know there is a chance there may be a twisting loop ahead, but your stomach still drops. Even if you’ve ridden the ride before.  So while I'm stuck here waiting I am starting to pick back at The Book. I hired an editor that helped me at a conference years ago. She remembered it, and seemed genuinely interested to help get it ready to submit.  Also I have four large boxes of freshly picked books for my Hunni Hound Children’s Book Pop Up Shop sitting on my kitchen table. But I keep looking at the clock. And waiting to see what is. Or isn’t.

  I’m sleepy tonight. I’ve been so busy with back to school and all that comes with it I have crashed at night and had a few posts slip by. So tonight, because I am tired I thought I would just post a story I had written a while ago. But that’s not the point. The point is to write 365 posts. One post a day. If I miss, I make it up. So here I am. Rain against the window. Sleeping dog and husband curled up beside me, writing my post. I was thinking about finishing our basement. When the estimate came back I quickly changed my mind. But I have so many great memories hanging out in our weird basement on Cheatham Hill Rd. With its 70’s green carpet. It was our hideaway. Growing up My friends all had basements where we would have sleepovers and tell secrets. So I envisioned this for my own kids.  Instead, we set up a chewed up couch (dogs) and some chairs. Moved some shelves around to create a “sewing nook” for charlie and sort of arranged the items from Charlies playroom (now Weldon’s nurse

  Weldon is basically a toddler. She is cruising like a champ. She crawls at hyper speed and wiggles and twists. She is becoming very independent and laughs and chatters all day. She has started dancing. It’s more like head banging really, which makes her dad and aunt happy. And she has four sharp teeth which she wields ferociously a la Sunny Baudelaire.  It went so fast. I feel like I was just swollen and pregnant, like I was just getting up all hours at night. And here I am. Sleeping soundly. Feeding my baby off my own plate and planning a first birthday party.  She’s not the only one growing. They are all growing at hyper speed. It’s just harder to see it when they get a little older. But it’s happening.  Even with Rob and I. We talked over dinner about how we are starting to feel like adults. Now. In our late forties.  It’s a crazy feeling. But I’m settling into it. Knowing that my life is becoming more my own. 

  When I was a kid I loved visiting the Marietta Square. We would visit Trick Shop and The Pickle Patch Children’s Bookstore. You could hear trains rolling past and church bells ringing. Those sounds are like home to me. I remember walking over the train tracks holding my mom’s hand. Now I hear the train and church bells from my front porch. I wonder if it will be so deep rooted in my own kids.  I feel like I fail them daily. I know that I am a good mama and I try and tell them I love them and provide boundaries, but it’s hard to know that they are supposed to break away, I do know that, and at the same time try and fill them in these last years with all the stability and integrity that you can.  It’s hard to see them brush past you when they walk in. But I know it’s okay when I see the light come back. And it does. And then we are a family again. I will do my best to keep that light inside of him lit up, so that even when he isn’t here with us, We can help light his way. 

 There  are ghosts living in my house. I see them running around the feet of my kids. One is a little girl that I knew. She giggles at Weldon and I hear her singing during the day. The other is a little boy. He stays close to me. Always trying to slip a tiny invisible hand into mine. The house is so full of my kids and these ghosts. All of them going about their daily business, and sometimes I get them mixed up. I think the tiny boy clinging to my legs is the grown sixteen year old who I try to grab onto as he rushes out the door. The little girl is friends with my big girl. They are still one in the same. The same sass, the same attitude, the same singing.  One day they will all be ghosts. My house will be full of little ghosts that filled my life with purpose. And the adults that they became will hold my hand until I am invisible.

  I have been commiserating with friends about how our teenagers are learning to play the system of our house rules. They are learning that sometimes it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.  Zig starts his junior year of high school tomorrow. At our local public high school. It’s huge. He went to orientation with my sister because I couldn’t go and Heather is vastly cooler than me so she was the better option anyhow. I think it went all right. He saw his classes and got a parking pass. Heather loved it and said she wanted to go back to high school. I’m not sure they could handle her.  I am so excited for him and have been thinking about my own junior year. I was terrified of letting my parents down. I always asked permission. I was close to them. And so we’re my friends. I want Zig to have his fun. Do the stupid fun things he should be doing. But I also want to create boundaries that will catch him before he has to really ask for forgiveness.  Meanwhile Charlie is doing so