Mummy

Marital sheets? Death shroud? Swaddling clothes?

Let’s talk about prehistoric, cracked, dusty lady bits.

Because that’s what the fates of 2017 have brought me.

I could not feel more old and useless today. Now, I know, KNOW, in my heart and brain, that birthing a baby has nothing, NOTHING, to do with worth as a woman. I would Muay Thai any one who suggested such a thing.

But when the coffin of that path is closing on your own failing, crumbling uterus, it’s dark and scary inside that box. (Ha. Box.)  You hear the hinges creak and you shiver. You picture a certain life curling inside itself until it’s gone and nothing. A vanished thought. A forgotten dream. A not-clear nightmare.

Getting older doesn’t bug me. I have good make up and a killer hair stylist. It is what it is. But letting go of things. Chances. Maybes and what ifs. Seeing drift away something you maybe kinda really wanted. That’s what pricks.

Not to say that wonderful things mightn’t be in store. I know they are and I’m bouncing exited for all of them. And  let’s be honest. It’s easier to visit Anne Boleyn’s grave without a jet lagged infant. Pasta in Italy is simpler. Touring wine country is quieter without a toddler. And with less spilling. Well, maybe. There are many gorgeous sites and perks along this particular journey.

And not that the death knell has fully sounded for me and that.  It hasn’t. Always room for surprises. But the bell ringer is surely climbing the tower.

But for now, while I do have wilting bags of eggs and a suspect stove, I also have a new day. Another chance. A fresh and fragrant reminder to love the travel and unexpecteds ahead of me. As well as the time and space to enjoy fully who is actually in the seat traveling beside me, and not who isn’t.

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