MOTHERS ARMS

I walked half a block, carrying Taz (this will be important later) to her waiting crib and laid her down. It's official, folks. I cannot have any more children. It's gone~the critical component necessary to continue seeding and spawning is gone.

"What?" you ask. "You're missing a womb?"

No, no I have a womb. It's stretched and sagging and could easily house triplets in it's present state.

"Like patience, then?"

Well, of course I don't have patience. As far as I know, that was never a prerequisite for having children in the first place, or there would be at least four less in the world.

"Then what, Lisa? What could it be?!"

I'll tell you, friends. Mother's arms.

That's right, mother's arms...and legs...and back...and hips...but mostly arms. Those limbs that allow young mothers to hold a 30 pound baby carrier with a 20 pound child in one arm, a purse and a 30 pound toddler in the crook of the other arm, grocery bags tucked under her chin while kicking along a forsaken tricycle and shoving a car door shut with a hip.

Arms that "ustacould" throw a kid over a shoulder like a sack of potatoes and steer a mountain bike with a flat tire all the way home. Arms that "ustacould" carry an exhausted Halloween cow home when he collapsed in a heap halfway through Trick-or-treating.

But "ustacould" is over, friends. It's over. I've been betrayed by my own biceps. My own middle aged, turkey gobbler, crepey skinned biceps. May they rest in peace.

And sweaters.

And all manner of generously cut sleeves.

Amen.