Sometimes it feels too long. It feels like too much. I heard so many times that the third child is the hardest adjustment so anxiety crept up and took over as the Grandmas – the helpers, the burpers, the diaper-changers, the laundry doers, the meal makers, the baby holders, the soft word speakers, the hair strokers – prepared to go home. And I sent out an S.O.S. to the Women. To my far-away tribe a prayer request, to my locals a plea: help. So they made a sort of pact over me that I wouldn’t have to be alone before I was ready. Because my having children wasn’t their choice, but…
A fundamentalist turned freedom chaser with an obnoxiously stubborn faith.