Yesterday was a perfect autumn day. It was the kind of day I wanted to bottle up and keep on my book shelf to pull out during the gray days of February and March. It reached 71 degrees here, which is unheard of for this time of year. I had the day off, the first half of which was reserved for the dryer repairman. The rest of the day was spent running various errands and enjoying the sunshine. A soft wind blew through the nearly bare trees and sent the fallen leaves skittering down the road. It was very idyllic.
As I sat down to write todays’ post, I first paged through my NaBloPoMo entries of last year. Last year the task of posting every day seemed so much easier. Stuff just happened and I wrote about it. Today’s entry didn’t just pop into my head as the others have thus far and I needed a little help. It wasn’t until I read my posts from a year ago that I realized the significance of November 6th.
Three years ago yesterday was my due date. It was a Sunday and I remember quite clearly being resigned to not having my baby that day. I was going to go late. For some reason I just knew it, but November 6th came and went and I have to admit to being a little pissed off that I hadn’t given birth that day. Not many women give birth on their actual due dates, but deep down I had hoped I would be one who did.
This year November 6th marked a re-birth of sorts. My dryer is fixed and it didn’t cost us nearly as much as I thought it would. I’ve never been so happy to do laundry in my life.
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