If There Is A Way

My son wants a sibling.  He's made that very clear on several occasions.  Zane has already begun having elaborate conversations with his "brother",  and they appear to discuss many fascinating topics, such as why Mama looks so tired. I know that it is common for children to have imaginary playmates, but I didn't think that Zane would pick a brother to play with.  Since he is an only child, it is frustrating for him.  He wants to have someone to play with, other than our dog Maisy. 

I would like to have another child, if I am honest with myself.  I liked being pregnant.  I enjoy being a mom, as tiring as it can be, and I would love for Zane to have a sibling.  It's really a shame that my body doesn't want to cooperate with what I want, but it is what it is.  The likelihood that I would survive a third pregnancy is slim, given my age and how the past two ended with me almost dying.   We don't have the plus 30k for infertility, nor do we have the 75k that is needed for a surrogate.  We don't have the cash for adoption, either.  Unless someone just shows up on my doorstep with a baby, odds are that the door of additional children for our family has shut for good.

I understand.  I don't have to like it, but I understand it.

Growing up, my brother and I spent a lot of time together.  We fought constantly with each other, but if anyone messed with me, my brother had my back, and vice versa.   We were partners in crime as well as brothers in arms.  There was a sense of belonging in this new family, because they chose you.  Zane won't experience that, and it makes me sad.

So I told Zane the next time he decides that he needs a sibling, he should pray for one.  I figure that this is probably the only way that he'll get a brother or a sister, if he truly wants one.  If it is meant to be, it will happen.


This was my 5 minute Stream of Consciousness Sunday post. It’s five minutes of your time and a brain dump. Want to try it? Here are the rules…

• Set a timer and write for 5 minutes.
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Another Fine Mess

 Let's try this again this week.  And let me say that this is fiction.  I have to say this because otherwise my mother thinks that I'm serious, and I don't want that particular can opened.  


Laura and I stared at the body, the sickly yellow glow from a naked bulb illuminating our sudden predicament.  I really shouldn't have hit the drug dealer in the head with my purse.  I  felt that a hundred dollars for a bag of weed was overkill, while the drug dealer thought that we were just a couple of naive college girls trying to be cool. He got uppity. I whacked him with my purse to teach him some manners, and he fell over dead.

"Geez!" Laura leaned over the body and gingerly pushed at a shoulder with her shoe.  We studied the misshapen head, the blonde hair matted with blood.  "What the hell do you carry in that purse--bricks?"

"Just the one," I was defensive, looking around.  I'd never killed anyone before. "And you're the damn hippie who wanted to buy some pot!"

"For the last time, it's for my glaucoma!"  My long suffering friend hissed, scanning the deserted street.   She sighed loudly, and appeared to be mumbling a prayer to the heavens.  Then she eyed me speculatively.

"So what do you want to do with the body?" 

I looked up.

"Bury it?"

"Are you crazy?  Digging a grave is a bitch, not to mention what it does to good manicures."  She looked at her nails.  "Besides, we aren't exactly dressed for manual labor." 

This was true.  We had planned a night out dancing, and had dressed accordingly.  My black pencil skirt would definitely not survive a night digging a grave.  We visually inspected the area around us.  We both reached the conclusion that this guy would not fit into any of the small metal trash cans, but seeing black trash bags sitting next to the cans gave me an idea.

"Let's cut him up," I said, proud of myself.  "They'll never find all of him."

Laura stared at me.

"Do you carry around a knife and trash bags in that purse?"

"NO, but I do carry an axe."




The prompt is the third definition of the word bitch.



The prompt is a quote from Groucho Marx: "When you're in jail, a good friend will be trying to bail you out.  A best friend will be in the cell next to you saying, 'Damn, that was fun.'"