One.

It's taken me until now to reconcile what "trembling ovaries" means to me, because it started as one thing but has evolved into something else.


Let me try to explain.


I am the daughter of a mother who two Thursdays ago, turned around too quickly and ended up falling down in the kitchen and fracturing her hip.


I am the daughter of a father who has loved his wife for 51 years and counting, through very thick and some thin, and who is the best man I have ever known, hands down.


I am the mother of two daughters who at age seven and nine are already smarter than I am in lots of ways, and who already go through social and academic situations that I don't have any idea how to handle properly.


I am the sister of three siblings - one is in my life, one is estranged, one has passed away.


I am the wife of a man, and the fabric of our relationship continues to weave itself together to the point that I can't see which is my thread and which is his anymore.


I am a woman, who used to be a girl, who loved to dance and laugh and listen to music and draw and sleep.


See all that love you just read about? And stress? You know there are some good stories lurking there, if you read between the lines. Don't worry, I'll get there.


My point is, that THIS is what causes my ovaries to tremble now. My middle name is Worry. I am a scatterbrain. What do I get fritzed about first? My Mom's health? My Dad's strain? My kids? Their bodies, minds, health, happiness, future, safety, Christmas gift list? My own body? My husband's? The puppy? My best friend, who lives so far away that her kids don't know me because I can't bring them after school treats and read them stories (or ignore them while I drink Chardonnay)? Do we have gas in the car? Money in the account? Water in the Christmas tree stand?


My point is that as a woman, everything causes my stomach to flip. And when it rains, it pours, so when five things are jiggling the egg baskets, a sixth inevitably adds itself to the list.


It's all good. I know there's a silver lining, although sometimes it seems buried under a lot of mud and dog poop and torn Ugg boots. In the meantime, it sure does give me a lot of material for a blog.


If you've got ovaries, or know someone who does, perhaps you'll come back and read again. Feel free to comment too, as we go. Hopefully, the more I lay it out there, the less I'll have to panic about hot lunch and hot flashes and hot ladies flirting with my gorgeous man.


Have a nice day. :)