Southern Woman on the Skids

  I had an archenemy as a kid. Not really. Just sort of an elementary scapegoat that I could lay the blame on in my mind. I was a funny kid that liked to read and be silly so my enemies stayed in my subconscious. But having a little girl, you see the mean girls rear their heads. Charlie is a lot like me. She marches to her own beat, and I love that. But sometimes that beat strikes the wrong chord and I see her cut off. Cut out of things.  And it sucks. I know the feeling. It stings just as bad as an adult. I am so spoiled with my childhood friends. At any moment they will have my back. They get me and they love me and my kids unconditionally. As I do them and theirs.  I was speaking with another mom just this week about how hard it is to watch from the sidelines as your child faces rejection or drama in social situations. How hard it is to bite your tongue and just hug them right. To snuggle next to them and tell them stories of all the awkward and hurtful moments you had...

  My mom was admitted to hospice today.  I prayed this morning, on the way to my ultrasound, clutching my steering wheel in the Atlanta traffic, “God, please just let this little baby be ok. Please let her heart be beating and let her be healthy. Please.” I was terrified that on the same day my mom was officially terminal I would lose my daughter. I mourned them both for that forty five minute drive. But I didn’t lose her. Baby girl Hunnicutt is growing ahead of schedule. Her little heart beat was strong and so was she. The doctors and nurses beamed at me, “She is perfect!” She is. She is perfect.  I was so happy. I wanted to call my mom.  Today was hard. Today it all sort of fell on top of me. The weight of it all. I can still smell my mom. I used to tuck my face into her neck when I was little. And I can still smell her mama smell.  So I did what any grieving woman would do. I scrolled through Zillow.  Many of you know I have a thing with houses. I ...

  I stay in touch with people. My close friends are women I have known since I was nine years old . So the fact that I message back and forth with a colleague from fifteen years ago isn’t all that strange. But what is strange is when she was cleaning out her desk and found THE manuscript. The manuscript I flew home to write with my mom when an agent replied to me asking for the first twenty pages. The only manuscript my mom and I wrote together. She is sending it to me and I cannot wait to get my hands on it. To hear my moms voice in it. To see if my writing has changed at all.  I am pregnant again. With a baby girl. We are over the moon. But my mom is dying. It’s happening faster and faster. I haven’t written because it’s all a little much. Life and death all rolled up into one.  That manuscript being found right when it did feels like more than a coincidence to me. I am so grateful that I have been given this little treasure. This moment in time with my mom. It reminds ...

  Sometimes life is heartbreaking. And then all of the sudden the clouds part for a moment. We are in a moment where the sun is shining. Charlie is thriving. Ziggy is happy and starting a new chapter soon. Weldon adores them both and now we will have another little girl to grow up with. Another sister. More noise and mess. Another little woman to raise. Weldon adores Charlie. Charlie has taken to her big sister role so well. I tell her all the time how I wanted a little sister. I wanted someone else in the crew.  I have always loved a full house. My dearest friends and the moms I admire have a mess of kids. I would be the friend that showed up for coffee and sat on the couch watching all of the activity. Charlie and Ziggy grew up surrounded by the big families of my friends and they fell right into the rhythm of it. I always wanted that, and now Rob and I have created a bustling little house.  The little girls will share a room so that at night I can stand by the door and...

  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...

  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 ...

  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.