Southern Woman on the Skids

  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.