Ernest prayers do get answered.
When I was pregnant, I begged God for a boy.
I felt that a girl would mirror my ridiculously painful childhood, and I just was not ready for such confrontation.
This prayer was in earnest, from deep in my soul. Not the ‘Please God, what are the lottery numbers’ begging, but something much more dire.
My prayer was answered. And it was further answered when 35 years later I was blessed with a granddaughter.
I was right the first time around; a girl would have emotionally finished me. This time, though, I’ve had enough self love and healing under my belt to fully appreciate her profound beingness.
Annie has reminded me many times of ‘me’ at that age. Yes, the clothespins. I look at her and wonder how a mom would hit her baby for inquisitively examining clothespins in a basket; for being curious at the clacking of many wooden pieces cascading onto the floor. I love and appreciate Annie a little bit more each time this occurs.
I could never tell this to a small group or even a close friend. How could they ever understand?
Yet, here I am crying again over the fucking clothespins.
