Posts Tagged Under Inga Wahle
It’s My Life And I’ll Do What I Want
Last week, I took my little girl to the cloth and craft store. We were on a mission to pick out fun fabrics so that I could sew dress-up outfits for her. My husband and I had promised her a trunk of dress-up clothes for her birthday and she got to decide the colors and patterns.
We were both excited as we combed the aisles picking out the perfect materials. We got tulle and ribbons for a pretty tutu, a yard of beautiful iridescent blue satin with a big pink clip on rose and jeweled trimmings to make a truly fancy skirt, feature boas, lace, sequins and buttons.
It was pure joy! Continue… »
By Inga WahlA Woman Becomes a Mother — AGAIN
I straightened the throw pillow on the couch and fluffed it, a task I had performed countless times that night. I looked at the clock. 9:45 pm. Less than twelve hours before surgery. I shivered. I went to the kitchen to make myself some tea.
In Transition
The early morning sun shone persistently through the slightly opened blinds of my bedroom window. My twenty-three month old daughter was tunneling through the bedding on my bed, calling excitedly, “I’m hiding, Mommy! I’m hiding!”
I kept my eyes shut, hoping that by doing so, I would somehow delay the beginning of yet another day filled with toddler games and talk and devoid of adult stimulation. Finally, resigned to the inevitable, I threw the covers off and sat up with a sigh that spoke poignantly of dreams yet unfulfilled.
My daughter’s face peeked out from under the comforter, bright, smiling, and full of hope and life. “I’m hiding, Mommy!” she said with laughter in her voice. I reached out and pulled her tiny body to me, “gotcha!”
By adminMy Moment of Darkness
My daughter’s shrieks pierced through my consciousness as I opened my eyes and slowly, painfully sat up in bed. My husband woke, too, as if in a daze and automatically turned on the bedside lamp.
Mechanically, he picked up the screaming baby and placed her into my tired arms. I looked down at the red, angry face of my six-day old daughter, her accusing tear-filled eyes, little fists punching through the blankets, and I cried. Stupidly, I just looked at her and cried, too.
“Well, are you going to feed her?” my husband asked.
By admin
