He brings me Dr. Pepper in a bottle, not in the can or from the fountain. Not because he has to or because I’ve asked him to. He does it because he knows it’s my favorite and because I’m his favorite.
When you’re in the throes of motherhood and you can’t see an end in sight, sometimes you feel as though you’ll never make it out of the trenches with a shred of sanity.
Out here things move at a slower pace. There’s no hustle or bustle, no busy streets or stop lights. We don’t have a Starbucks on every corner and the nearest Target is more than 100 miles away.
Along with all our usual shenanigans, we pick up steak rub, start a generator, move cows (again), make a trip to town, drink some coffee, unload the feed we picked up in town, and cake the cows.
Since I’ve been on a birth story kick, because it’s his birth week, and because who doesn’t love a good birth story, I’m sharing the story of the one that started it all – our son Tripp.
