Good morning! First, to everyone I traumatized yesterday and mentally scarred for life, I apologize from the bottom of my heart. I expected y’all to tell me I was over reacting as usual. (Although I am kinda on the happy side that you had the same reaction. But I’m still REALLY sorry!) I swear, I’ll NEVER mention the Captain again.
Secondly, the new issue of Bonbon Break Magazine is up this morning, and I’m in it! (Whoop! Whoop!) They even used my artwork. Of course I read through the other posts this morning and I am honored to be included in such a group of talented, strong women writers! You should stop by, check it out, and share the love! *excited giggle*
*odd switching gears thingy* As I’ve been TRYING to type this morning, I started cussing at my stupid hands for refusing to play nice. Do to the bloat-dex and morning bird-work, my fingers are the size of sausages and just about as useful.
The knuckles of my hands have begun to grow again, taking on the shape and size of acorns stuffed under the skin. When I manage to convince the wayward digits to cooperate and hit the right keys, the tendons jump-and-jive under the thinning skin like piano wires at Carnegie Hall on Concert Night. Then there’s the shaking…they shake like a gaggle of pre-teens at the mention of the word “Bieber.”
In short, at some point while I innocently slept, snoring contentedly in dreamland, someone stole my hands and replaced them with a set belonging to my Mother.
The truly odd thing is, ever since I became aware that I was working with Mom-hands, I’ve actually gotten more done. Due to the shaky stiffness, I type slower putting a bit more thought into each line. (Yes, believe it or not, THIS is the result of deep thinking. *grin* Scary, ain’t it?) If I’m going to “doodle” then I “doodle” with purpose, since there’s a certain trade-off to every movement, leaving little room for frivolity.
During the frequent hand-rub breaks, I never fail to linger on the names of my offspring etched in ink on the backs of each hand. If you asked my youngest, he’d tell you my memory’s gotten so bad that if their names weren’t tattooed there I’d just call everyone “Hey you!” The simple truth is looking at them never fails to make me smile, since they represent the five best things I’ve done with my life. (My four children and my hubby.)
Today is Labor Day. As I sit here typing while most others are happily sleeping in, I realize that what I'm doing truly is labor, but it’s a labor of love. Because of my daily hand-fight, I have been lucky enough to meet so many wonderful people. I have found new purpose and new ways to channel my nervous energy. I have discovered ways to be productive even when my body refuses to be exactly what you’d call “active.” I have made the proverbial lemonade out of the much maligned lemons.
I have somehow even managed to find my long-lost Clan, the Clan of the Crazy Laughing Peoples. All of this has happened because of these stiff, lumpy-bumpy Mom-hands.
Now that I think about it, maybe waking up with my Mother’s hands isn’t such a bad thing after all…
May you all have a wonderful Labor Day filled with family, friends, and lots of laughter! (And NO stiff hands. *grin*)