Southern Woman on the Skids

  During the morning shuffle, Rob asked me in passing what I would be up to for the day. I sat at the table, coffee and puzzle set in front of me. My brain flashed the  piles of dirty clothes hiding behind the laundry room door, the messy beds and disorganized pantry.  My mom always told me, if your machines are running, you’ve done your job. So, if the dishwasher and washing machine were busy, my mom would make a tuna fish sandwich and sit in her spot reading a mystery.  These days I feel like I am supposed to be doing more. We all are told that we need to make fresh baby food, constantly be engaging with our kids, have a pristine house all while being the right BMI and twirling in kitten heels.  I call BS. My husband tells me, if I come home and you are happy, I am happy. My dad was the same with my mom. I don’t want to live in squalor. I am always trying to do right by my kids. So once in a while, I have a day when I follow my mom’s advice. I set the machines...

  Our family lived on a busy road when Heather and I were little. There was no running out into the street to ride bikes. Instead, we ran next door, to Mrs. Rhoades house. Anna Kate lived next door. Along with her brother, Danny, who terrified me. Mostly because he wasn’t really around, so I all knew of him were stories told to me by Heather and  Anna Kate. Urban legends that made Heather seem like a pussy cat of a big sister.  We spent days running up the little hill between houses, along the well worn dirt path between bushes. Digging up Mrs. Rhoades’s yard to make smurf villages, playing in Anna Kate's room and tip-toeing through the “fancy” living room. There was a tool shed out back that we were warned to steer clear of that I thought must contain some kind of mystery that I was desperate to solve.  Sometimes we would stay for dinner, always on spaghetti night. I sat in the wooden high chair, slightly higher than the rest of the family. Heather loved Mrs Rhoades...

  I wasn’t a kid that gave my parents gifts. I assumed I was enough of a gift. Also my mom always balked at the idea. “If I want something, I’ll get it for myself.” she would say.  Heather was the one that would manage to get a card. Heather is funny. She is smart and biting and has always been the one that you wanted at the table at dinner for entertainment. She always found the perfect card that would put my parents in stitches. They would quote the punch line of whatever card she found for weeks.  I would hear my parents laughing as they read the card. My mother’s hiccuping laughter ringing through the house, “Oh that is choice! Ellis, look at that!”  Then I would hear my dad mumble out the card and its punchline and bang the kitchen table, laughing with my mom. I used to love when Heather would come home from college for that reason. She cracked my parents up. She broke that awkward teenage tension that was there without her. She brought noise. I would be upstair...

  This morning I slept in. So did the baby. I woke up to Rob whistling, the baby cooing along and the smell of coffee being made. Heaven. This is what I always wanted. It’s not much.  A family. A man that loved me and told me I was pretty and would bring me coffee in the morning. A man that would wake up when I had a hard day and let me sleep. A garden that was trying to grow. Friends that would laugh at my jokes and love my oddity. Parents that would hold my hand and tell me they are proud and be there for me to lean on. A sister to call when the world turns over so she can turn it right again or die trying. Kids that fall and get up and apologize and forgive.  Yesterday was a complicated emotional day. But today is bright. And I am happy.

  When I was in my twenties, I wrote a book. Well, I started one. It has the same basic ingredients as the one I am working on these days. A group of 12 year old girls, a cemetery and a chilling adventure that happens during one of their weekly sleepovers.  I know. It sounds pretty good.  It’s not really, but it was my first. I was so eager to publish a book. I think in part because my mom always talked about writing a book. I wanted to reach goals for her. I wanted her to be proud of me.  This being before Twitter, I found an agent via some sort of book. I remember I had this image of her in my head. Long cascading hair, a sunlit office on some street filled with brownstones.  I wrote the query letter and described my book. I left out the part that it was only four pages at this point. I assumed she would read my letter and my genius would shine through.  About two weeks later. She wrote back. Not only did she wrote back, she asked for the first twenty pag...

  When I was 12 I became an acolyte at my church. I remember feeling like I was part of the cast. I was I guess. I would quietly follow the cross, holding my candle so carefully, pretending to be like the statues of angels you see in the cemetery. Quiet and perfectly reverent with just the right sort of thoughtful look on my face. Whenever I smell candle wax it reminds me of sitting behind the altar, watching the people in the congregation.  Being twelve was confusing. I wanted to stay a kid.  I wasn’t ready for boys and makeup. I didn’t care about clothes or hairspray. I hated having to go into the girls bathroom at school. All the other girls would be fixing their hair and talking about eyeshadow and periods. I just wanted to get out of school so I could read or go into the woods play.  Sitting in church with my fluffy white robe covering me was comforting. There I was ageless, like a cherub, always young and innocent. Special occasions were even better. Christmas ...

  Today after school the family was gathered on the front porch talking about the day. We were discussing what I could write about next when it was decided that this blog will be a 365 day endeavor. I will write and post daily. I can’t guarantee quality, but I can guarantee quantity. Daily posts detailing the strange and mildly magical life of a forty something mom and her family.  My daughter asked me if I wanted to be famous.  I want a clean kitchen, a flower garden and twelve straight hours of sleep. “No, I don’t want to be famous.”  I want to have something that my family and friends can read when I disappear. So they can hear my voice reminding them of all the crazy wonderful things in our life. All the stupid frustrating moments that one day we will miss.  I have one story my mom wrote. One. The pages are worn from being read and passed around and read again. My son keeps it by his bed.  I have so many blurry memories but one story. One story that her...