I’m going to go be a farmer, Mawmaw.
When I was six years old I decided to get the indoor gardening tools (meaning those really small ones for house plants), put on my Mawmaw’s boots that were too big, and go out gardening — which I referred to at the time as “farming.” The garden was about 20 yards from the house and a huge thunderstorm had just left; mud was everywhere. Being six, and probably feeling a little cabin fever, I thought this was the perfect time to put on shoes that were too big for me, grab a rake half the size of my six-year old arm and go pick beans.
Needless to say, it did not end well. My feet landed in the mud as they fell out of the over-sized work boots. I decided the best course of action was to take my mud-covered feet and stick them back in the boots. This scenario kept happening until I finally arrived at the back door, covered in mud from head to toe; sobbing. None of the indoor gardening tools made it back with me as they were all stuck in the mud.
Mawmaw looked down in her boots and they were full of mud. I think she wanted to “see red” (aka: be mad at me), but the sight was more than even she could take. She just looked at me and laughed. And laughed some more; howling with laughter as she striped me down to my panties and hosed me off from head to toe before letting me in the house.
What kind of a farmer are you, Tige?
I DON’T WANT TO BE A FARMER ANYMORE, MAWMAW!! I screamed this with the conviction of any six-year old covered in mud and having a meltdown while being hosed down in her flower-covered panties.
As I sit typing this I have cabin fever, I wish I had a garden twenty yards from my back door with beans ripe for picking. Not that there would be any beans in February, but I could really use the outdoor distraction. Perhaps I could plant something? As you can see, I still don’t know an awful lot about “farming.” I would, however, wear boots that fit.
I suppose it was a true statement I screamed at six, but as I look at 2-5 acre properties on Zillow, my husband thinks I want to recreate The Ponderosa. He never saw The Ponderosa; he has never been to Lead Hill, Arkansas. If he had seen it, he would know it is the furthest thing from my mind. Starting that kind of farming at my age is crazy, I think. Of course, Mawmaw did it. But she was slightly crazy, in a fun-loving, fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants sort of way.
Some people would say starting parenting at my age is crazy, so I guess we all have our own kinda crazy, and weird for that matter.
I’ve got a little too much of my mother in me to be let’s-buy-500-acres-in-the-middle-of-nowhere crazy. (She is now breathing a sigh of relief as she reads this.)
Unfortunately, Jonathan never met Mawmaw because by the time we were dating the real Mawmaw was not available for meeting. I knew somehow meeting her would not reconcile with the stories I was telling him. Some ornery, cantankerous — occasionally sweet and docile — old lady had kidnapped her. I preferred to just tell him the stories of the larger than life woman as I like to remember her. That’s the woman she would want him to know and want me to keep alive.
Today is the final update I will write before the big day — Monday, February 11th. My main reason for this is I am exhausted. The second reason is as it gets closer to the day of the test, the head full of doubt really begins to rear its ugly head; blocking the road full of promise from comforting me completely. The first 4-5 days I can blissfully remain PUPO (pregnant until proven otherwise) but the final 5-9 days are shear torture. Every single thing means everything one way or the other in your mind.
I suppose I could just take a pregnancy test, but that would send me into a place I am not ready to go if it is negative. So I wait.
This happens every time I go through this, and since I have never had a real success, it gets worse every time. I am trying to stay in the moment and just observe it. After that doesn’t work, then I do something like clean out another drawer, mop the floor or organize the pantry … again. I do wish I had a garden to tend or some rocks to pick up. Mindless activity to wash the day away. If I could wear myself out with physical labor Monday would arrive in no time. I would prefer to be knocked out cold and someone could wake me up when it’s all over and say, “You’re pregnant!”
I’ve been feeling all sorts of cramps and things. Sometimes that is good, sometimes it isn’t — depends on who you talk to. I won’t even call my doctor about it, there is nothing he can say to make me feel better. I sleep a lot, at least two hours every afternoon. I think this has more to do with the progesterone than anything. I keep telling myself we have some good embryos on ice. Hopefully, we won’t need them for awhile, but they are there. It does give me some comfort.
Every time I go in my room I am greeted with this picture of Mawmaw and me so long ago. It sits on my nightstand and is the same one I carried with me to the transfer last week. It is one of my favorite pictures of us. I talk to her. I tell her to put in a good word for me. I tell her not to be too nervous that I am the same age she was when she became a grandmother. I take better care of myself than she did.
Annie sent me this picture the other day. Mawmaw was a twin; that’s her there on the left and her fraternal twin sister Lucille. They were completely different in every possible way, except they both rocked those handmade dresses and cowboy boots.
Aunt Lucille is still with us. She is careful and cautious; a planner. She’s meticulous. She’s methodical.
Mawmaw was none of those things. Perhaps that is why Aunt Lucille has outlived her sister. She will turn 88-years young on May 18th. She still drives, which scares the bejesus out of all of us. Luckily it’s only to the Dairy Queen, church and a few other places she has been driving to for over 40 years. Perhaps the car is just taking her there on its own? I tell myself this.
Next month she will be moving to Arkansas to live near my Mom. Her driving life will come to an end, but she is ready to be somewhere with a little more care available and family close by.
This makes me happy. I hope she is able to meet our child(ren).
Last night I determined that our children would not starve as long as I had a potato and a few other staples on hand. I made a mouth-watering sausage vegetable soup while listening to the entire Willie & Family Live album. I chopped and sang Whiskey River, Bloody Mary Morning, Will the Circle Be Unbroken and so many more. By the time I got to the end of the album I had a soup going, no recipe, just instinct. I guess it is in there somewhere.
It was delicious and passed the Jonathan test. And believe me, that is some kind of test.
I’ll still never be a farmer, but I might actually be a gardener (only if Jonathan will stop worrying about having to mow a yard — he does not realize I come from a long line of women who thrive on mowing the yard). More importantly, I’m pretty sure I’ll be a half-way decent cook as long as my iPad is loaded with good music.
Thanks again for listening to me ramble on these past few months. I hope I have good news to tell you on Monday, but either way, I am going to keep going. I’ll keep kneeling and keep praying at the road full of promise until my baby(ies) comes home.