It’s about all I can do to not delete that last post. I feel like I’ve said too much, articulated something I shouldn’t have let come into words.
I’m going to leave it, but I feel like I should be honest and say that it’s hard for me to leave it; it makes me feel too vulnerable and too much like I’ve let you in on a secret I shouldn’t even say outloud to myself.
Y’all, I met someone last night.
A little brick wall of a boy, Linda’s darling son, J.J. who had on the cutest outfit–a IU jersey and some darling jeans. He’s right at that arm flapping stage, you know where they’re all like, “I’m so exited, but I don’t have a tail, so I’ll just wave these two things here!”
He was so friendly and wanted to hang out on me and make faces and flirt.
It made my uterus quiver, just a little, I have to say.
I worry I’m missing out. Not really on the being married stuff. I think I’d be a terrible wife, either because I wouldn’t change at all and my spouse would feel burdened with all the shit I just don’t do, or because I’d try to transform myself into Perfect Wife and I’d be doing all this shit I hate and I’d resent him for it, even though I’d spend years suffering silently.
But I worry I’m missing my chance to be a mom, that I’ll squander my thirties the way I squandered my 20s, which was fun, don’t get me wrong… But do you see what I’m saying? My life is good and it works for me, so I have no real impetus to change, and yet, I worry that one of the hidden costs of that is that I won’t ever get to be a mom.
That drives me crazy about the recalcitrant brother. I’m really jealous of him and I think my nephews are so cool and smart and funny and watching the world through their eyes… well, it’s hard to understand how anyone could be fine with handing them off to their mothers. How could that not break your heart every time?
Of course, it probably does break his heart. It’s just not in his nature to show it.
Anyway, if I had five husbands, we’d have the cutest babies ever, I bet.
So, yesterday, as I’m walking out the door for the big blogger meet-up, my phone rings and a woman is all, “Is this Aunt B.?” and I say, “Yes,” and she says, “Okay, this is weird, but I’m calling every Aunt B. in the phone book on the off chance you used to live out here at [her address].”
“Yeah, I did. Like five years ago.”
“Whew. Okay. I think I have some Christmas presents for you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, FedEx left them. I just wanted to see if maybe you were still in town and could come get them or if I should just send them back to FedEx.”
“No, wow. How really nice of you! Do you mind if I send my brother out to get them?”
“Nope. I’ll have them just inside the door. He can just knock.”
“Okay, how will you know it’s him?”
“Well, I bet he’s the only white dude that’ll be knocking on my door this evening looking for Christmas presents.”
“I hope so, anyway.”
“Well, I’ll just say this, first white guy to my door is getting your presents. I’m not going to do interviews.”
“Fair enough. Listen, thanks again. That was really kind of you to call.”
“No problem. Merry Christmas.”
So, the Butcher goes clear out to Donelson to get the boxes, which are clearly for us–“Aunt B.-The Butcher” right on the label. But no indication of who they’re from. Two boxes full of food and hot chocolate and a Christmas CD and no mention of who the sender is.
Now, it’s clearly got to be one of my mom’s sisters. Everything about it seems like them. Fabulous present? Check. Some weird hangup about it getting delivered? Check. No indication of who sent it? Check.
But which one?
Tiny Cat Pants 