I Love How...

I love how, even when he is sleeping, he will reach out and place his hand upon me, making sure I am still here.  I am.

Just One of Those Days, Part II

Have you ever had "I don't feel good, and I want to pout day"?  I think we all need one now and then, and today was my day.  My husband and I argued before bed last night, and of course, as he snoozed, I analyzed every single word of a five minute waste of time.  I have to admit my stupidity; I wasted a full night sleep agonizing over a five minute argument, which in the long run, won't matter.  I feel lost when we fight.  It brings out my insecurities.  It brings out my irrational fears.  It brings that cruel, nagging voice in my head.  Today I needed to heal from it all, and I fortunately had the luxury to do so.  Funny how I can argue with him, but I need to step back and repair myself from myself.  I am the cliché...my own worse enemy. 

So, how did I celebrate my self-proclaimed day of rest and laziness.  First of all, I read and read and read.  I picked up Elizabeth Berg's The Year of Pleasures, from 2005 and read it all in one, selfish rush.  I almost wished I had saved it for the winter, because it would go perfectly with my favorite throw and a cup of hot chocolate.  It is a small read, and there seems to be so much the protagonist isn't saying.  It could have easily been expanded into a larger novel.  I read one review on GoodReads that said it was like a Hallmark novel, and yes, I can see this as a Saturday afternoon Hallmark movie, or even a woman's television drama.  It focuses on Betta and her grief following the death of her husband.  She is completely lost when he dies, and leaves Boston for the mid-west to finish the dreams they shared together.  My only complaint is that when it ends, it ends.  I really wish it could have been longer and allowed me to see their lives as they continue on.  Just when you fall in love with them, they are gone. 

The best thing about this book is my belief that I was meant to read it.  A friend of mine, just last Friday, asked if I had ever read Elizabeth Berg, and no, I hadn't.  She was once an Opera pick, and Opera and I don't always agree on literature; but A.'s description told me I had to give her a try, especially one book she just finished.  She talked about how the author captured the texture and the little beauties of being a woman.  The tiny details brought the characters to life for her and allowed her to identify with them. I went to a used bookstore Saturday and bought the book...because of its cover.  Yep, that clinched the deal for me.  I just finished A Homemade Life last week, and the cover was too beautiful to forget.  This cover has the same sense of peace and home.  I didn't fully realize it was the same book my friend loved so well, until later that evening.  I am so thankful to have found it, and it isn't going into my books to swap.  I now plan to go deeper in and annotate the lines that meant the most.  I will remember it for a long while.

Just One of Those Days

Seriously? Baby Steps Toward Aging.

According to Redbook, the chances of me getting pregnant naturally is 20%.  I am too old.  What?  How did that happen?  I don't want another baby, at this point.  I am good with two step-sons, one girl child/woman, and one boy who is growing into his own stinkiness; however, I like knowing I could if I wanted one.  I guess there lies the rub. 

I have truly enjoyed my early 40s.  Life isn't that horrible, and I have a husband to thinks I am beautiful and kids who love me.  Yet, here I am, facing my own mortality because I may/may not be fertile anymore.  I wonder what is really bugging me:  age, my definition of womanhood, or not being in control of these changes?  Maybe it is the fact my ability to grow a full beard is right around the corner.

I have high school friends who are now grandparents.  Good for them.  They love their grandbabies and love posting pictures on Facebook.  I am not ready for that, at all.  For some reason, when I think of being a granny, I picture the other side of the mountain, and I am clinging to the peak, with every ounce of strength in me.  When my own granny met me, she was only forty-six, five years older than what I am now.  I wasn't her first.  My other grandmother was only in her 30s when she was called "Mamaw" for the first time.  Something about that just ain't right.

Different time; different expectations, I guess.

Now, for my oldest, I don't want to see you rushing toward pink or blue.  Find yourself, travel, meet the "one", be satisfied with yourself before you even consider it.  Move slow.  Not for me, but for yourself.  I was twenty-six, when I first held you, and I now realize, I was still too much of a baby.  You are the best thing that ever happened to me, but I could have done better for you.  Life moves too quickly, why add to the rush.

Now, with that being said, don't wait until 41, unless you are wealthy enough for doctors to help.  Twenty percent, baby!