I’m terrible at it. Case in point, the time I was at least twelve months pregnant with our third baby. I was jealous of the hens as I gathered their eggs. Resented the cows with their calves in the pasture. I even growled at the barn cats nursing their kittens. It was MY turn already! But Mother Nature, that old hag, had different ideas.

Then, as I was waddling back to the house, my ornery father-in-law drove up in his pickup and leaned out the window. Twinkle in his eye, he nodded toward the beach ball my maternity tent failed to hide and offered to hook up the cattle trailer, give me a lift to the hospital. I glared, then stared, then belly laughed. It was either that or cry. And, as they say, laughter is the best medicine, because a few days later we welcomed Baby Number Three.

Now, Three is in his thirties and I’m…not. But I am waiting again. This time for my book to find a home. It gestated forever but finally, FINALLY, it was time to query. Now I’m pacing and feeling envious again‒of acquisitions and launches and happy book birthdays. But I’m determined to stay busy, to refill the think tank, to start something new. Yes, waiting is as hard as ever. But it’s not the worst. That would be failing because I didn’t try.

Speak up:



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