(He was almost two years old when I wrote this, he’s now ten.) It’s early, early morning. When they pull up, he’s all cuddled in his baby quilt, securely fastened in his car seat and sound asleep. I can feel his mama’s worry when I open the car door and slip in. I keep her talking with my questions. She’s scared. She has a hard time trying to tell me what’s wrong. It makes me realize it hasn’t ever…
A few years ago life was clipping along for us and we seemed to be dodging bullets that were hitting many others. I’ve always kinda figured I paid my dues during a pretty nasty “childhood” and should cruise the rest of the ride. The early part of my adulthood was good; I had a happy marriage and four little girls I was crazy about and I loved being their mom. But eventually the bullets began to hit… again and again…
Its 8 a.m. My mom’s in the hospital. I’m watching her sleep. Usually she can sense when I’m in the room and her eyes pop open, but not this morning. I’m here to talk with her surgeon. We had a meeting scheduled for yesterday but he was two hours late and I eventually had to leave. I forgave him later when he called me at home to apologize with a soft southern drawl. Soft southern drawls melt…