Red Paint, Patsy and a Dream

Sometimes I wonder why my mind goes where it goes--why it chooses to linger on thoughts I had believed were long since abandoned, memories long since forgotten.

I see a splash of red paint and I am instantly transported back to the darkened corridor of ramshackle housing, the smell of paint, the chattering of well-intentioned teenagers believing anything, anyone could change. Naively believing that a coat of paint could fill stomachs, erase pain, cure long-battled addictions, raise the dead. There would never be enough coats.

A week later the mission group returned to Cabrini Green only to find the newly painted walls streaked with angry red expletives. What did we expect? A crew of angels welcoming us with pastries and fresh fruit? Doors slammed and heads shook. Stupid kids.

We painted again. And again. Until we finally figured out that we would never be able to cover the red. Or raise the dead.

"Worry, why do I let myself worry, wondrin, what in the world did I do," Pasty croons on the radio. In a rare moment, I am alone. It is just this past weekend that I am driving to meet my sisters for lunch as the song plays from a crackling oldies AM station. But as Patsy sings, I am back in my mother's kitchen. Her back turned, she faces the sink as my eyes focus on the back of her legs, the gentle shift from one foot to the other as Patsy Cline fills the room in my mother's voice. I sit, towel in hand. Waiting.

Old songs always pull me back into the kitchen, my feet firmly planted on peeling linoleum, my hands holding a chipped A & P "collectible" (free with purchase) plate, rubbing a damp towel on its surface. I'm always there. Waiting.

"And I'm crazy for lovin' you."

Last night, I was in bed. I was desperate to find a soft place for my expanding belly to rest. Left side. Right side. Propped up. Hugging a pillow between my legs. Being spooned. Spooning.

Nothing worked. She must have had something on her mind. She didn't want to sleep last night.

Before the sun drifted atop the trees and seeped through my thin shades, I drifted off into a desperate sleep.

"You're beautiful," came his muffled words as his steamy breath curled around my ear and his hands pulled back loose strands of my hair.

He spoke words I craved. His words shaped me that night. Made me think that maybe I was, even for a moment. After all, he would know. He was a man. A real flesh and blood man, with stubble covering his face, a pack of cigarettes in his pocket and a driver's license in a wallet. What more did you need?

His lips barely touched mine. His fingers gently tapping the bottom of my chin and then tracing the curve of my neck. He knew what to do. He knew where to go. He pulled me closer to him, lifting me over the armrest and into his lap. I closed my eyes and pretended to know what I was doing.

I was afraid if I breathed that he might disappear.

I shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be here.

But he was. I was. Nothing else mattered. Except that my foot was wedged between the seat and the gear shift. My foot throbbed. But at that moment it could have come off, ran away with my other foot and I wouldn't have cared.

My A-cups, my pimply skin, my unruly hair--this body was so hungry. For what, it didn't know. Yet.

However, he knew. He had fed before. Many, many times. I was one of many special girls. I was about to become really special . . .

"I can give you . . . " his voice trailed off as his hands began to move. Slowly. Knowing. Expecting.

Invading. I opened my eyes. My imagination darkened. Reality became the old sentry.

My eyes narrowed. My throat, dry. My voice, caught.

"Let go, little girl." Did he speak it? Did I? I didn't know.

My shoulders lifted, my back arched. Blood. My lip. I was biting it.

I'm afraid.

"I don't think I should . . . " the words came in a small voice, weak, confused and pleading.

"No, you should. It will feel . . . " said the man to the little girl.

No.

No.

Not. Yet.

I open my eyes. I push the pillow aside and kick down the covers as my hazy gaze follows the shadows moving on the ceiling. It is morning. I'm in my bed. Not in an battered Chevy.

I am calm, though my breath comes quick and heavy. It is a dream that won't go away. It will stay, waiting, whispering like the memory that it is.

My hands move over my belly.

No. Baby girl. No.

Not yet.

For now, she is safe.

For now.

Sometimes I wonder why my mind goes where it goes . . . and then, I hear the squeal of my baby boy as he calls for his mama and I feel the gentle swell of my belly.

And I know exactly why.

Eyes Like Mine

* May 2007 *

The bell rang and within moments the sound of scooting desks, broken chatter and hallway traffic filled the room. Lunch.

I could see her approach my desk as I shuffled homework papers around into various nonsensical piles. Organized chaos at its best.

"Mrs. L? Can I talk to you about something?" I remember how this piece of hair would hang in her eyes, how she would nervously pull it back over and over again. I wanted so much to give her a clip or something to make it stop falling. It distracted me.

But this time, it didn't. I just wanted to reach out and pull the piece back for her. Do something for her. I had no idea why.

She sat down in the over sized office chair, the one I confiscated from the Dumpster and tried to upholster with frayed denim scraps. The one that smelled of hairy wet dog when the first hint of summer entered the room. But the students loved that chair. Loved how it would rock back, the headrest practically touching the floor, and then lurch forward without warning. They fed on the rush of near death by office chair, I supposed.

I took a seat in the tiny chair with foam padding and scratched plastic arms. We sat for a moment in silence in the small space between my two mismatched desks, piles of paper and the planning that I would never get to that day or the next.

Our knees touched as she leaned forward to whisper her secret.

"So, I'm going to have a baby," she bit back her lips as her eyes peeked through her lashes. Cautious. Hopeful.

Why was she telling me? The students and I, we got along. We had established mutual respect. But, I was not their BFF, their mother, their counselor. I was not the warm and fuzzy teacher with cute drawings and tiny squeak toys on my desk (OK, I was, but it was because they made me laugh). I wasn't the one who hugged to comfort, gently touched hands in encouragement or patted heads in recognition.

"My mom knows. And, I'm keeping it" she said. I hoped she didn't hear the escaping sigh as it limped from my chest. She wasn't looking to me to make decisions for her. This talk had nothing to do with who knows what or what to do with the little life inside her.

She was 16. Her hair fell to her shoulders, hiding the tiny tears in the seam of her t-shirt. Her hands, motionless, rested in her lap. I pictured those hands as that of a child, flawless, chubby. Fat crayons. White paper. Dreams filled with color. Dreams left unfulfilled.

She didn't look at me, but I could see her chin tighten, tiny little dimples awaiting a cry.

I did something I never do. I reached for her, my hands resting on hers.

"How did this happen?" I asked her, not realizing the absurdity of such a question.

A smile curled around her cheek. Crooked. Knowing. "Well, Mrs. L, " she looked at my swollen belly, "I think you know."

Oh, yeah. A halfhearted attempt to suppress a giggle. Screw it . . . my brain cells decided to take leave and wander off the premises. Excellent timing.

"I don't want her to be like me." And there it was. The sobs came fast. She buried her head in my shoulder, her tears wetting my maternity top. Me, soaking in a cruel not-yet-realized irony.

In only moments, between heaving breaths, she let her fears form a puddle in her hands. Her mother had her at 15, never finished school, never married, never held down a job, had no clue what to do with her baby daughter. And now, the daughter, seeing her future in her mother's history. Her hands, tight-fisted, rested on the top of her tiny belly.

"My grandmother. My mother. Me. We're so messed up, Mrs. L. So messed up." I closed my eyes, images of my own mother. My own grandmother. The histories that collided with regret and guilt. The histories that shaped my life.

I understood. The baby boy in my own belly moved. A reminder.

"You are not your mother. You are not your grandmother. You are you." Silly little platitudes, as if sewn on a cloth and framed on a wall or written in pink on a cue card.

She deserved more than this. I closed my mouth and leaned back in my seat. She didn't need words of wisdom. She just needed . . .

"A girl. You are having a baby girl," I said simply with a hint of a smile and a tilt of the head.

"Yes," she smiled and her fists relaxed as she smoothed the t-shirt, following the rounded curve to her lap.

I was not trained for this. No classes. No workshops. No . . .

"You'll love her. With everything you have, you will love her. History doesn't have to be repeated." I reached out again, cradling her hands in mine. She spoke in whispers, sharing stories of her past, the fears that wrestled away her youth, the hopes she had for the tiny heart that beat near her own. I sat. Silent. Listening. Blinking back tears.

I knew the challenges that awaited her, as did she. She didn't need a lecture. She didn't need advice. She just needed me to listen.

She was giving birth to a baby. A baby girl. A baby girl whose future she saw resting within histories that were not her own. Would this baby girl travel down the same path as her mother? Her grandmother and so many of the women before her?

Would she have a chance?

"You will love her . . . "

More tears and more whispers passed between us before she said goodbye. I had only a few minutes left for lunch. But I wasn't hungry. Instead, I leaned back in the denim-patched chair and thought about the baby boy readying himself for the world. My own history, the biting memories, the tender scars, crept in, clouding my reverie. But I pushed back.

I closed my eyes and thought of the future, my hand finding comfort in the warmth of the life that moved beneath it.

* March 2009 *

My foot tapped, rhythmless. I sucked in air as I checked my phone again. What time is it?

What day is it?

My fists clenched. Unclenched. I begged my body to relax. Pleaded with it.

"You're having a girl." I smiled when she said the words even though I knew exactly what she was going to say. Her little body wiggled in fuzzy lines and curves on the screen. A girl.

A mother knows.

I'm going to have a girl. A baby girl.

JR and his daddy had already headed to the car (celebratory donuts in order), carrying the news with them. I was left, waiting. A doctor to see, an exam to be performed, a heartbeat to hear.

I was alone in a room full of expectant moms. The chatter was deafening. Joy bounced around the room (aided by the energy of anticipation and a healthy dose of fear).

I'm so happy.

But I can't breath. The smile, fading.

The endless questions, the brazen fears, the unruly angst paraded around in my mind, assaulting any small shred of excitement that dared to dwell.

I don't want to wonder if she'll have my frailties. I don't want to wonder if the mistakes of the past will rest with her. I don't want the histories of my mother, my grandmother to be her legacy.

I can hear the loud cacophony of support ringing in my ears . . . Words of encouragement. Words of love. "You'll be OK." "Everything will be fine." "You'll be a great mom!" But these are thoughts that were destined to be mine. I pushed them back for far too long.

But right now, I just want to wonder if she'll be a lover of words. If she'll get lost in her daydreams. If she'll pull apart her Oreo and lick the frosting. If she will paint her toes pink or red. If she'll have her father's lips. If her giggle will sound like JR's. If she'll have eyes like mine.

That's all I want to think about.

That . . . and how I will love her. With everything I have.

Things That Sparkle

I peaked over and I could still see her. My eyes followed her fingers as she examined the tiny leaves, berries and shimmery ribbon that adorned the festive decoration. She pushed up the tiny glasses that sat perched on her nose as she held the ornament up to the light.

What was she looking for? What could possibly merit this kind of scrutiny?

I had no idea. I quickly returned the dozens of the same festive decoration to their bins. Clearly, I was not qualified to be here. My shoulders slumped in resignation.

But I could not give up. I could not relinquish my dream of being a master of homemade festive decor without at least giving it one last shot.

I quickly made another pass down the floral aisle, patiently waiting for inspiration to smack me in the head with an idea that would make even The Martha green with envy.

I passed rows and rows of beads, ribbons, baskets and wreaths waiting to be trimmed by the knowing and articulate hands of a professional. Miniature trees, plain and ordinary, would soon be magnificent displays of holiday charm.

I started to get excited as tiny seeds of an idea began to form . . .

That's when I saw THEM. Two women. They joyfully bantered as they dramatically discussed their plans for a foam cone, some moss and a basket full pine cones and bows. I listened intently as they pilfered through the basket. Everything looked the same to me, but clearly each item held such a distinct difference that in my creative ignorance I failed to notice. I didn't get it. I had no vision.

I'm an idiot. A Martha wannabe without an ounce of talent.

As the critical gaze of one woman (the one with the snowman sweater and matching snowflake earrings--probably all handmade) fell to me, I quickly pretended to talk to J about the pretty angels that hung from the ceiling. At least I think they were angels.

I suddenly became self conscious of my attire (sweatshirt and jeans), my empty basket (save the empty raisin box) and the obvious fact that I did not belong amongst this crowd of crafting geniuses.

I knew I had to get the heck outta there. And fast . . . before the very last flake of my illusionary creativity melted like a sad, pitiful old snowman in the sun (you're lovin' my seasonal metaphors, aren't you?).

I gave my very best shot.

I failed.

Off to the dollar store where I was sure to find some decals for the windows and a few cheesy baskets I could fill with some fake fruit. Maybe I'd spray paint them with gold paint. Woo. Hoo.

As I made my way to toward the exit, I noticed something. Something that filled my heart with an ever-increasing comfort. And joy.

There were other women slowly perusing the aisles and tucked amongst the grapevine wreathes, that had an all too familiar look in their eyes. They tried to hide it, pulling out foam circles, empty pots and berry garland.

They were clueless.

Just like me.

Their eyes shifted as a Martha would begin her casual, yet craftily confident stroll down the aisle. I saw the women pull their shoulders back as if to say, "I belong here, even if I have no idea what I'm doing. So, push on, Martha."

OK. So maybe I was imagining all of this.

But it didn't matter.

I was inspired.

I took a big breath, refilled J's Cheerio's cup, and headed back into the fray.

Ribbons, berries, strange things that sparkle . . . here I come.

PSF: As Darkness Falls . . .

A prom queen, an old hag, a dead president.

Chewy cream-filled caramels, Tootsie Rolls, Sweet Tarts.

Foreboding music, hanging bones, a smirking pumpkin.

Running to each house. Stumbling up the steps, knocking on the door and breathlessly forcing out "Trick or treat!" Impatient, you dance side to side as your check out your stash. "Is that a penny?" you ask yourself as you spot the copper coin among the sugary treasures. "Cheap," you mutter under your breath as the door swings open.

Your smile is automatic. You have blocks of houses to get to, no time for small talk.

You run through the leaves, completely dismissing the sidewalks (good manners be gone!). House to house. Tumbling over limbs. Leaping over tombstones.

You can't stop. You must not stop. You will succeed!

Your body grows weary as the hands on the clock announce the end of the day. But you still spot porch lights in the distance. Onward you go.

Until. You can go . . . no more.

The weight of your pillowcase has forced you to slow. You peak in at the little pieces of wrapped goodness. "Will this carry me until Christmas?" you ask yourself. You know it is an improbability, but you have hope.

As the hour strikes midnight, with Salem's Lot (or is it the Exorcist?) playing in the background, the tired ghost hanging from the staircase, you sit at the kitchen table. You take your bag and empty it . . . the candy spreads across the table.

A treasure.

Mom reaches for the Heath Bars. Dad reaches for the Snickers. Their eyes sparkle as they unwrap their prizes.

You sit back and smile, hands behind your head. You prop your feet on the chair and soak in the sweet greatness that is you.

And in the wee corner of your mind you start to plan. For next year. Maybe a map? A bigger pillow case? A wagon! My three little siblings . . . my minions . . . (cue evil cackling laugh).



He has no idea what he is in for.

* * *

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

The Placenta Story

I still remember the day that I held a big silver bowl, my mother's placenta floating inside.

I was 11.

It was gross. A deep red, slimy, veiny mass. Swish. Swirl. In the bowl. The bowl . . . I vaguely remember eating popcorn from that bowl on family movie nights. Maybe I didn't. Gosh, I hope not . . . Swish. Swirl.

* * *

After babies one, two and three, my mother went on a "getting in touch with nature" kick. The kind of kick that had her nixing our spam burgers and fried bologna sandwiches. The kind that had my mother talking about "peace" and "being one with nature." The kind of kick that had my mother joining the ranks of La Leche League . . . the militant division. Boobs being their weapon of choice.

My mother decided that it would serve her best to have what would be her last baby in the same place where she was conceived (at 11 I knew what conceived meant, I was just in denial about how it actually worked . . . this is a good thing. I was a worrier.). A home birth plan was set in motion.

I had no idea what this meant. No idea . . .

The days leading up to my sister's birth were torturous. OK. I have no idea what they were like. I don't remember. But, I can't imagine them being pleasant when we had a bunch of breastfeeding moms, with babies in tow, milling about our house as if it were a subway during rush hour.

The memories of the day my mother finally did give birth are stored in my head in a series of snapshots. My mother having her feet rubbed by one of the mothers, her baby tugging at her sleeves. A dozen or so other mothers sitting in the living room, drinking tea while simultaneously feeding one baby and disciplining another. Every room in our spacious 800 square foot house was filled with people. Some I knew, some I think were just there for the free drinks (served in boob mugs, I might add). It was a boob fest . . . where was my dad? Hiding. No doubt.

The night dragged on. My mom was in her bed, in ready position, my sister desperately clinging to her insides. I gave up waiting. I needed to sleep. I went to my room only to find a half dozen babies slumbering on my tiny twin canopy bed. I was desperate and made an attempt to scoot one of the toddlers aside, happy to squeeze in anywhere.

The valuable piece of real estate I found was . . . wet. Pee.

The couch. Occupied by breastfeeding mums. My brother and sister's bunk bed. Taken by more babies.

No more beds . . .

My closet. The place where I was certain could lead to Narnia if only I went in deep enough. I laid a few blankets in the bottom, curled up in the fetal position, and fell right to sleep.

I heard my name. Shouts. My mom? Was she calling me? I felt a hand reach back into the closet and tug at my shirt.

"The baby is coming," alerted the voice.

I stumbled into my mother's room. She was surrounded by a sea of eager faces, peering, searching, invading . . . Even their kids came to watch, a few sitting in the front row munching on snacks, donning 3D glasses (OK, that part isn't true, but it really was a chaotic scene, that much I remember).

I stood near the foot of the bed. Pain and joy tugged at my mother's face, clearly engaged in a war I did not quite understand. The midwives beckoned me to come closer, "Do you want to touch your baby sister's head?" Why was it so important that I touch it while it was in THERE? I mean, she was coming out, right? I'll touch her later, thanks.

There was a cacophony of grunts and screams with the low hum of normal, every day conversation in the background. My mom was clearly in extreme agony and these women were planning their meals for next Sunday. OK, so maybe not their meals, but while I was freaking out (HELLO, I was 11), these women were so calm it was almost surreal.

Push. Grunt. Scream.

Out came the baby (there was a little more to it, but you get the idea).

"Do you want to cut the cord?" Where the heck was my dad?

They wrapped my sister and put her on my mother's chest. I stood there. Wow. I'm so not doing that, ever (I distinctly remember thinking that).

I was yanked from my reverie by a bowl being thrust in my hands. And in a matter of moments said bowl was filled with a placenta. I felt my eyes bulge, pleading with the sockets to let them go. What was going on? Was this part of the baby? Did it still need this?

I watched the placenta jiggle in the bowl. Swish. Swirl. The baby in my mother's arms had just made a traumatic journey, yet she didn't cry. Me, I wanted to bawl.

Someone took the placenta from me. We never saw each other again. And in its place I was handed a plump, 11 pound baby with a squishy face and a head full of wispy hairs.

In that moment all was quiet. I could feel her breath. I could smell her. I could hear her little gulps and gurgles. Even as I type this I can still feel her heavy in my arms. I walked her around our modest little home. I showed her the bedrooms, the bathroom, the kitchen, the living room. It took all of ten seconds to show my little sister the home where she would live for over 20 years.

I wish those 20 years would have given her more. More peace. More true happiness. More kept promises.

Our house was filled that early morning on April 12th. Women. Children (one of whom PEED in my bed). Chaos at its best. . . but by the late afternoon all was quiet. The baby girl rested in my arms.

She was safe. For now. Happy. For now.

My baby sister just signed papers to purchase her very own home. She'll be leaving the home where we all grew up in a matter of weeks, a month or so at the most.

She's all grow up. My baby sister.

I won't forget seeing her for the first time, holding her, giving her a tour of her home.

And of course, we'll always have the placenta story . . . and that is one I'll never forget.

Swish.

Swirl.



*Quick disclaimer to La Leche Leaguers. I am a breastfeeding mom with absolutely nothing against La Leche League (these women were pretty darned cool . . . only a few were a little nutty and nutty is perfectly OK). I was 11 and I was kinda freaked out by the sheer number of exposed breasts in one location and of course, there was that placenta thing, too . . .

Hate Me, Love Me

I remember climbing up onto the vanity in our cramped yellow bathroom. I was small enough to put my feet in the sink while I balanced the rest of my tiny frame onto its sides.

I would stare in the mirror, questioning the reflection before me. Who are you? I would ask, believing that one day she'd respond.

I examined every part of that face. The pronounced Armenian nose, the German blue eyes, the high cheekbones, the pale skin, the gap between my two front teeth, the scar on my forehead and another that would dance upon my cheek whenever I would laugh.

I hated that face. My face.

I was not beautiful. I never would be . . . I wasn't the smartest, coolest or the most talented either.

And, I didn't care. Not yet, anyway. I didn't know enough to care what people thought of me. I blindly went about my life in my scruffy clothes, ratty shoes and unkempt hair. I sang from my gut. I yelled out answers and didn't care if they were wrong. I hopped and twirled and danced down the streets (in the mall, the grocery store, the park). I would fall to the floor in fits of laughter (sometimes for no reason at all). I was living as loudly as I could, drinking in every drop of life. Not caring . . . not knowing.

But sometimes knowledge comes at a price . . . the euphoric innocence of youth. My voice was silenced, my hands rested firmly in my lap (even if I was sure I knew the answer), the dancing stopped and seldom did laughter escape from my lips. I did this . . . to myself. Believing I could just fade away.

As a young girl, not yet stumbling into adolescence, my carefully crafted facade began to give way to tiny cracks from each "well-meaning" comment and criticism . . . my face, my body, my brains, my abilities. I wasn't smart enough. Pretty enough. Good enough.

The words came from others . . . and sometimes the words were unspoken. The stares. The whispers. Last picked. Overlooked. Left out.

I spent the better part of my youth trying to prove myself. Trying to prove that I was good enough . . . worthy enough. I became the person they thought I was, the person they wanted me to be. I cowered under criticism. I said YES when I meant NO. I soothed feelings in spite of my own. I gave up. I gave in. I compromised and never gained a thing.

And then something happened. I went back to that girl, sitting on the vanity, her feet in the sink, examining her every feature, her icy blue eyes filled with self-loathing

and I shook her . . . awake.

I made her abandon the cloak of the past--the histories that were not hers to bear.

I am not the same as I was a decade ago, a year ago . . . even yesterday. And, I doubt I'll be the same tomorrow. That's fine with me . . .

My face is a constellation of flaws, there are bags under my eyes and my hair declares war on me every day. I have a quirky personality (and often a lame sense of humor to match). I say things that might make you cringe or even cry. I'm smart, but I have to work at it . . . nothing comes easy. Nothing. I get frustrated, irritated, annoyed, and plain old ANGRY, but I try to keep it all in check. I cry too much and sometimes, not enough. I'm a pessimistic optimist who expects the worst but hopes for the best.

You may hate me for what I say, what I believe in, for the car I drive or for how I part my hair.

You may love me for my unabashed honesty, my self-deprecating humor, my patient and calm demeanor (my incredible humility).

Whatever your choice, this is it. This is who I am and who I will be. Hate me . . . love me.

I no longer make apologies for who I am, what I do or what I believe.

I can't let that little girl down. I can't ever let her think that she doesn't matter or that she won't just fade away . . . because if I do . . .

I'll let him down. . .


and that just can't happen.

On Fear

The trip was quiet. I glanced back to see J with his head tilted to the side, his hand still clutching the little red truck he brought on the trip with him. As I reached back to smooth his hair (in truth, to check to see if he was breathing. I know, it is morbid, but sometimes the most peaceful expressions usher in a storm of dark thoughts).

Wanting to stretch our legs, we pulled into a rest area. The sky was clear, the trees just beginning to show signs of fall, and the air was the perfect jeans and t-shirt temperature.

We gently tickled the sleeping baby awake. I know. Who does that? Apparently, we do. Crazy, no doubt.

He woke with a grin. Squinting his eyes as the sun stretched across his face. He knew freedom was imminent. We unstrapped him from his seat and walked him over to a large grassy area (which I found oddly beautiful for a simple roadside rest area).

The moment his feet touched ground, he was off.

We attempted to contain our laughter as he would take several steps and then stop. Look back, checking to make sure his fan club was still paying attention. Grin. And then on the move again.

He giggled as he waved his arms around, balancing himself as he deftly avoided tripping over unseen leaves, branches and even blades of grass. Oh, the precarious walk of a toddler.

I watched as he would walk onto the path and then off and on again. Clearly he was relishing in his newfound freedom. His growing confidence came to life in the thoughtful smile on his face.

I called to him, beckoning him to follow me, to come to me. But he wouldn't. This time he didn't even look back. He looked ahead. On the path . . . then off.

As his father walked toward him, J giggled and ran ahead. Off the path . . .

I stayed behind. The dark thoughts invading my mind again. I looked ahead at my son as I steeled myself against an unspoken fear.

He walked away from me. Today, I can run after him, scoop him up in my arms and carry him to safety. Tomorrow I will have to let him go . . . he will have to navigate the world on his own.

I fear accidents and illness. I fear strangers who only mean him harm. I fear fate and nature. I fear not being there . . . waiting. Watching. Protecting.

I know. My fear is not logical nor is it practical. But, the day I found out I would become a mother logic and practicality became afterthoughts.

I knew what I was getting into the moment I saw that flutter on the screen. The moment I heard the heartbeat. The moment I felt him move beneath my hand.

I knew . . . and thus, I fear.

But, my hope for him, for the world he lives in outweighs my fear. A fear that has no permanent residence in my life; its visits fleeting.

J comes running to me, wrapping his arms around my leg and then lifting them up to me. I reach down and pull him up. He rests his head on my shoulder as my arms stretch around his little body.

We walk together, J and his mommy and daddy, to the car.

Fear will not grip me.

Deep breath.

Fear will not grip me.

A strange new reality. Motherhood.

One I will never relinquish.

***********
Great news! Veronica of Sleepless Nights is back home and doing well!

Undone

There is dried banana on the chair in the dining room.

It's crusty.

The laundry is scattered on the floor in the living room.


I didn't put it there. He did.

The dishes are reminding me of Everest, piled high in the sink, insurmountable.

I need to buy toilet paper.



We're running out . . .

I'm thinking about getting out of my pajamas. Thinking about it. Maybe I'm thinking too hard.

The floors are, well. I'm not so sure I can even discuss the floors as they are now under new management--the ubiquitous Cheerio. And the toys that have no desire to be put away.

So much undone.

But, I've blown bubbles on his belly. I've danced in the middle of a toy-strewn room with his little body tucked close to mine. I've sang songs loud and out of tune while hopping through the halls, his quick little feet and breathless laughter trailing behind me. I've ignored the "To Do List" while making tiny houses out of Cheerios, bananas and cheese. I've fallen asleep amid the chaos of all left undone . . . his head resting on my shoulder, his hand wrapped around my neck, and his banana breath on my cheek.

So much . . . done.

Scents of Self

The leaves swirl upon the ground, crunching beneath my feet and scraping across the pavement. The bittersweet sound means bidding farewell to to the warmth of summer while welcoming the cool winds of fall.

Vibrant gold mixed with rich ruby red leaves are beginning to dot the skyline that surrounds the mill. The cider mill. A visit that serves to usher in fall. J's very first visit.

This past weekend we had our very own adventure. J wasn't too sure what to make of the crowds of people, the sounds of chatter and laughter, the aroma of apples and dewy leaves . . . he simply sat back and soaked it all in while his mama got lost in her memories.

I was only in first grade when I first visited the cider mill. Although time has left my memories a bit clouded, my subsequent visits throughout my childhood have etched the cider and cinnamon-laden experiences in my mind.

The collection of colorful leaves acts as a canopy, filtering out the light and casting a ethereal glow on the ground. The sounds of laughter dancing through the air. My fingers sticky from real caramel.

But, it is the sweet scent of apples that truly pulls me back. I am a child all over again. Enthusiasm courses through me as a smile creeps across my face. I see the plump red fruit in my hands. I hear the joyful crunch. I taste the sweetness.

Yes, images, sounds, textures all add to the verisimilitude of my memories. But, it is the scent that captures and pulls me into them, letting me live once more in their essence.

Sausage Gravy . . . I can see her reaching over the stove to retrieve the well-done sausage patties. She crumbles them, places them into an ancient iron skillet that must be older than she. She drops a tablespoon (or was it a cup?) of lard into the pan and I can hear the sizzling sound wrapping around my ears. I watch as she moves in the kitchen, her ample size betrays the finesse with which she dances around the tiny room. She looks back at me and beckons me to come over. I follow as I watch the back of her flowered house coat make its way around the corner of the stove. She pulls up a chair and she hands me a bowl of flour. She scoops it up with her hands and drops it into the skillet. She motions for me to do the same. Milk. Stir. Scrape. More milk. Stir. The aroma of sausage gravy moves throughout the house, filling every tiny room, waking every slumbering body.

I am ravenous. She senses this and pulls a warm biscuit from the basket and dips it into the skillet. Her eyes tell me that this will be our secret. And it was . . .

My aunt has been gone for years, but when that rich aroma begins to waft around me, I am back in the kitchen, examining the patterns of her house coat, watching her flitter about the kitchen, tasting gravy-dipped biscuits and loving every moment of it.

* * *

Cool Water . . . Slowly, with caution in every step, I make my way down each aisle. Shadowy clouds crawl across the skies above the Windy City. With the storm approaching, I am eager to catch the train and head back to the dorms. I begin looking for my friends and find them hovering over a magazine, giggling and sharing silent stories. I don't care to join them. Not today. I return to the aisles, walking without intent, letting my fingers linger on the items as I pass. Who goes to a drugstore on a Friday night? A lame brokenhearted college student, of course. But, I am on the road to recovery, so says my magazine-hovering friends. I am "finding my way back."

Sure.

I turn the corner and spot a young couple standing at the cosmetics counter. For a brief moment my heart cracks. Deep breath. A couple. I was once a couple. BUT, I am a lonely young woman. NO, scratch that. I am a woman who is confident in her alone-ness.

Right.

I move on . . .

But then, it happens. I am assaulted by a scent the shakes me to my core. In an instant I am there. His arms, wrapped around me. His lips slowly finding the curves of my neck. My hands working through his hair. His caress forces me to catch my breath . . . and let it go as he pulls me into an embrace. My face rests against his, finding a tender comfort on his shoulder. Breathing him in . . .

I am already out of the store. Heaving. Looking out at the city lights wondering when and how the pain will finally leave. A mere spritz of a cologne and a young couple proceeded to crack open my chest and let the million tiny pieces of my heart fall to the ground.

The Cool Water rushed over me . . . and left me. Left me . . .

* * *

Baby lotion . . . If you close your eyes, you can see how baby lotion smells. Before J, baby lotion looked like rainbows and Sweet Tarts. Don't ask me why. It just did.

It was a like a poem with a perfect rhyme. The filling in a jelly donut. A clear puddle after a spring rain. A puppy rolling to its belly, begging for a rub. The final note of the perfect concerto.

But the moment I held J in my arms, the images changed.

Belly buttons. Soft cheeks. Chubby thighs. Big blue eyes. Velvety tufts of hair. The "oooo" sound he makes when I pull his small body to mine.

Baby lotion can bring my knees, my heart grateful for my gift. Make me squeal with delight when I see his little wobbly figure make its way toward me, hands in the air and laughter escaping off his tongue.

Baby lotion makes me remember who I am. Who I've become. And even where I may go . . .

* * *
Believe it or not, I have a whole other paragraph dedicated to the power of scratch-n-sniff stickers, but I will save that one for another time. You may thank me later . . .

Our senses. Our scents . . . amazing. Tell me . . . what about your scents?

Share, please.

The Mantra of the Fearless

Memories of me . . .

The toddler, clad in nothing but a cloth diaper, is spinning circles in the middle of the yard. There is neither a hint of worry nor fear in her deep blue eyes. Her wide two-toothed grin only reveals the promise of what is yet to come.

A girl, her long black hair cascading around her, is running . . . pulling at the air above her and yanking it down. Other children stare and laugh as they huddle close to watch the strange girl whirl her body around the playground. She wants desperately to fly. Undaunted, she thinks nothing of the true weight of her old yard sale shoes on her feet or the torn and stained dress that she wears. She has a sky to conquer and a universe to explore.

The young woman is alone with her thoughts, whispers of her dreams still hang heavy in the air. She looks lost, but is not yet defeated. She is melancholy, but resolutely sanguine. She appears youthful, but within her eyes there is wisdom.

And the slow and steady beat of time goes on . . .

Trips never taken. Roads not traveled. Decisions never made. Doors not opened.

The fearless faded away. The "I can do anything" was replaced with a cool pragmatism beset with self-doubt. The "I can conquer the world" was replaced with the gentle shake of a head and the slow curling of a patronizing smile. The "I can be whatever I want" was replaced by the limits of class and reality of vacant bank accounts.

She learned to be content. She learned to just be. And life was good.

Until. She learned to be fearless. Again. Which comes much easier once you've realized you've been tasked with caring for another human being . . . nurturing their soul, building their path, unlocking their mind, and comforting their heart.

And also changing a diaper, balancing a checkbook, baking a cake and painting your nails all at the same time (which in no way can I actually do, but example is for effect).

You made her fearless . . . you gave her no choice.


She will not let another dream fade away, another goal go unreached, another door slam shut.

Never again. Like the bold toddler, the adventurous girl and the brave young woman she will reach up, reach out, and be fearless.

Fearless because of you.

Fearless, for you . . .

PhotoStory Friday: My Affliction

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

* * *

That face. The way you crinkle your nose as the wind brushes along your face. The way you look at me, your eyes peering up through your tiny soft lashes. Your bow-shaped lips slowly part and I see the sweet beginnings of a smile. Your eyes widen and the swirling pools of color spring to life.

I could drowned in those eyes.


Those hands. One moment they flail around, moving the air, reaching for the sun. Simple things become jewels of wonderment in those hands. With each curious touch, your hands reveal the magic of first knowledge.

I admire those hands.


That body. You crawl walk, run and I watch as the soft slopes of your limbs move to the rhythm of a soundless song. Your boundless energy is infectious as the world becomes your playground.

I crave your freedom.

Your laugh dances its way to my ears and a smile slowly creeps across my face. I feel my heart thump mercifully in my chest, fighting the emotion to no avail.

Who are you, sweet baby? For you are not mine.

I'm in awe of children that are not mine. It is my affliction.

This child . . .

is the baby, enveloped by the tranquil sounds of nature, slumbering in the stroller at the park.

is the doe-eyed girl who trades giggles with her mother over a simple picnic lunch.

is the anxious tow-headed boy who is eager to please his father as they toss a ball between them.

is the toddler who is figuring out the limitless capabilities of her body as she stumbles her way across the floor.

You are the cause of my affliction, sweet baby J . . .

I have a love for you that knows no bounds . . .

In your eyes I see hope.
In your face I see curiosity.
In your body I see determination.
In your hands I see discovery.

And now, I see it in every child . . .

Before J came into my life I admired children from afar. I relished in their innocence. I was touched by their unblemished spirit. I was inspired by their open minds and forgiving souls.

But now with J in my life, each time I see a child my heart swells and my seams break open. Be it in a store, a park, at an event, or anywhere, I am instantly engaged. "What is your teddy bear's name?" "Is red your favorite color." "Wow, you are such a good walker, little man!"," I'll bet your mommy made that for you," "What would you like to be when you grow up?"

They are happy to answer my questions, to lean in close when I speak to them. They laugh when I make a silly face. They give me their broadest smiles and biggest belly laughs.

I can't help but wonder what happened to me . . .

Have I been drugged?

Am I part of an alien experiment?

Am I going crazy? (please let it be aliens!)

But I know the answer.

I'm now a mother . . . I still find it hard to believe. The moment Baby J came to be I was afflicted.

And although I know that the minute I see the screaming-crying-temper-tantrum-throwing-back-talk-talking-eye-rolling-kinda kid . . . I may have a change of heart.

But until then . . .

I will never go looking for a cure . . .

* * *

On Living

Boy, did you know how to push my buttons. Politics. Religion. Gluing the toilet paper. The "bugs" under my pillow. The jokes that made me cringe and wonder how many Hail Marys it was worth. Oh, and remember the time you so kindly helped me visualize the bloodied and broken body of my mother-in-law (whom I love dearly--she's seriously a saint) while I took the wheel on our trip to visit your son (who just so happened to propose to me the very next night) in Georgia? I don't know why you thought getting me to cry while traveling the Smokies on a foggy night was a smart idea. But, your wife telling you to "Shut it" was worth it.

You were such a pain in my arse. From telling me I could give a stick figure a run for its money (I was not skinny, I just didn't care to eat a pound of fried cheese sticks. Those, my dear father-in-law, were all yours) to believing I was the worst thing that could happen to your son because I was a bit too rebellious, you gave me hell. You tried to boss me around. I bossed you right back. You wondered why the hell I wasn't pregnant 3 minutes after I was married. I said that once you pushed a Volkswagen out of your hoo haa, then maybe. You always told me my views were always wrong, I told you your views were never right. I made your blood boil. You made me cringe.

But, you loved me.

I loved you. More than anything.

We had a unique relationship, didn't we? I loved you not only for being the father of the man I married, but I loved you for being a father to me . . .

December 11, 2006
Your hands are resting at your side. Your mouth is strained open, as if you are trying to say something. The monitor beeps. The tubes stretch across your body. I lay my hand on your's and put on a brave face.

Your son needs me to be strong. I will be.

But I can't help but to silently beg you to wake up. To yell at me. To make fun of me. To spar with me over politics. Religion. The sucky Detroit Lions.

Deep breath.

You are the patriarch of this family. You are the heart that keeps it beating . . . I stare at their faces. They are lost. Your daughter. As the oldest, she tries so hard to hold it together. Your sons. I know they are running images of you in their mind. Birthdays. Holidays. Vacations. Firsts. They are negotiating with the guilt and regret of things said, unsaid, done, not done.

Your wife. Anne, my mother-in-law with the soul of a saint. Her pain runs so deep in digs trenches into my resolve to remain strong.

And I look to your son, my husband. You and he shared something that went beyond father and son. Beyond even a simple friendship. He got you. You got him. I know that when you go you'll take a part of him with you.

Yet. You are still you. Even at the end. As your three sons, with breaking hearts and tears in their eyes lean over you, telling you they love you, you lean forward. And with a raspy voice barely above a whisper, you tell them, "Don't be a bunch of pu$ies." The bite back at their laughter. That was an "I love you" if I ever heard one.

I plead with my tears, for they are not mine to cry. But I know they'll fall . . .

December 12, 2006
Today is my husband's birthday. Today is the day you brought the love of my life into the world.

And today. You say goodbye.

The cancer that ravaged your body is gone. It claimed your lungs, your bones, your brain, and ultimately, your life.

I know I shouldn't be. But I am still so angry. How it forced itself into your life, a BIG life. How is stole your sly smile and robbed you of your laughter. You were such a force and to see you as you crumbled under the pain was something I will never be able to wipe from my memory. One moment your voice filled the room as wild energy whirled around you. The next moment you were so small. So frail. A victim, beaten and robbed.

But in the end, it didn't claim your soul. And today, your spirit is so alive. In sweet Anne's heart. In T's sense of humor. In R's stubbornness. In S's charm. In your daughter's wisdom. In my vivid memories. And now, in his sly little smile. Sweet Baby J, who entered this world only nine months after you said goodbye.

Your grandson. I now know why you wanted him for us. Why only two weeks after you left us we found out about him. He was a gift. He soothed our hearts and helped dry our tears . . .

One day, I will tell him stories that will have him filling a room with his laughter (your laughter). He will know you. He will cherish you the same way I did. I'll make sure of it.

And so you know, I'd give anything to have those moments back. The edgy banter. The lame jokes. The totally inappropriate comments. The moments when I knew I meant the world to you . . .

* * *

I know that nearly every one of you has been touched by cancer. Although is can tear lives apart, in its wake are often the most courageous of all stories. I just keep reminding myself that the body is temporary, the soul (regardless of what you believe) lives on . . .

To Faith, the most beautiful young girl I've ever seen. I miss you. 19 years old.
To Timmy. I can only imagine who you'd be today. Greatness. Undoubtedly. 14 years old.
To Maddie. I miss you, grandma. That fiery red hair. That fiery personality.
To Len. You knew how to live. And you did, up until the last breath.
To Amy. You survived. You did it! You amaze me.

To Roman. Your grandson looks just like you . . .

* * *

You Can't Beat Me

Sweat dripping down my back. My hair, wet and matted to my forehead. Grabbing for each and every breath. My muscles straining with each footfall. The heat of the sun burning the back of my neck. My hands wet under the grip of the handle.

I tell myself I'll run to the next bush. The gaggle of geese. The light pole. The group of elderly men who laugh and joke as they make their way around the track. I am desperate to stop. But, I can't quit . . .

Then I see her. She has the jogging stroller I saw in an issue of hip and cool baby gear must haves. Her shorts are snug against her near-perfect body, her sunglasses no doubt are designer, her shoes probably custom fit.

Me. Old high school t-shirt (from the school where I formerly taught), baggy ten-year-old shorts, $1.99 sunglasses, and a jogging stroller that boasts affordability over style.

I will not stop running until she does.

And I don't.

The sweat drips.

The muscles scream in agony.

The sun sears my body.

The smell . . .

Uh oh.

Poop.

Crap (literally). Now I HAVE to stop running. I mean, J needs me to change his dirty diaper. If his diaper weren't begging for a change I would have run at least five more miles. Undoubtedly.

I make a show of smelling him. Shaking my head as I reach for the diaper bag.

I hope she's watching. I hope she knows I would have never, ever stopped unless my child needed me.

As I head for the restrooms I mumble under my breath . . .

"Thank you, J. Mommy adores a poopy diaper." Especially when Olympic wannabe mommy is hot, sweaty, sore, burned, exhausted and in desperate need to save face.


Until tomorrow, sweet jogging stroller . . . until tomorrow.

Three days . . .

Until the little guy turns 1.

I know. I've been MIA.

Why? I've been . . . drumroll please . . . reflecting.

I hate when I do that.

I've been a bit . . . emotional. No, not all weepy and stuff. Well, not much anyway.

Is it because J is turning 1? I think that is part of it. But, I also think my recent foray into the psychological abyss that is my mind is more about life in general.

I've been thinking about everything from our loved ones who are no longer with us to the fact that my butt just doesn't look the same in my favorite jeans anymore.

I have about a half dozen unfinished posts. I start one, get all excited, read it over. DELETE.

Like . . .

The post about the two elderly ladies at the park who talked incessantly about their love lives (in detail). I may need therapy . . . DELETE.

OR

My two-hour drive home with two screaming infants in the back seat of my car. I had one of those crazy "I can't do anything about it but laugh until I pass out" laughs going on. You know, the freaky kind that make you think you are going crazy. I'm pretty sure my friend will NEVER call me for a play date again. DELETE

OR

A story from high school that involved an eggs, doggy biscuits, toilet paper and a Chinese restaurant place mat. DELETE. Wait . . . that I might save 'til later.

OR

The letter to single guys who think they poop gold, pee Dom Perignon, are as intelligent as Einstein, as charming as Clooney, as hot as Pitt, and that any chick fortunate enough to be in his presence should thank her lucky stars. Well, you don't. You ain't. And the WOMEN today are much smarter than that (even if it takes a date or two to realize it). That post came with a free quart of Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia and a copy of Sleepless in Seattle. DELETE. Well, maybe not quite yet . . . I mean, ice cream???

Yeah, so I've been busy NOT writing. Not posting. Not commenting (much, if at all). I feel as if I'm constantly wiping away the cobwebs from the lap top. That will change . . . soon.

BUT, I have been soaking up each and every second of J's life leading up to THE BIG DAY. Playing, tickling, chasing, bouncing, jumping, laughing, chatting, reading, singing . . . swelling . . . as in my big fat heart.

* * *
I can't leave you with yet ANOTHER sappy ending . . . so, let me leave you with this forgive me.

I've been trying to figure out how to get rid of my favorite fashion accessory. (BTW, Firecracker Mom, can this count as my sexy pic? 'Cause this is as close as anyone's gonna get. And I am showin' a little leg . . . ).


Wish me luck. I'm going for a run now (Well, not RIGHT now. After I finish spooning my tub of leftover chocolate frosting and sniffling over America's Got Talent --AKA Sap Fest.

I am . . .

I am . . .

short

(or economically packaged)

a little pudgy

(but soft for cuddling)

emotional

(but at least I have a heart)

not that pretty

(but he thinks I'm beautiful)

not that smart

(but he thinks I'm brilliant)

not that funny

(but he laughs at me all the time)

I am not so bad at this . . .

With just a little bit of help.

I am me. Nothing more. Nothing less.

I’m OK with it.

Are you?

Photostory Friday and Blog Blast for Education: Inspire Me

Today I am participating in a very worthy project to bring much needed attention to the topic of education, April's Blog Blast for Education. I am also participating in PhotoStory Friday, a wonderful initiative that gives each of us a chance to really showcase not only photos we take, but to tell the story behind them. Yes, I'm doubling up, but I'll be darned if it just didn't work out perfectly . . .

PhotoStory is hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

*Click HERE for OhMommy's CCC #1.
* * * * * * * * * * * *

This was my classroom.


There are no windows. There is no air conditioning unit. That big monstrosity above the podium didn't produce anything but noise. And, fear as I was constantly concerned that at any moment it might drop on my head (Worker's Comp. anyone?).

My desks were hand-me-downs. Which were previous hand-me-downs. So, they were old. Broken. Cracked. Rusted. Scratched. And, quite interesting if you really took the time to read what was etched into the desk tops.

At night (yes, I often stayed late to finish grading--which never really happened--or to work on lesson plans) while sitting at my computer, I would hear things. Strange things. Things moving above my head--in the rafters. Scratchy sounds. A low growly hum. Skittering. Scattering. I one time took an old broom and tapped at one of the ceiling tiles (clearly, I haven't watched enough horror movies). More skittering and scattering. It would send me hopping out of the room as if I had caught fire. The night custodian would just stare and nod. Stare and nod.

One early morning during the weekend I came in to grade some projects. As I opened the door, there they were. At least two dozen "water bugs." Now, where I'm from (Detroit and then Chicago) we call them COCKROACHES. But here, with a slight southern drawl I'm told, "Oh, they ain't cock-a-roaches. Them there, they're only water bugs. Harmless. We just leave 'em alone." Um. OK. Me and my can of RAID left 'em alone alright.

And then, the mouse-capades. My students loved it. I had a concession stand right next to my room (YES, my room was in near the gymnasium, locker rooms, concessions, and band room. Makes perfect sense that an English classroom would be there, right?). Need I say more. Anyway, right in the middle of analyzing symbolism in Macbeth one comes racing across the floor. Girls jump up on OLD desks, boys start to holler. Who the heck is Macbeth? Clearly, nothing will be accomplished, so, I offer 2 bonus points to the person that can collect the rouge mouse nad deposit him out into the parking lot. Let me just say that it is amazing what a kid will do for 2 measly bonus points.

I was fast approaching my sixth month of pregnancy and school was nearly over. It was a comfy 98 degrees in my room. I had three fans. One student actually brought in a misting fan for me. Apparently seeing a sweaty pregnant woman wobbling around was a little too much. One afternoon during my planning period I put my head on my desk and just tried to relax and cool off. It was really hot. So, off came my little t-shirt. I had a tank underneath. Granted it was a SMALL and I was now clearly an XL. Let's just say that when I stood up to greet my students as they came in, well, full on sweaty belly shot. So attractive. I may have scarred some for life.

Why do I mention this? Well. The conditions in my classroom were horrendous. I can only imagine the asbestos, the lead paint, the mold. And, we won't even discuss the locker rooms. I taught in a district with very little money (though it is deemed fairly well off compared to some). Budgets are being slashed. People are being let go. Projects are being abandoned. The district can't pass a bond. No one wants to pay for books much less a fresh coat of paint.

This is where we send our children. Tattered books or, NO books. Desks falling a part. Classrooms with dust/mold/rodents/bugs/no air. Exhausted brilliant teachers. Horrendous indifferent teachers who are tenured.

But still . . .

They thrive.

I was honored by one of my students at a banquet this past May at a banquet. This student believed she would never go to college. Her parents didn't. She had NO money. She was the Salutatorian. She thought she would never be recognized for her talents. She expressed at times she wasn't even sure she had any. She was accepted into a prestigious writing program the summer before her senior year and will begin college there this year. But there she was. Up at that podium. This young woman who didn't believe she could handle speaking in front of a crowd was so eloquent. Intelligent. Filled with charisma. There was a light in her eyes. A passion in each word that fell from her lips. She learned. She grew. She had arrived. There were tears in my eyes as she described how I had inspired her. With a little quiver in her voice, she asked me to come up to the podium. She hugged me. She told me she would never forget me. I was her inspiration.

Me. An inspiration.

Bugs. No air. Mice. Lead paint. A monstrosity that might fall on my head at any moment.

For that moment . . . it was all worth it.

A Quiet Shame

I remember trying not to cry. I was an adult, but inside I needed you. Still. I remember sitting on the cold hard floor and leaning against the porcelain, holding you up, asking if you were alright. Wiping your face, pulling back your hair as you lurched forward for what I had hoped would be the last time.

But it wasn't.

You were "never a drinker." You didn't do drugs. At least not the kind that didn't come with a label and a prescription.

Was it you? Was it the tiny little pills?

Why did you leave? Where did you go? Why didn't you want to be with me? With us? Those little faces. Babies. They were just babies. They looked to me and asked why. I had no answer. I was lost just as they were.

I know your history. Your pain. Your abandonment. The pills. The booze. The things that will forever go unspoken. I feel for that little girl you once were. I would hug her, hold her, and tell her it will be OK. But. The little girl you once were is gone. You are here and I still have no answers.

Instead. We go on . . . we fight for each second of awkward normalcy. We forget your "sabbatical." Or, at least we let you forget. Our quiet shame . . .

But each day I am reminded. The face of a cherub. That smile that brightens up even the darkest day. The laugh that sounds like little bells. He "tells" me that it will be different. That the cycle will be broken. I will be different. I will try to be good. I will learn from a past that I will never escape.

I will embrace him. He will inspire me to be more . . .

My inspiration

*Filed under super personal story that I will need to delete if my parents ever find my blog . . .

You're The Inspiration

Last week I received a call from one of the teachers at school. I thought maybe she was calling to express her extreme sadness over my decision to remain home with J. Or, maybe she had some juicy gossip to share (it runs rampart in my old stomping grounds). Nope on both accounts.

She called to tell me that a student had chosen to honor me at a banquet later this month. I inspired this student. The student looked up to me. I made a difference in his/her life. Wow.

I haven't been in the classroom in nearly a year.

I thought "out of sight, out of mind." Apparently not.

I don't know who the student is. They like it to be a surprise.

I started thinking about last year, the last year I taught. What could I have done to inspire this student so much that he/she chose me?

Let's see . . .

I made them write. A lot. And read. A lot. I'm an English teacher so it sorta goes along with the territory.

I listened to their stories. I told them some of mine.

I asked about their lives. I asked them about their plans for the future.

I went to their games. I attended some of their concerts. I showed up at their work (not knowing they would be there). I was around . . .

I told them they could be whatever they wanted to be . . . as long as they were willing to work hard, believe in themselves, and be true to who they are.

Respect. I told them to give it and to earn it. It is a rare commodity . . .

We laughed. They laughed at me, their roly poly little English teacher who at times could barely keep her eyes open or food out of her mouth. They were there the first time little J decided to make his presence known. They were in awe. So was I. We shared a moment.

I remember saying, "I really want you to do well." A student replied, "You actually mean that, don't you." Yes . . . I do.

I am flattered. I am humbled. I am continually amazed that I could do this . . . make a difference.
That means they were listening. They were watching. Watching and listening . . . oh, my.

Now with J I think about all I do. What I say. How I act. We've already discussed how I won't be perfect. It just won't happen. It wouldn't be any fun anyhow.

That means he'll watch me when I cook and clean. Or when I don't. He'll listen to my stories of first loves and my youthful misadventures. He'll see me make a fool of myself (he can add that to the times I've already made a fool of myself). He'll stare at me when I clearly don't have a clue. He'll see that I am uncoordinated and clumsy. He'll know I can be a slob. He'll laugh when he watches me lose my keys for the bazillionth time. He'll clearly gaze disapprovingly at my fashion sense, taste in books/movies/music. He'll NOT laugh at my super corny jokes (that are seriously much funnier when I remember how they actually went).

Look up to me? Be inspired by me? Me, make a difference?

Poor J . . . he doesn't have a chance.

Or maybe, just maybe . . . he does.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

For all you who are or will one day be the "inspiration"--I dedicate this to you. We are SOOO in trouble . . .




An 80s tune. You knew it was coming.

*My 100th post is coming up. Really? Shouldn't we just count the non-craptastic posts? That would be . . . like 3. Yes. I meant to make this announcement really, really tiny. Maybe you won't notice it. Do you? Then you have really good vision 'cause I can barely see it and I'm typing it.

Just a Mom?

What a beautiful day today. Gorgeous. J and I spent the better part of the afternoon in the park. While we made our laps around the pond, I decided to take a chance and call one of my best friends (we'll call her Ms. May . . . it is MAY after all). We try to talk as often as possible, but with her two little ones and my one, it is a challenge. You see, if we could talk for a quick five minutes, we would. BUT, that is impossible. Oddly enough, neither of us is one for talking on the phone that much. But, put the two of us together and it is near impossible to tear us apart . . .

In between the street sweeper, wind gusts, and motorcycles, Ms. May and I had one of our typical thought-provoking and riveting conversations (seriously, we could talk about the variety of generic cereals or the fact that NKOTB is making a comeback and it would be thought provoking--to us anyway). One of our topics was this whole idea of mommyhood. Oh, I hear your groans. Dear Lord, it is a mommy blog and she actually wants to dedicate a post to this?!?! Yes, yes I do. For good reason.

I'm still sorta new to this whole mom thing.

We talked about the perfect mother. You know who she is. Her children are the center of her universe. Her world revolves around them and everything they do. Everything she does focuses on being a mom. She's the one who leads mom clubs, organizes school activities, schedules the best play dates, plans the most awesome parties, makes the most healthful and creative snacks/treats, bakes and cooks from SCRATCH, wears "cool" mom clothes, her hair is always perfectly coiffed, and she is always, always full of energy! She is EXHAUSTING. Besides, we all know that NOTHING is as perfect as it seems. I have no doubt that she struggles as well.

I never had actual aspirations to be the PERFECT mother. That simply was not going to happen--and I'm OK with that. I just wanted to be a good mom. BUT, alas, the pressure to be the perfect mom, the cool mom, the mom who has it all together is ever present, even when we don't want to admit it. Heck, have you ever paged through some of those baby or parenting magazines? Sometimes it looks like the models in Vogue got pregnant and jumped onto the pages of American Baby or Parents. Yikes!


There's got to be a balance, right? This was the heart of our conversation . . . so many women define themselves as a mom. I know that I do, to some degree. But many define themselves as only a mom. Just a mom. That being said, it is easy to understand the pressure to do it PERFECTLY when that is ALL you believe you are. At least in your eyes.

Ms. May and I discussed how vital it is for a mom to have something along with her identity as mommy. Something that shows her creativity, her intelligence, her confidence, her tenacity in a different light. (A quick conversation flashback. When we first got on the phone we talked about our passions. What drives us. What motivates us. It was kinda fun to think about what we want to be when we grow up--even if we are in our 30s.) We both agreed that when the day comes we would love for our children to not only feel that we were the best (not necessarily perfect) moms we could be, but that we were also the best people we could be.

I want J to appreciate his momma's love for literature and the power of words. I want him to see that I took pride in my health (hopefully he'll forget seeing me dip a spoon into the Betty Crocker butter cream frosting and will only remember me jogging in the park--but if not, no biggie.). I want him to appreciate my sense of humor (even though he'll be sure to remember my corny knock knock jokes he'll never forget my awesome ability to mimic farm animals). I want him to know the little girl and young woman I was before he arrived. I want him to be proud of me for following my dreams and accomplishing my goals.

So, I don't know if I'll be leading any mom's groups. And, I tell ya, Goldfish crackers and Fruit Roll Ups are perfectly fine snacks. I will try to get it together more often than not, but some days, I WILL spend the better part of my day in my PJs (like on rainy ones where snuggling is much more preferred than going anywhere!). We may not have huge parties with clowns, celebrities, and fireworks (we'll opt for pizza and s'mores and scary stories in the tent out back), I won't be the perfect mom. Perfection is overrated anyway. But I hope I'll be the "perfect" mom for J.

I want him to know he is the center of my universe. A universe where you can be anything you want to be. And that means mommy, too.

A few moments from today . . .


Right now, our little universe is a pretty cool place to be . . .

Goodnight, sweet baby boy?

Oh, little baby J. I love you. I really, really do. I love you so much, that I want you to experience the joys of sleep. I want you to rest your weary body and wake rejuvenated and happy. I want your little baby mind to be crisp and your smile to be quick.

BUT.

What you want is to wake up . . . every two hours. You want milk. You want to be in the bed between mommy and daddy (which I love, but being that J loves to FLAIL in bed now, it isn't the best situation, not to mention the awkward contortions your body must go through to get comfy). You want to cuddle (in the most awkward positions). You DO NOT want to be in the crib, with cute little Blue Bear or Quacky (yes, I thought you might like a lovey or two, but NO) . You want us . . . who can blame you. So, here we are, two sleep deprived parents. My eyes are twitching. My head is floating in a cloud. Your daddy, is now zombie daddy with Samsonite hanging under his eyes. We'll soldier on . . . We. Will. Survive.

And now . . . a poem . . . dedicated to J:

We give you a bath and dress you all snug,
We read you a book and give a kiss and a hug.
We smile as we bid you a sweet goodnight,
We blow you a kiss and we turn out the light.

Goodnight sweet boy.

A move, a whimper, little cries,
We wait then go to dry your eyes.
We smile as we watch you rest your head,
We bid farewell and head to bed.

Goodnight little darling.

A shout we hear as startled we wake,
We slowly head to your room, "Boy is it late!"
A little while later we finally find sleep.
We pray that the restful silence will keep.

Goodnight.

Our attempts to sleep are to no avail,
As we wake to your whimpers, cries, and a wail.
A midnight feeding, a binky, your boo,
We drag ourselves back to bed hoping all that will do.

'night.

Not so much. You're up once again,
Babbling as if to ask, "Where ya been?"
We drag our worn-out bodies back to your room,
Mommy's secretly wishing she could put you back in the womb

. . . .

We rock you awhile and sing you a song,
But we know that you won't be asleep for long.
It's 3 AM as dad heads to bed.
But instead of sleep it's ESPN.

Mom goes downstairs, "No sleep for me."
Instead she dusts, washes dishes, and folds laundry.
And little baby all snug and safe in his bed,
Smiles as he rests his sweet little head.

End

The good news . . . daddy and I are figuring things out. Sleep still eludes us most of the time. But little J--he's only waking ONCE during the night now. To us, it is pure bliss . . .