What I Need


Dove into a Netflix binge session in between short-story writing stents and my “real” job. I was craving some downtime after the holidays and I wanted to steer clear of my typical crime show/sci-fi stuff. Had my fill for the moment. (But if Disney saw fit to release another Star Wars episode, I’d have to pull myself up by my bootstraps and partake of the Force.)


Overall, though, space flights, detectives, and crime scenes aren’t what I needed.


I wanted something…warmer. Which is out of character for me, but alas. It was how it was.


But I needed warmth with a similitude of depth not found in Hallmark movies or Lifetime dramas.


Enter “Call the Midwife.” My Netflix feed kept brining it front-and-center. And I figured if BBC (And Mr. Cumberbatch, *ahem*) did such a bang-up job with Sherlock, surely they’ve done other attention-worthy pieces. And this one is based on the memoirs of Jennifer Worth, a midwife in England during the 1950s, working out of Nonnatus House, a nun-ran medical mission.


Think Downton Abby meets ER—with Nuns! And lots and lots of babies.


Per reviews, this show sparred some viewers into longing for another child. The magic of motherhood. The wonder of pregnancy. The miracle of birth. And those are all true and well… but…


That’s definitely not what I need.


The countless deliveries on the show didn’t tickle me that way. What I did realize, however, after another epic disaster in my kitchen, was what I did need.


I need a nun.


No disrespect intended by this at all, religiously speaking. I really do desire one of those wimple-clad women to come and, well, take care of me.


I’d even settle for Sister Monica Joan with her tick of dementia. She’d keep me cared for and provide endless fascinating conversations. Though she is quite fond of cake, and I’d likely suffer untoward gut issues from her insistent indulgences.


During more than one episode, even my pouting, tired Little Miss Muse stuck her head around the corner and winked at me.

That scene with the little boy on the staircase.


That dialog between a grieving husband and the doctor.


That tiny snippet of post-war history that hung over those folks’ heads—or lurked beneath their feet.


Those bits sparked something in Little Miss. A whole new host of short tale ideas sprung. Ones that I (well, Little Miss) wouldn’t have tapped had I (well, Little Miss and I) watched the show.


And now I, and Little Miss, have firmly declared that we must source one of these service-minded women to come and rescue us from our current state of unkemptness.


That’s what I need.


Or, maybe—and this is a real possibility—I’m still suffering the effects of a busted thyroid gland and what I really need is a nap.


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