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Why I stopped boycotting Mother’s Day

It’s not the obvious reason. The one where I’m actually a mother now. At 36 years old, I’m finally a mom, following many, many years of infertility. That would be a good enough reason to bring back Mother’s Day, I guess. But the real reason is more complicated.

Some people find it difficult to understand why the absence of children causes tangible grief for a woman who wants to be a mom, since there isn’t a physical person to miss. But it is a grief. And it will always be a part of me. Maybe I’ll write more about this some time.

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Reflections on riding the bus from an anonymous, disgruntled suburbanite

Waiting for the bus.
Waiting for the bus.
  • Riding the bus for the first time without getting lost produces feelings of accomplishment. Being confident you don’t look lost, on the other hand, is an advanced skill.
  • Potentially falling up the stairs once while embarking the bus does not erase aforementioned feelings of accomplishment.
  • Everyone on the bus has a story.

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Asking, part 1

IMG_8930It was a hipster coffee shop called Thump. They roast their own coffee beans, of course. I bought a bottle of Kombucha because I wanted something cold and because I don’t drink coffee. Don’t ask me how to pronounce it. It promised me strawberry lemonade and delivered an earthy mixture of flavors unfamiliar to my Southern palate. Continue reading “Asking, part 1”

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Remembering Momaw

——Yesterday would have been Dorothy Speigle’s 97th birthday. She passed away in January of this year. In her memory, I’m posting the eulogy I shared at her funeral.——

I’m the youngest of her three granddaughters. We all adored her.

I called her Momaw, but she’s been known by many names in her long life. Dorothy. Sister. Aunt. Dot. Dorosha. Mama. Hobie. Grandma. Great Grandma. In the last few weeks, hospice nurses have been coming in and out of her house. My mom told me that one of them commented that there was so much love in Momaw’s house.

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Being uncomfortable

Here’s the post I deleted from Facebook:

Proofreading an academic paper on child soldiers in The Congo. Man. I need a hug. (I’ve already had an oversized molasses cookie.)

Ugh. I’m a little disgusted to even write it here.

My counselor would say it’s not my fault that children in The Congo are forced to join the army, that they are raped and beaten while I sit in a nice coffee shop uncomfortably cold in the A/C, consuming $5-worth of Peach Ginger tea and an oversized cookie someone else made for me. Continue reading “Being uncomfortable”

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Remembering India

I heard the familiar Skype “ding.” I am working toward a writing deadline. So, of course, I looked right away to see who it was.

It was an Indian pastor — we’ll call him Pastor P — I met a little over two years ago on a trip to Mumbai. He plants churches in the slums. Mumbai is home to some of the largest slums in the world. It was the setting for Slum Dog Millionaire. The slums in India are difficult to imagine (or recall to memory) while surrounded by comfortable American homes. Most of them are the size of a small or medium-sized American bathroom and a whole family lives there together. Sleeping on top of each other. No indoor plumbing. No electricity. Continue reading “Remembering India”