The day started out like any other Sunday. Got up early, volunteered at church, spent the afternoon doing chores and whatnot. School here in Austin starts tomorrow and I promised my best friend to help her finish the last of the tasks for her classroom. As I was getting into her car, my phone rang and I saw it was my mom. Too much was happening in that moment, so I let it slide to voicemail.
Two hours later when I finally check my messages, tears sprang to my eyes as I heard my mom's voice:
"Honey, it's your mom. I wanted to call and let you know that your grandmother passed away in her sleep last night. Call your dad when you get a chance." My best friend looked over at me from the driver's seat.
"What is it?" she asked.
My voice trembled. "My grandmother died."
My friend was silent and the tears fell from my eyes as the realization of what I said out loud hit me. "I hadn't seen her in forever. I was going to take PTO on Wednesday and go visit her." I swallowed the lump in my throat and tried to think clearly. The kids in the backseat took notice and my friend's son piped up.
"Mommy, what's wrong with Auntie Kelly?"
"Auntie Kelly is sad, buddy. She got a very sad message."
The next few hours went by in a blur. We picked up my husband from work, started dinner, got settled in for the evening. I suddenly had the urge to bake cookies, something I hadn't done in a couple of months. It's been so hot and I got burned out on baking that I'd been taking a sabbatical from it. But all of sudden, it was damn important that I make those cookies. So important, I sent my husband to the store to go get eggs (I'd hardboiled the remaining ones earlier in the afternoon) and I ended up making my own brown sugar instead of sending him back out again for more.
Creaming butter and sugar and eggs together, I was taken back to the first time I made cookies with my grandmother. I remembered the feel of her hand on mine as we held the hand mixer together. I could hear her voice, a hint of Texas drawl as she issues instructions to me.
As I pulled the vanilla and baking soda from the cupboard, I saw chocolate pudding mix, muffin mix, cake mix, and other baking essentials stored there. I could see so clearly my grandmother's own cupboard; it was always full of the necessary items to make up a batch of cookies or a cake or jello. I loved spending time at her house during the summer because it meant I got to make something in the kitchen! I shook my head as I realized that I had inadvertently been storing things the way she did.
As the dough finally come together, I licked the batter from the spoon. The combination of salt and sweet mixed with the taste of my tears as they sprang unbidden from my eyes. I scooped a huge piece of dough, shoved it in my mouth and ran for the bedroom, where I crumpled to the floor and bawled as I simultaneously savored the fresh dough melting in my mouth. All of my memories with her came flooding through my brain in a torrent.
I've lost many relatives over the years, but none has hit me like the loss of my grandmother. Both of my families of origin haven't been the best at keeping up with each other. We have a tendency to let our human imperfections get the best of us and go long periods without speaking to one another or not at all. I haven't been the best granddaughter. In fact, I was a terrible one. I lived in the same city, a mere 20 minutes away from her, and yet I visited with her but once or twice a year. In college, just after my grandmother was diagnosed with congenital heart failure, my aunt paid me to visit my grandmother and help her with the cleaning and chores once a week. I spent my Saturday mornings scrubbing and vacuuming and running laundry. Consumed by my own youthful ignorance and emotional issues, I selfishly bowed out. I know that we shouldn't look back with regret on our actions, but that is one action I regret. And it's not that I regret missing out on that time with her. I regret the fact that I let shame and guilt from that decision wound me so deeply that I would go months in between visits when I was older and rediscovered the value of my grandmother. Had I been a bit wiser, a bit older, and a bit more compassionate, those mornings could have been some of the best I'd ever had.
In the last couple of years, I really tried to overcome that deep rooted self hatred and try to visit with her more often, but it didn't happen as nearly as much as I had hoped. But despite the fact that I rarely visited her, my grandmother was never far from my thoughts. I thought about her all the time, I prayed for her all the time, and I would call her more often than I visited.
The last time I called her, it was her birthday last Wednesday.
"You made it to 91!" I teased her.
"I sure did," she said, the tiredness evident in her voice.
"Think you'll make it to 92?" I asked. She laughed.
"I didn't think I'd make it this far. We'll see," she said.
We chatted for a good thirty minutes about a whole lot of what seemed like nothing. Our recent vacation to South Dakota. Her recent game of dominoes. The things my daughter was up to and the remarkable cheeky things she's been saying. Her doctor's visit. I wished her happy birthday and she asked me to come visit her. I told her I had PTO I needed to burn, and that I was going to take some time this week. I asked her when would be a good time to visit and she said anytime but Tuesday - she had a doctor's visit and she was hosting dominoes. I promised to call her Monday and let her know when I would make it - Wednesday or Thursday.
I booked that time off and I made a note to call her, but apparently, the Big Man Upstairs had other plans.
I wish she would have waited just another week. I know it's incredibly selfish to say that, but I wanted to visit with her one last time. I was going to make a blueberry lemon loaf and we were going to enjoy afternoon tea together. We were going to chat about her past, the things happening in my life now. We were going to sit and do crosswords or put together a jigsaw puzzle. Such mundane little things, but they would have meant the world to me, especially if it was the last time we spent together.
My cousin got married the day she died. My uncle knew something wasn't right when he kept calling to give her updates and she didn't answer. Maw Maw was a night owl; she never went to bed before midnight unless she wasn't feeling well. My aunt sent her husband to check on Maw Maw the next morning. I can't imagine what that phone call must have been like for my aunt.
Fast forward several hours later and I'm sitting on my bedroom floor, tears running down my cheeks and my chest heaving. My daughter enters and burrows her way into my arms and we both cry. She has no idea why I'm crying, just that I'm sad and she's sad too. God bless that little heart of hers! Billa proceeded to cover me with all of her blankies and stuff every single one of her most treasured dolls and stuffed animals into my arms in an attempt to make me feel better. I felt all the more terrible for having to explain to her why I was sad.
"Billa, do you remember Maw Maw?" She nods. I took a deep breath. "Baby, Mommy is sad because Maw Maw died."
"Maw Maw gone?" she asked.
"Yes," I whispered. "She's gone to be with Jesus."
"Oh," she replies. "Maw Maw was sick?"
"Yes. She was very sick."
"Oh." She digests this for a moment and then hugs me before continuing to shower me with every comforting object she possesses. This in turn makes me cry harder and finally, my husband ushers out of the room to let me be.
In the darkening bedroom, the taste of cookie dough still on my tongue, I weep for the woman I called my grandmother. I weep for the loss of my last grandparent. I weep for the regret and shame that has cracked my heart in two. I weep for lost opportunities. And yet...
The motto associated with my maiden name is Dum spero, spiro - while I have breath, I have hope. My grandmother was very lonely at the end of her life, her children and grandchildren and great grandchildren spread far and wide. But she was loved. And she was strong. She lasted eight years longer than the doctors gave her, even surviving a bout of breast cancer. She survived an abusive husband and birthed six children. She lived a very long life, and produced some of the most intelligent, compassionate, kindest, funniest, creative people I know. Her life was comprised of many salty moments, and so many sweet. Chocolate and butter and salt and sugar finally fade from my tongue as I savor that last thought.
Maw Maw may not be among the living, but she will always be in my thoughts, in my heart, and in every cookie I make.
Rest in peace, Maw Maw. I love you!
Kelly
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
SOUND OFF: The Justice System
They announced today the verdict in the Casey Anthony trial: not guilty. To be honest, I'm not surprised. And in an even more honest admittance, I'm actually relieved.
Before you get your panties in a bunch, hear me out. I've been following the case for weeks, reading just about every article on who was testifying, what evidence was presented, and the commentary about it all. My gut tells me that the jury chose correctly. They were presented with evidence, a lot of it circumstantial, a lot of it conflicting, and at the end of the day, they had to make a decision about a woman's crimes based on the facts they were given.
Do I think Casey Anthony murdered her daughter? No. Is she responsible for the child's death? Yes, I think so. Looking at pictures of Casey and Caylee and reading the testimony of her former friends and lovers, I see a young mom who struggled with motherhood, but ultimately loved her daughter. I don't see her as a person who would coldly calculate and premeditate the murder of her baby. I do see her as a person who practiced poor judgment. She drank a lot, partied a lot, spent the night with lovers and sometimes brought Caylee with her on those excursions. While those actions in and of themselves are not always bad, in excess they can lead to poor decisions. And in Casey's case, they most certainly did.
But did the jury make the wrong decision? Did they fail at their job? I don't think so and that's why it really frustrates me that a lot of people have already convicted Casey of murder a thousand times over in their minds. The justice system doesn't work on emotions. God help us if opinions from Nancy Grace, gossip columnists, or political pundits are ever entered as evidence in trials; when that happens, you best hie theeself down to your bomb shelter because that is a blinking neon sign that America is ending, friends. (And don't get me started on Nancy Grace; she is entitled to her opinion, but please, take the time to do your research and form your own thoughts before following a sensationalist news anchor.) I have to laugh when I read comments on the web along the lines of "Those jurors didn't do their job!" Ahem, actually, they did. People want to have their cake and eat it too, but if Casey were to be declared guilty today, then it would be a very sad day for democracy and America both. The legal system was set up in a way in which a judgment could be passed down without an emotional taint. We are to remain innocent until proven guilty. Be glad that the system worked properly today!
For those of you who wish that Caylee would get justice, know this: the rest of Casey's life is going to be hard. Very hard. She will be sentenced for lying to investigators and hampering a murder investigation. She will still serve time. She still has to deal with the defamation lawsuit with Zenaida Gonzalez as well as any other legalities stemming from the money she stole from former friends. When she gets out of jail, she will be hard pressed to find a job or a home. She will be very lonely as most of her friends, and even her own family have deserted her (which on another note, if it's a parent's job to love their daughter no matter what and support her, then it's no wonder that she wasn't the greatest mom herself. Look at how her family has treated her during the entire thing!).
And while that may not sound like it's that bad, Casey must live with the truth of Caylee's death on her heart every day until she dies.
My friends, today proved that justice does exist. It just might not be the way you hoped for. Imagine if things went the other way: Casey would have most likely received a death sentence, where she would wait on death row for years, receiving shelter, food, and other amenities at the expense of taxpayers until her number came up. She wouldn't have to deal with the public. She wouldn't have to get a job to pay back the legal fees and lawsuits. She'd sponge off the rest of society. And when she was finally executed, it would be as painless and humane as possible. Is that really justice for Caylee? This way is much better, because it will serve to remind a young woman of her mistakes every day. It will force her to examine her actions and accept the consequences for them. She will have to grow up and be a big girl. And who knows? Mama always said the Lord works in mysterious ways; perhaps he saw fit to give Casey another chance to atone for her sins through suffering. I can only hope that she will recognize this opportunity for what it could be, and make the best of it.
Thoughtfully,
Kelly
Before you get your panties in a bunch, hear me out. I've been following the case for weeks, reading just about every article on who was testifying, what evidence was presented, and the commentary about it all. My gut tells me that the jury chose correctly. They were presented with evidence, a lot of it circumstantial, a lot of it conflicting, and at the end of the day, they had to make a decision about a woman's crimes based on the facts they were given.
Do I think Casey Anthony murdered her daughter? No. Is she responsible for the child's death? Yes, I think so. Looking at pictures of Casey and Caylee and reading the testimony of her former friends and lovers, I see a young mom who struggled with motherhood, but ultimately loved her daughter. I don't see her as a person who would coldly calculate and premeditate the murder of her baby. I do see her as a person who practiced poor judgment. She drank a lot, partied a lot, spent the night with lovers and sometimes brought Caylee with her on those excursions. While those actions in and of themselves are not always bad, in excess they can lead to poor decisions. And in Casey's case, they most certainly did.
But did the jury make the wrong decision? Did they fail at their job? I don't think so and that's why it really frustrates me that a lot of people have already convicted Casey of murder a thousand times over in their minds. The justice system doesn't work on emotions. God help us if opinions from Nancy Grace, gossip columnists, or political pundits are ever entered as evidence in trials; when that happens, you best hie theeself down to your bomb shelter because that is a blinking neon sign that America is ending, friends. (And don't get me started on Nancy Grace; she is entitled to her opinion, but please, take the time to do your research and form your own thoughts before following a sensationalist news anchor.) I have to laugh when I read comments on the web along the lines of "Those jurors didn't do their job!" Ahem, actually, they did. People want to have their cake and eat it too, but if Casey were to be declared guilty today, then it would be a very sad day for democracy and America both. The legal system was set up in a way in which a judgment could be passed down without an emotional taint. We are to remain innocent until proven guilty. Be glad that the system worked properly today!
For those of you who wish that Caylee would get justice, know this: the rest of Casey's life is going to be hard. Very hard. She will be sentenced for lying to investigators and hampering a murder investigation. She will still serve time. She still has to deal with the defamation lawsuit with Zenaida Gonzalez as well as any other legalities stemming from the money she stole from former friends. When she gets out of jail, she will be hard pressed to find a job or a home. She will be very lonely as most of her friends, and even her own family have deserted her (which on another note, if it's a parent's job to love their daughter no matter what and support her, then it's no wonder that she wasn't the greatest mom herself. Look at how her family has treated her during the entire thing!).
And while that may not sound like it's that bad, Casey must live with the truth of Caylee's death on her heart every day until she dies.
My friends, today proved that justice does exist. It just might not be the way you hoped for. Imagine if things went the other way: Casey would have most likely received a death sentence, where she would wait on death row for years, receiving shelter, food, and other amenities at the expense of taxpayers until her number came up. She wouldn't have to deal with the public. She wouldn't have to get a job to pay back the legal fees and lawsuits. She'd sponge off the rest of society. And when she was finally executed, it would be as painless and humane as possible. Is that really justice for Caylee? This way is much better, because it will serve to remind a young woman of her mistakes every day. It will force her to examine her actions and accept the consequences for them. She will have to grow up and be a big girl. And who knows? Mama always said the Lord works in mysterious ways; perhaps he saw fit to give Casey another chance to atone for her sins through suffering. I can only hope that she will recognize this opportunity for what it could be, and make the best of it.
Thoughtfully,
Kelly
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Billa Babble: It's cool!
I've been catching up on Doctor Who, which I neglected because I just couldn't bear the thought of having to finally say goodbye to David Tennant as the Doctor [sad sigh]. But now that I've fallen in love with Matt Smith, I am eagerly awaiting Season 6 on DVD so that I can catch up on that!
I mention the good doctor, because he has a penchant for talking about how cool things are and it reminds me of some of Billa's choice phrases to reveal her enthusiasm. Case in point:
Mommy: Billa, what's that?
Billa: It's a [insert item here]. It's cool.
OR:
Mommy: Hey, Billa, I got this for you [random object].
Billa: Wow, dat's cool!
OR:
Mommy: Billa, we're going to go to [insert location here].
Billa: ALL RIGHT!!! [happy dance commences]
And it's pretty much just about everything that gets her excited these days, whether we're going to a friend's house, Target, or the doctor's office (not that Doctor, boo). Heaven forbid we go to the foodstore though; that apparently doesn't rank high on the cool factor scale for her, unless she gets a chocolate milk afterward and then that *might* be cool. Whatever. Maybe it's just as well!
I'm hoping that she'll add other words to her vocabulary, like 'awesome' or 'rad'. I think 'rad' needs a comeback, don't you?
That's all for now!
Radically yours,
Kelly
I mention the good doctor, because he has a penchant for talking about how cool things are and it reminds me of some of Billa's choice phrases to reveal her enthusiasm. Case in point:
Mommy: Billa, what's that?
Billa: It's a [insert item here]. It's cool.
OR:
Mommy: Hey, Billa, I got this for you [random object].
Billa: Wow, dat's cool!
OR:
Mommy: Billa, we're going to go to [insert location here].
Billa: ALL RIGHT!!! [happy dance commences]
And it's pretty much just about everything that gets her excited these days, whether we're going to a friend's house, Target, or the doctor's office (not that Doctor, boo). Heaven forbid we go to the foodstore though; that apparently doesn't rank high on the cool factor scale for her, unless she gets a chocolate milk afterward and then that *might* be cool. Whatever. Maybe it's just as well!
I'm hoping that she'll add other words to her vocabulary, like 'awesome' or 'rad'. I think 'rad' needs a comeback, don't you?
That's all for now!
Radically yours,
Kelly
Thursday, June 30, 2011
This One's For You, Pop
Ok, so this story is for my dad.
Dad and I are two peas in a pod sometimes. We have the same interests, the same hobbies, the same illnesses and ailments.
So this evening, I'm suffering from a cold. My nose is raw from all the dripping and draining and sneezing and I finally got to the point where I shoved tissue up my nose because I couldn't handle it dripping or blowing it anymore. Of course, Billa saw me.
"Mommy, you have [mumble mumble something slightly unintelligible] boo-kers?"
"Yes, Mommy has lots of mocos {boogers, en espanol}."
"Mommy have big boo-kers?"
"Yeah. So Mommy shoved tissue up her nose to keep them from coming out."
"Oh." [Pause] "Like Papa?"
Michael and I burst out laughing then. Like I said, Dad and I are two peas in a pod. When our allergies get really bad, the kleenex plugs come out. (Hey, don't hate! Appreciate!) I hadn't realized she'd ever seen him do that, much less make that association.
Leave it to the kiddo to know how to make mommy laugh.
And there ya go, Pop. Hope you enjoyed that little nugget!
Cheers,
Kelly
Dad and I are two peas in a pod sometimes. We have the same interests, the same hobbies, the same illnesses and ailments.
So this evening, I'm suffering from a cold. My nose is raw from all the dripping and draining and sneezing and I finally got to the point where I shoved tissue up my nose because I couldn't handle it dripping or blowing it anymore. Of course, Billa saw me.
"Mommy, you have [mumble mumble something slightly unintelligible] boo-kers?"
"Yes, Mommy has lots of mocos {boogers, en espanol}."
"Mommy have big boo-kers?"
"Yeah. So Mommy shoved tissue up her nose to keep them from coming out."
"Oh." [Pause] "Like Papa?"
Michael and I burst out laughing then. Like I said, Dad and I are two peas in a pod. When our allergies get really bad, the kleenex plugs come out. (Hey, don't hate! Appreciate!) I hadn't realized she'd ever seen him do that, much less make that association.
Leave it to the kiddo to know how to make mommy laugh.
And there ya go, Pop. Hope you enjoyed that little nugget!
Cheers,
Kelly
Monday, June 13, 2011
Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop: Thief in the Night
I lay in the dark, listening to the digital clock tick away the seconds.
What's that you say? Digital clocks don't tick? I beg to differ. Pregnancy heightens one's senses, allowing a woman to perform feats of strength that would leave Superman sobbing like a little girl.
Digital clocks tick away the seconds (I dare you to challenge a pregnant woman's logic–you're either extremely sadistic or extremely stupid).
I lay there, listening to the digital seconds tick by when my mommysense detected a noise outside. I sat bolt upright, every muscle in my body on high alert. The clock read 4 a.m. and I was alone.
My imagination raced, trying to determine the source of the noise. Somewhere in the back of my head where rationality hibernated, my practical self was churning through an old research paper I'd studied in college about the brain's processes when determining unknown noises, reminiscing about synapses and data assimilation. Practical Self tried to soothe Pregnant Self, that it was probably a possum or raccoon, they're common in this rural area of Texas, and nothing more. Pregnant Self shot Practical Self "The Look" and Practical Self mumbled about something in the oven before hightailing it back to the inner recesses of my brain. Pregnant Self then determined the source of the noise to be a burglar.
I sprang from bed and turned on every light in the apartment, electric bill be damned. I checked, rechecked, and re-rechecked every lock and window to make sure they were secure. My mind racing and unable to fall asleep, my blurry thoughts turned to arming myself. I waddled back to the bedroom and dug under the mattress for my shillelagh. I crouched under the covers in the blazing bright lights of my bedroom, shillelagh in hand and waited.
The mind is a terrible thing to waste, you know, and despite the irrationality of my Pregnant Self, it was loathe to waste it's mind. In those wee morning hours, my pregnant brain slapped together a plan of action should a burglar enter the house. I just needed to hold out until daylight. But wait, I thought...when daylight came, I'd leave for work. And what if the burglar came then!? Holy crap, what if the burglar was waiting for me to leave so they could steal all my stuff?! Then what?!
I waddled out of the bedroom and surveyed our tiny apartment and quickly appraised all of our worldy goods. The Xbox, TV, DVD player, our year old Apple computer, the printer, my straightening iron (those things aren't cheap, you know!), all just sitting there screaming to be taken. I'd be damned if I was going to let anyone think they could take advantage of a pregnant woman! I racked my brain and stumbled on an idea--I'd record all of the serial numbers and carve my driver's license number into the back of everything. That way, if the burglar made off with it, I'd be able to recover it since the cops would be able to trace it at the pawn shops. And just to be safe, I was going to backup all of our files from the Mac so that if the burglar got mad and broke the computer in a fit of anger from not being able to guess my password, I'd at least have that.
So there I was at 4 am, clutching my shillelagh and burning CD's like a madwoman, chortling to myself about how clever I was. I heaved and pushed and pulled all of the heavy electronics equipment and diligently recorded all of the serial numbers, product numbers, and hand carved my driver's license number into the back of it all. By the time dawn stretched it's rosy fingers across the hills, I was crawling back to bed, shillelagh held tight in my swollen hands, my mind finally at rest.
That burglar must have decided I was just too clever for him, because he never did break in.
He broke into my trash can instead.
Yeah. But hey, at least I'd finally backed up all of my files!
This post is part of Mama Kat's Writing Workshop. When I saw this prompt, I died laughing, because what pregnant woman DIDN'T have a moment like this? The prompt is: "Barefoot and hormonal...describe an incident that upset you when you were pregnant, but now looking back makes you laugh." And for the record, yes, I really did wake up at an ungodly hour and proceed to document the serial numbers of all our electronics and back up our computer before heading back to bed. Bless my husband, when I showed him my handiwork the next day, he just shook his head and told me to call him at work next time I was worried. And also for the record, I learned that handy little trick about serial numbers and DL's on your stuff from the cops. Growing up, my house was broken into twice, and after the first time, they told us to do that to all our stuff. It actually worked, because that was how they caught the thief the second time around!
What's that you say? Digital clocks don't tick? I beg to differ. Pregnancy heightens one's senses, allowing a woman to perform feats of strength that would leave Superman sobbing like a little girl.
Digital clocks tick away the seconds (I dare you to challenge a pregnant woman's logic–you're either extremely sadistic or extremely stupid).
I lay there, listening to the digital seconds tick by when my mommysense detected a noise outside. I sat bolt upright, every muscle in my body on high alert. The clock read 4 a.m. and I was alone.
My imagination raced, trying to determine the source of the noise. Somewhere in the back of my head where rationality hibernated, my practical self was churning through an old research paper I'd studied in college about the brain's processes when determining unknown noises, reminiscing about synapses and data assimilation. Practical Self tried to soothe Pregnant Self, that it was probably a possum or raccoon, they're common in this rural area of Texas, and nothing more. Pregnant Self shot Practical Self "The Look" and Practical Self mumbled about something in the oven before hightailing it back to the inner recesses of my brain. Pregnant Self then determined the source of the noise to be a burglar.
I sprang from bed and turned on every light in the apartment, electric bill be damned. I checked, rechecked, and re-rechecked every lock and window to make sure they were secure. My mind racing and unable to fall asleep, my blurry thoughts turned to arming myself. I waddled back to the bedroom and dug under the mattress for my shillelagh. I crouched under the covers in the blazing bright lights of my bedroom, shillelagh in hand and waited.
The mind is a terrible thing to waste, you know, and despite the irrationality of my Pregnant Self, it was loathe to waste it's mind. In those wee morning hours, my pregnant brain slapped together a plan of action should a burglar enter the house. I just needed to hold out until daylight. But wait, I thought...when daylight came, I'd leave for work. And what if the burglar came then!? Holy crap, what if the burglar was waiting for me to leave so they could steal all my stuff?! Then what?!
I waddled out of the bedroom and surveyed our tiny apartment and quickly appraised all of our worldy goods. The Xbox, TV, DVD player, our year old Apple computer, the printer, my straightening iron (those things aren't cheap, you know!), all just sitting there screaming to be taken. I'd be damned if I was going to let anyone think they could take advantage of a pregnant woman! I racked my brain and stumbled on an idea--I'd record all of the serial numbers and carve my driver's license number into the back of everything. That way, if the burglar made off with it, I'd be able to recover it since the cops would be able to trace it at the pawn shops. And just to be safe, I was going to backup all of our files from the Mac so that if the burglar got mad and broke the computer in a fit of anger from not being able to guess my password, I'd at least have that.
So there I was at 4 am, clutching my shillelagh and burning CD's like a madwoman, chortling to myself about how clever I was. I heaved and pushed and pulled all of the heavy electronics equipment and diligently recorded all of the serial numbers, product numbers, and hand carved my driver's license number into the back of it all. By the time dawn stretched it's rosy fingers across the hills, I was crawling back to bed, shillelagh held tight in my swollen hands, my mind finally at rest.
That burglar must have decided I was just too clever for him, because he never did break in.
He broke into my trash can instead.
Yeah. But hey, at least I'd finally backed up all of my files!
This post is part of Mama Kat's Writing Workshop. When I saw this prompt, I died laughing, because what pregnant woman DIDN'T have a moment like this? The prompt is: "Barefoot and hormonal...describe an incident that upset you when you were pregnant, but now looking back makes you laugh." And for the record, yes, I really did wake up at an ungodly hour and proceed to document the serial numbers of all our electronics and back up our computer before heading back to bed. Bless my husband, when I showed him my handiwork the next day, he just shook his head and told me to call him at work next time I was worried. And also for the record, I learned that handy little trick about serial numbers and DL's on your stuff from the cops. Growing up, my house was broken into twice, and after the first time, they told us to do that to all our stuff. It actually worked, because that was how they caught the thief the second time around!
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