Do you have time for a story?
Good. Get some coffee. Wait. Too hot for coffee, to early for beer. So iced tea or diet Coke. I'll wait.
Ready?
There once was a girl. She lived in a small trailer next to her father's. The Nebraska sky cradled her home like cupped hands. The trains hollered through like thunder.
Her kitchen was small and sad. Her living room cramped with furniture she had collected in another life, with bigger walls and bigger dreams. With a bigger future. Now she sat in one corner of a couch meant for a family. She didn't allow herself to look at the places that should have been filled, jumped on, stained with milk and juice.
The bed was large and empty. The hallway rang with only her footsteps. Only her washcloth sat on the sink, only her towel draped on the door.
She sat on the porch her father built her. Watered her plants. Watched the dust rise and settle with each passing car.
And her heart bled with loneliness. Her mind was trapped by circumstance and the days spilled endlessly into another.
The future was not a future. Just days and days of waiting for something that never came.
Sadness made her heart heavy, regret filled her mouth with ashes.
And then.
Her name in his mouth was like music. His face when he looked at her like a lighthouse in a storm. His entire being, face, soul, voice...all of it was a perfect match to hers.
Love came again. When she had given up. It rushed through all the open portals of her life like seawater, burning away what had been. It washed away the old, and created the new.
He was a miracle to her. He held her hand and made her his wife. He gave her a family when she didn't know what that word meant.
He gave her time, and patience, and his shoulder and his love.
In time, he gave her babies.
And she watched him with them, his easy nature, his ability to care and love and give just as he had to her- without reservation or expectation.
He kissed them on their full round cheeks, put them to bed at night. He changed diapers and made meals and woke in the night to newborn cries, to toddler cries.
He gave, as his father had taught him to give. With everything. Nothing held back. Family is family. Blood is blood. And that is sacred.
He taught this girl what it meant to love without pain. That hurt was inevitable, but pain was not. That forgiveness and honest apologies are the currency of life. That love is not perfect or romantic, but strong and honest. That love means holding on and not letting go.
He held her babies in the palm of his hand. He carried them through the church after their baptism and communion. He handed his newborn son to his father, introducing him to his namesake.
He watched his daughter grow in loveliness. He blessed her beauty and kind heart.
And he gave this girl a chance to become what she was born to be- a mother, a wife. He helped her to settle all of the broken pieces in her life, and to learn that her heart was not ruined by what came before.
He healed her. He saved her. And he continues to be the best man she has ever and will ever know.
Happy Father's Day, Mark. I love you more than words can ever say. Thank you for my beautiful life.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Perspective
I am feeling at once very blessed and very very heavy hearted. A boy in our neighborhood, one we just recently met and played with at the pool, has been diagnosed with a cancerous mass in his abdomen.
I heard the news while I watched my two kids play in the yard. It had been a long day and the kids were edgy and grumpy, making me the same.
And then I heard this, and none of it mattered anymore.
I have such a deep sadness and heaviness in my soul for this family, this mama, this sweet 3 year old little boy.
I am asking you to pray, to write his name on your hand, on a post it. To remember him and lift his name to heaven. To stand in the trenches with this family and intercede on his behalf.
His name is Sean. He is only three. Please pray.
I heard the news while I watched my two kids play in the yard. It had been a long day and the kids were edgy and grumpy, making me the same.
And then I heard this, and none of it mattered anymore.
I have such a deep sadness and heaviness in my soul for this family, this mama, this sweet 3 year old little boy.
I am asking you to pray, to write his name on your hand, on a post it. To remember him and lift his name to heaven. To stand in the trenches with this family and intercede on his behalf.
His name is Sean. He is only three. Please pray.
Happy Pills
Am I too honest here? Do I say too much? Do I give too much away?
Good.
Because I KNOW that I am saying and writing the things some people go through and never can put into words. Or don't have an outlet for. Or don't have supportive friends or family to rally around them when they are hurting.
I know myself. I would rather shut this blog down than pretend everything is okay when it's not.
So.
Here it is:
I have been on anti-anxiety meds for 4 years. Since Lily was 6 months old. I about lost my mind one night at 3 AM. I handed her to Mark, got in the car, and never intended on going back.
But I did go back. And the next day I saw my doctor. And got on the medication that changed my life. Literally. I was not the same person as I was before.
And in the past month I have been tapering off of these meds. Becuase I felt that they were keeping me from losing weight. And I felt, frankly, like I was weak for keeping on them.
I was 100% wrong, my friends.
I have felt, as the meds got less and less in my system, a huge weight being applied to my shoulders. Heavier and heavier, it made me stoop with the weight. It made my words negative, made my temper flare. It made me wake in the night in a sweat because I was afraid. Afraid of what, I have no idea. It made me pull over to the side of the road with both kids in the car and try to breathe. Panic and huge waves of adrenaline have gripped me at odd times and in odd places.
And worst of all, it sucked away my ability to write. I lost my words under this torrent of anxiety, and my creativity evaporated under the strain of holding it together emotionally.
All for the sake of a slimmer self.
I have felt myself drawing in like a turtle to a shell. Pulling away, having less and less to say. Negative thoughts and negative words and paralyzing fear.
And as much as I feel that it is weakness to be on these drugs, I also know that I NEED them. My body needs them. I am lacking in a fundamental body chemistry. This fills the void.
And after yesterday, I have come to a conclusion.
I'D RATHER BE FAT AND HAPPY.
Go ahead and laugh. I did when I realized this. I laughed today talking with my doctor about it.
I laughed. Real laughter. Something I haven't done in a few weeks.
In the end, the decision on this medication change was taken out of my hands. I cannot function well without it. And I have to be okay with that.
And why am I telling you all of this? Why am I admitting this weakness? Because you may be in the same boat. You may be hiding the fact that you need meds. And that's okay. I get it. But you have no reason to be ashamed.
It is what it is. And I am better and stronger medicated than not. I am fuller and happier and more joyful. I am less weighed down by the world, and my patience becomes limitless.
And I can write.
So here's to medication. Necessary, needed medication. And to those of us strong enough to admit we need it, and to ask for help.
Good.
Because I KNOW that I am saying and writing the things some people go through and never can put into words. Or don't have an outlet for. Or don't have supportive friends or family to rally around them when they are hurting.
I know myself. I would rather shut this blog down than pretend everything is okay when it's not.
So.
Here it is:
I have been on anti-anxiety meds for 4 years. Since Lily was 6 months old. I about lost my mind one night at 3 AM. I handed her to Mark, got in the car, and never intended on going back.
But I did go back. And the next day I saw my doctor. And got on the medication that changed my life. Literally. I was not the same person as I was before.
And in the past month I have been tapering off of these meds. Becuase I felt that they were keeping me from losing weight. And I felt, frankly, like I was weak for keeping on them.
I was 100% wrong, my friends.
I have felt, as the meds got less and less in my system, a huge weight being applied to my shoulders. Heavier and heavier, it made me stoop with the weight. It made my words negative, made my temper flare. It made me wake in the night in a sweat because I was afraid. Afraid of what, I have no idea. It made me pull over to the side of the road with both kids in the car and try to breathe. Panic and huge waves of adrenaline have gripped me at odd times and in odd places.
And worst of all, it sucked away my ability to write. I lost my words under this torrent of anxiety, and my creativity evaporated under the strain of holding it together emotionally.
All for the sake of a slimmer self.
I have felt myself drawing in like a turtle to a shell. Pulling away, having less and less to say. Negative thoughts and negative words and paralyzing fear.
And as much as I feel that it is weakness to be on these drugs, I also know that I NEED them. My body needs them. I am lacking in a fundamental body chemistry. This fills the void.
And after yesterday, I have come to a conclusion.
I'D RATHER BE FAT AND HAPPY.
Go ahead and laugh. I did when I realized this. I laughed today talking with my doctor about it.
I laughed. Real laughter. Something I haven't done in a few weeks.
In the end, the decision on this medication change was taken out of my hands. I cannot function well without it. And I have to be okay with that.
And why am I telling you all of this? Why am I admitting this weakness? Because you may be in the same boat. You may be hiding the fact that you need meds. And that's okay. I get it. But you have no reason to be ashamed.
It is what it is. And I am better and stronger medicated than not. I am fuller and happier and more joyful. I am less weighed down by the world, and my patience becomes limitless.
And I can write.
So here's to medication. Necessary, needed medication. And to those of us strong enough to admit we need it, and to ask for help.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Marked
It began with a flare of temper, a whine, words thrown out of an unkind heart, pressed through lips set in anger.
It began with me being pressed for patience and time, and he wanting what she wants and whining for it, then sassing and complaining for it.
And it ended with my hand reaching out to pop the sassy mouth, to get the attention, to display the end of my patience. It ended with a sound smack to the bottom and turning her to face me.
And then I saw it, the mark.
On her lip. Cherry red, beginning to swell, with the slightest bead of blood.
She reached up to wipe it away, this blood, and her tears spilled over her hand.
And blooming like a flower into my mind came a thousand memories. A pandoras box of ghosts set loose in my heart.
I made my child bleed. With my hand.
Who am I? Who is this person that would do this? What monster has sprung from me without me even knowing, without me being vigilant enough to see it coming?
God help me.
Not one second passed from me seeing that I had hurt her to scooping her up and apologizing, sobbing over her little head, kissing her a million times.
She cried with me, all the while telling ME not to cry.
"It's okay Mommy. I still love you. Don't cry. Don't cry." thru tears.
I don't deserve a child this good, this loving, this forgiving.
So.
There it is.
Proof that vigilance against what you have known is necessary. That becoming complacent and thinking that you would never, could never, aren't capable of hurting as you were hurt just isn't true. Because it creeps in when your mind is blurred with anger and aggravation. It does not lie dormant.
I made a mistake, one that I vowed to try never to make the moment I saw her sweet face. To never intentionally hurt her. Discipline, yes. Hurt, no.
I can't take it back. I can say that I did everything possible to make amends, to help her to know that I made a mistake and that I wouldn't do it again.
Right now she is upstairs playing. She has not mentioned it since this morning. Mark assures me she is not scarred, something I cannot accurately gauge myself. Because I am as scarred by the small mark on her upper lip as I am by the river of marks on my own body...the circular cigarette burns, the drawn and puckered lines from glass and metal.
I guess we are all marked in some way. Inside or out, we all carry the past on our skin or our soul.
It began with me being pressed for patience and time, and he wanting what she wants and whining for it, then sassing and complaining for it.
And it ended with my hand reaching out to pop the sassy mouth, to get the attention, to display the end of my patience. It ended with a sound smack to the bottom and turning her to face me.
And then I saw it, the mark.
On her lip. Cherry red, beginning to swell, with the slightest bead of blood.
She reached up to wipe it away, this blood, and her tears spilled over her hand.
And blooming like a flower into my mind came a thousand memories. A pandoras box of ghosts set loose in my heart.
I made my child bleed. With my hand.
Who am I? Who is this person that would do this? What monster has sprung from me without me even knowing, without me being vigilant enough to see it coming?
God help me.
Not one second passed from me seeing that I had hurt her to scooping her up and apologizing, sobbing over her little head, kissing her a million times.
She cried with me, all the while telling ME not to cry.
"It's okay Mommy. I still love you. Don't cry. Don't cry." thru tears.
I don't deserve a child this good, this loving, this forgiving.
So.
There it is.
Proof that vigilance against what you have known is necessary. That becoming complacent and thinking that you would never, could never, aren't capable of hurting as you were hurt just isn't true. Because it creeps in when your mind is blurred with anger and aggravation. It does not lie dormant.
I made a mistake, one that I vowed to try never to make the moment I saw her sweet face. To never intentionally hurt her. Discipline, yes. Hurt, no.
I can't take it back. I can say that I did everything possible to make amends, to help her to know that I made a mistake and that I wouldn't do it again.
Right now she is upstairs playing. She has not mentioned it since this morning. Mark assures me she is not scarred, something I cannot accurately gauge myself. Because I am as scarred by the small mark on her upper lip as I am by the river of marks on my own body...the circular cigarette burns, the drawn and puckered lines from glass and metal.
I guess we are all marked in some way. Inside or out, we all carry the past on our skin or our soul.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Caught
I am frozen here. Caught in my own web.
Caught in the thought that what I look like is as important as WHAT I AM.
No, read that again. Because I had an epiphany just writing it.
What I look like is not what I am.
It is not my soul, which is good.
It is not my heart, which is giving.
It is not my spirit which is loving.
It is not who I am.
It is, simply, a vehicle for my spirit. For the substance God gave to me- my essence and my soul. It is a transporter only.
Yes, it is my responsibility to keep it honed to do God's work. He wants us to have health.
But he also wants us to look at ourselves and say "This is not all there is."
And I am not my face, or my belly, or my thighs.
I am this soul that comes here with treas and pours blood onto page.
I am the one who holds the hand, who lifts the head, and who loves without ceasing.
I am the one that God created. Every inch of skin he knew. Every battle He chose for me.
And who is to say this battle is not my path to glory?
That winning, not over my flesh, but over the spirit that cries out that the flesh is important is my battle?
The voice that says that everything about me is good but this one thing...well let me put that voice on notice:
I REFUSE TO LISTEN TO YOUR LIES.
I am this soul. I am worthy. I am good. And I am a creation of One who loves and DOESN'T MAKE MISTAKES.
This voice that cries out when I look in the mirror, this nagging nasty overbloated self important voice that tells me that I am not enough:
That voice can be silent. Forever.
I WILL NOT GIVE UP. I WILL NOT GIVE IN.
I am weary. I am struggling. But my God is bigger than anything I can say about myself.
And He is here, and He is who I chose to listen to.
Caught in the thought that what I look like is as important as WHAT I AM.
No, read that again. Because I had an epiphany just writing it.
What I look like is not what I am.
It is not my soul, which is good.
It is not my heart, which is giving.
It is not my spirit which is loving.
It is not who I am.
It is, simply, a vehicle for my spirit. For the substance God gave to me- my essence and my soul. It is a transporter only.
Yes, it is my responsibility to keep it honed to do God's work. He wants us to have health.
But he also wants us to look at ourselves and say "This is not all there is."
And I am not my face, or my belly, or my thighs.
I am this soul that comes here with treas and pours blood onto page.
I am the one who holds the hand, who lifts the head, and who loves without ceasing.
I am the one that God created. Every inch of skin he knew. Every battle He chose for me.
And who is to say this battle is not my path to glory?
That winning, not over my flesh, but over the spirit that cries out that the flesh is important is my battle?
The voice that says that everything about me is good but this one thing...well let me put that voice on notice:
I REFUSE TO LISTEN TO YOUR LIES.
I am this soul. I am worthy. I am good. And I am a creation of One who loves and DOESN'T MAKE MISTAKES.
This voice that cries out when I look in the mirror, this nagging nasty overbloated self important voice that tells me that I am not enough:
That voice can be silent. Forever.
I WILL NOT GIVE UP. I WILL NOT GIVE IN.
I am weary. I am struggling. But my God is bigger than anything I can say about myself.
And He is here, and He is who I chose to listen to.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Sunday morning...
Screeching lifts me from my sleep/coma.
"Daaaaadeeeeeeeeeeeeee. Daaaaaaaaaaaadeeeeeeeeeeee. Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeleeeeeeeeee."
I push Mark with my foot. He grunts, farts, and rolls over.
"Mark. The house is on fire."
"Mmmmmfrrmmmmmmmmm. Hot wings. Mmmmmmphrmmmp."
I roll my eyes, push him again with my foot.
"Daaaaaaaadeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!Eeeeeeeeeeeleeeeeeeee!!!!"
(translation: Daddy, Lily. Dude, I totally pushed you out with your gigantic head and NO WORKING EPIDURAL. Throw me a bone and call ME for once, huh?)
"Daaaaaaaadeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!"
Damn.
I get up, yank my hair into a bun, and stuff my glasses onto my face. I squint at the clock.
5:55.
What the?
I mean, really, son? Really? Is this who you are? Waking your mother up at 5:55 am?
I stumble to the kitchen and start the coffeemaker.
Yes, I started the coffeemaker before I made his bottle. I have standards, yo. Mama and coffee go together like cheeseburgers and peanut butter. And also, the coffeemaker makes a huge grinding noise that scares the little tyrant and I was feeling a bit hacked off. So, there. I am vindictive at 5 am. Who knew?
Warm the milk for the little creature, stumble into his room. Realize the bottle is leaking. Say things that are definitively inappropriate at 5 am on a Sunday. (my apologies, God- but it's 5 am. I mean, can you believe this child?)
Refill a new bottle.
"Daaaaadeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!" Ummmmm hello, breasts and womb. One who carried you and pushed you out. Nursed your little early teething self. Can I get a token mama?
"DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADEEEEEEEEE. Eeeeeeleeee."
Bring the bottle in, hand it over. Carry him to the changing table while juggling child, bottle, woobie, and paci. Making sure the flow of milk is constant or the foot kicking screamfest begins and I will so drop you, son, if you kick me in the baby maker again. I will SO do it. Don't test me.
He kicks me anyway. I don't drop him.
Restraint ya'll. It's a gift.
Peel off the pee wet pjs, change the 40 lb diaper. Powder, desitin, tummy rubs and head kisses. Cause he's a menace and it's 5 am, but I still love him a little too much to be healthy.
Realize that I have to pee. LIKERIGHTNOWRIGHTNOWRUNRUNRUN.
Lay him back in bed with the bottle ( shutty, dentists, I know) and high foot it to the bathroom while whimpering "Ohboyohboynotgonnamakeitkidruinedmypeeholdingin muscleswhatarethosecalledoooooooocoffeeisready!"
Focus. Another gift.
Pee. Ahhhhhhhhhhhh.
Glace lovingly at the coffeepot on the way back to the tyrants room/ Maybe make out with it just for a minute.
"You complete me, Cuisinart."
"You had me at self grinding."
Walk into the tyrants room. Prepare bright mommy smile/one day you will pay for making me get up this early grimace.
To see that he is asleep.
Wha?
Oh no he din't.
And I can't even go back to sleep cause once my warm nether regions hit the cold toilet seat that's it, sister. I'm up. Cold toilet seat=coffee soon. Anybody knows that.
He looks so cute when he is sleeping. I have the distinct urge to yell "Saaaaaaaameeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!" in his face. But I won't. Cause of the restraint thing. Be envious of my will power.
But I won't say I didn't turn the coffee grinder on just one more time.
Mmmmmmmm coffee.
"Daaaaadeeeeeeeeeeeeee. Daaaaaaaaaaaadeeeeeeeeeeee. Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeleeeeeeeeee."
I push Mark with my foot. He grunts, farts, and rolls over.
"Mark. The house is on fire."
"Mmmmmfrrmmmmmmmmm. Hot wings. Mmmmmmphrmmmp."
I roll my eyes, push him again with my foot.
"Daaaaaaaadeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!Eeeeeeeeeeeleeeeeeeee!!!!"
(translation: Daddy, Lily. Dude, I totally pushed you out with your gigantic head and NO WORKING EPIDURAL. Throw me a bone and call ME for once, huh?)
"Daaaaaaaadeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!"
Damn.
I get up, yank my hair into a bun, and stuff my glasses onto my face. I squint at the clock.
5:55.
What the?
I mean, really, son? Really? Is this who you are? Waking your mother up at 5:55 am?
I stumble to the kitchen and start the coffeemaker.
Yes, I started the coffeemaker before I made his bottle. I have standards, yo. Mama and coffee go together like cheeseburgers and peanut butter. And also, the coffeemaker makes a huge grinding noise that scares the little tyrant and I was feeling a bit hacked off. So, there. I am vindictive at 5 am. Who knew?
Warm the milk for the little creature, stumble into his room. Realize the bottle is leaking. Say things that are definitively inappropriate at 5 am on a Sunday. (my apologies, God- but it's 5 am. I mean, can you believe this child?)
Refill a new bottle.
"Daaaaadeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!" Ummmmm hello, breasts and womb. One who carried you and pushed you out. Nursed your little early teething self. Can I get a token mama?
"DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADEEEEEEEEE. Eeeeeeleeee."
Bring the bottle in, hand it over. Carry him to the changing table while juggling child, bottle, woobie, and paci. Making sure the flow of milk is constant or the foot kicking screamfest begins and I will so drop you, son, if you kick me in the baby maker again. I will SO do it. Don't test me.
He kicks me anyway. I don't drop him.
Restraint ya'll. It's a gift.
Peel off the pee wet pjs, change the 40 lb diaper. Powder, desitin, tummy rubs and head kisses. Cause he's a menace and it's 5 am, but I still love him a little too much to be healthy.
Realize that I have to pee. LIKERIGHTNOWRIGHTNOWRUNRUNRUN.
Lay him back in bed with the bottle ( shutty, dentists, I know) and high foot it to the bathroom while whimpering "Ohboyohboynotgonnamakeitkidruinedmypeeholdingin muscleswhatarethosecalledoooooooocoffeeisready!"
Focus. Another gift.
Pee. Ahhhhhhhhhhhh.
Glace lovingly at the coffeepot on the way back to the tyrants room/ Maybe make out with it just for a minute.
"You complete me, Cuisinart."
"You had me at self grinding."
Walk into the tyrants room. Prepare bright mommy smile/one day you will pay for making me get up this early grimace.
To see that he is asleep.
Wha?
Oh no he din't.
And I can't even go back to sleep cause once my warm nether regions hit the cold toilet seat that's it, sister. I'm up. Cold toilet seat=coffee soon. Anybody knows that.
He looks so cute when he is sleeping. I have the distinct urge to yell "Saaaaaaaameeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!" in his face. But I won't. Cause of the restraint thing. Be envious of my will power.
But I won't say I didn't turn the coffee grinder on just one more time.
Mmmmmmmm coffee.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Brooklyn "InDaHouse" Said- 5.21.11
To say this is bittersweet is an understatement.
This morning we put our dog, Brooklyn, to sleep.
She was sick. She wasn't eating well. And this morning she woke up panting. Turns out her lymph nodes were so swollen she couldn't breathe.
We knew she had lymphoma. She was diagnosed in Sept of last year. But still, this was sudden and shocking.
Anyone who knows me knows I had a love/hate relationship with my dog. She was a constant whiner, a constant presence of stressed out energy. She was perpetually unhappy and rarely affectionate.
But she was a helluva protector. And she LOVED my babies. And I loved the security she gave me, and th presence she offered me.
She was fierce. She was strong. And now, within a few moments, she is gone.
Her body was worn out, and I knew it. I knew she wasn't doing well. And this morning I told Mark with a sudden and horrible certainty that I knew she wasn't going to come back from her vet's appt.
I was right. I've never wanted to be more wrong.
I want to give her a proper eulogy here. I want to say she was a happy and sweet soul. But she wasn't. She was a horrible creature, but I loved her dearly. She protected me for 8 years. She watched over my babies for 4. She slept, tucked against my growing belly through both pregnancies, and laid stone still and warm againt my back when I lost Joshua.
She aggravated the hell outta me. She tested my every reserve of patience. Sometimes I wanted to open the door and let her go. Sometimes I wanted to make her into stew.
But I always loved her.
And now that fierce soul is in heaven. I am sure she is whining at God's feet, begging him for a piece of steak or a biscuit. She is maybe scratching at the back door and looking at Him like "Ummmmmm hello, service! Don't you know how important I am??"
But I have no doubt that she is there.
And in the end, it was me who held her while she went. The one who always had such a contentious relationship with her held her sweet head and kissed her warm ears and told her over and over how much I loved her. I whispered how much I would miss her. I bathed her face in tears and let her go to God. I watched as her face fell into lines of peace, and her breath stilled. I listened as that big fierce heart trickled out.
We should all go this way- in the arms of somebody who loves us, hearing how much we will be missed and how loved we are. An easy slip into the next world, from one set of arms to another.
Dear Brooklyn,
You will be missed. (Yes, even by me.) You have already left a void so great we cannot see how it will be filled. I am carrying around your picture and crying. (Yes, me) I love you and I hope that right now you are eating steak and barking as loud as you want. I hope you are chasing the FedEX man, and that you catch him. But mostly I hope you are lying in the sunshine and the grass, looking up to the sky and breathing deeply, just like you did here at home. Tell Beau and Joshua and my mom I love them.
I will see you someday, my horrible creature.
Love,
Mom
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