When my step father commented to my husband that I read too many romance novels and expected life to be that way, I was absolutely offended.  I read those books to escape the drudgery of my own life, to have a pretty picture to think about when the vision of the future got too blurred out with the visions from the past. 

But in some sense, he was right.  There is a part of my heart and soul that have always been "hopeful".  It's the very nature of myself to hope in good, hope in better, and hope in that some of it would somehow someday come my way.  Mostly life was just one event after another, nothing shocking or extraordinary, no huge dissapointments but no large dreams come true either.  I was young when I got married and was still young when that marriage dissolved.  We were married and living together for the sum total of 9 months.  Another statistic.  Like my friend Adam says: It Happens, it happens to the best of us...

Then I met Husband.  And Husband seemed to be the premise by which romance novels are made of.  No Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty mind you, I'm talking good old Harlequin not the Brothers Grimm Fairy Tales.  I had never, never, and I mean NEVER been treated so kindly or respectfully in my life.  I was a young single mom, working, planning my back to school strategy, and he was this college degreed single guy with a stable and growing career.  And he liked me.  And I liked him.  And although I wasn't actually thinking about us together in a relationship, I was subconciously aware that if I had any chance at all, it would have to be achieved by tossing all my old "catch 'em fast" techniques away and relying on good old honesty and truth.  I knew, even as young as I was, that I did not want to repeat the mistake I'd just gotten disentangled from and that whatever I'd been doing up til then would only bring about the same results as in the past.  Time to reinvent my story. Turns out it was a rather futile effort.

The previous year and a half I'd spent reading self help books, parenting and family texts, relationship manuals - they all served their purpose.  I flirted, but was not outrageous or 'offering' anything.  We joked and laughed and talked when we took breaks together or met after work with a group.  We were just friends, both of us dating other people at the time, but I loved the heart of this man from the beginning.  The way he talked about his family, the coworker he was dating, his roommates - the way he treated people like coworkers, waiters and waitresses, and me - I envied the girl he was dating and would deny the jealousy that rose up when, sharing a lunchbreak together, she would talk about the date they'd just had, a kiss they'd shared.  I also wished her well though because I knew what was out there and if she could find someone as sweet as this man, then maybe there was still some hope for me after all.

In the end, and with no one hurt or betrayed,  he became mine.  He said it was the day we were comparing childhoods and our last failed relationships and he asked me, "so, what is it you DO want?" that he fell in love with me.  I had answered him, with all the innocent, naive, broken truth that I could muster from my barely 21 years.  "I want a husband who loves me.  Someone who is always going to take care of me and make me his top priority.  A man who puts his family first and is a good, and involved dad, a man who works and makes us safe. I want a man who can lead our family and be the foundation." 

Years later, with two kids in tow, we went back to that place where we'd both worked, and met, and fell in love, and I hesitated before going in, wondering if the girl he'd been dating back then, a coworker of ours, had gotten lucky after all, if she'd found another special someone, if it would look like I was showing off.  But she was out for the day and so I never had to confront anything after all.  Today though would be her turn to show off, her turn to be relieved, her turn to say, "wow, I'm glad I lucked out on that one!"

It isn't a romance novel, and though our story initially seemed destined to be a bestseller, it is just a story like any other sitting in the reject pile of some dusty editors office.  It's a tale so average and everyday and all around that it doesn't even bear telling... except to me.  It may be the same story as anyone else in the world - but I am not the same as anyone else.  I am me... and my story hurts like it's the newest story never been told.  I don't know how it evolved to this place, nor how it will work out, or what the end will read like.  Maybe you can see it unfold because of the generic been-there-done-that storyline, but for me it is unlike anything I've ever heard and each chapter can't even be anticipated to begin or end in any way I've seen before.

The author of my story is not me - I'd have never written a story like this.  I'd probably have written a romance novel.  Inspite of my efforts to rewrite or rework the plot line, I can only wait to see how it ends just like anyone else.  It's a story I'd rather not finish honestly.  I'm afraid that the end of this story might be the end of me. 

Whenever you read someone else's story, try to remember that no one person can ever know all the characters or the details of their development and the story you read is only the story that you take the time to read.  A quote I read says this:  We do not see things as they are, we see things as WE are.  

        

We wake up and it's like any other day... almost. 

11 putters around making herself some breakfast while I stumble through the motions of making my coffee.  Like a normal morning, only she has to ask where the bowls are, if there are any clean spoons, and if I have napkins.  The child who gets by on pure rote repetitive routine doesn't instinctively know where things are here. 

13 clomps in sleepily and collapses into a folding chair at the table.  Like any other day he grunts and flops around a bit until he's been fortified with granola and applesauce and OJ.  Except that he too asks where, what, how much.  I too, am still asking why, where, what... and how much more.
 
We sit at the table, the three of us, equal parts a little normal and a little off balance and we all work to make it something more even, more leveled, more balanced.  It's mostly all good.  13 teases 11, 11 has a domesticated moment and wants to hand wash dishes, I check my bank balances on-line, and music plays in the background.  But still...

We sit in folding chairs, not the lush fabric and hardwood dining chairs we used to.  This dining table sways precariously with every heavy awkward movement by 13 unlike the sturdy solidness of the table I left behind.  This kitchen has one window and although the light filtering in is cheerful the view is not of big shade trees, flowering rhododendrons, and the wide expanse of grass and land but of a chain link fence, the tired mulit-family homes stretching out on the worn street, a few sparse uncared for trees dotting the landscape.  A new version of reality - and they will see it first through my eyes, and then add their own visions.

I try hard to show them "normal" and "balanced" and "just the same" but the quivering smile and teary eyes don't escape them. Their own vision is tinted by His new flat panel television, His new mattress and bedding, the new drapery and unique finial-ended iron rods in His kitchen, 11's new mp3 so tiny and pink, and the random bits and peices of furniture suddenly appearing in the garage.  Used before maybe, but not purchased from necessity like the lamp I put in my living room that I took off of someone's freebie yard sale leftovers.  My vision too is tinted - colored by sadness, grief, loss, and the hopelessness of the future.  Colored by anger and fear and rejection.  It is by the grace of God I am able to hold my tongue.  They will see what they will see.

I offer them an early return home when I realize I am empty in the pocket and have worn out all options for entertaining without TV, Electronic gaming systems, ingredients for creations in the kitchen, and the fridge holds only the most essential of food products inspite of the generosity of others.  11 chooses to stay, as does 13, and I am warmed to the center of my heart, relief melting into the marrow of my bones until 11 calls Him to say hello and in one thoughtless breath tells Him she is coming home.

When the sound of my heart, breaking free from it's last hold on life, shatters my own spirit, I find that the Mother in me is still able to tell her that it's ok, I understand, it's boring at my house right now, she misses her kitty, her own room, her privacy, the computer and her own stereo, her friends, her big backyard and swingset... and the new flatpanel TV.  I hug her, and kiss her freckles, and wait until later to cry.  13 is adamant about staying with me, about getting some movies and books from home and then coming back with me to my apartment.  I know it's from pity, from the compassionate, empathetic heart that resides under his unruly elbows and unpredictable feet, but I take it.  I take his willingness to come with me and I hold on to it with everything I have and it isn't until 13 is sound asleep in his bed in his room in my apartment that I let some of my grief out. 

Under cover of the noisy hum of the window fans, the even purr of the rotating upright fan, and the low thump of bass from the stereo, my grief leaves new marks on freshly laundered pillow cases, the ones that no longer even hold the scent of 11's shampoo or soap.  I am immeasurably off balance.

While I weep for 11, for the agony of wanting her without being able to tell her quite so bluntly, for the shame of using 13's pity for my own heart, I weep too for 19.  My firstborn, the 4th leg of my squared foundation, my mini-me, my friend - she has flown the coop finally.  My chick-chick-chickadee left on an airplane yesterday morning, to live in WA and live her life there, 3000 miles away.  She left, and it is as it should be I suppose, but the timing of it all is just so wrong - and I hate it. 

I'm no longer balanced... I'm missing too many parts and it's getting harder and harder to function, and harder to even justify trying.

  

        

After I pull up the carpet I try to repair the floor.  The scratches buff out easily enough and aren't even deep enough for me to bother putting forth much effort on.  The color is a uniform old and oiled dark brown with no hope of being lightened so I don't bother with that either.  It's the paint smears that bother me.  There are a few random spots that I can chip off with the edge of a blade and I find satisfaction with each white streak that scrapes away but there are also deeply ingrained smears of paint, imbedded in and impossible to remove.  My few attempts leave only scratches that need to be buffed out but otherwise do nothing to remove the white streaks and smears.  The floor is marked in such a way that the white is a part of the floor now, no longer a separate thing to be removed.

I crawl into bed finally and the joy of wrapping myself around the sleeping comma-curve of my daughter is actually painful.  Her first night here with me is one I was so anxious about, afraid she'd feel uncomfortable, bored, angry... but instead she smiles sweetly as she sighs deeply and curls up more so it is as if she is re-tucking herself into my body - where she belongs.  I lay my cheek on her shoulder, lay a kiss on the curve of her scapula and inhale the scent of shampoo that lingers in her hair, the soap she used on her skin, and the universal child-aroma of sun and grass, sugar, and something a little like God.  What I think is a yawn rising from my belly becomes a sob that I choke back with all my might.  A mother doesn't wake her child up by crying in the middle of the night.  I turn and bury my face in my pillow and scream soundlessly until I feel her scoot up close and curl around the curve of my back seeking the warmth and connection of her momma.  I fall asleep to the rhythm of her breathing with tears still streaming down my face. 

I make the bed in the morning and see the stained pillowcases.  Though I only slept on one last night since my daughter used the other, they are both marked beyond repair with streaks and blotches of black mascara.  One from last night, the other from before.  I realize that each pillow tells the story of heartbreak in it's stained and ruined cover.  Each pillowcase bearing witness to a moment of grief seeking  burial, they wear their marks ingrained and imbedded, irreparable, these stains no longer a separate thing to be removed. 

Like paint on the floor or makeup on a pillowcase, the grief on my heart is a mark forever.

        

        

When the funeral was over I had a moment of acknowledging that I'd managed to get through it without a fuss.  But that moment was short lived as I almost immediately wondered, "what is that weird noise?" even as I simultaneously realized it as my own self crying out with grief.  That was in 1994.  I sat in the front row as people filed past on their way to coffee and cookies and I was overwhelmed with the rawness of being motherless.

Today I didn't have to wonder where "that noise" was coming from... I knew it was my own voice crying out from the depths of my soul.  I'd been stuffing it down ever since the moment when I'd made the last round of double checking and had paused in the doorway of my son's room.  She said, "do you need anything from here?" and I murmurred, "yes;...my son..."  It was then that I'd felt it rise up in my throat, felt my face twisting with the effort of swallowing it back down.  3 hours later there was no possibility of swallowing any more and so without any hint or warning it all came flooding out.

I lay there on the floor and was helpless as something far deeper than "grief" introduced itself to existence.  It came like a freight train - roaring through and leaving nothing untouched in it's wake.  It came like childbirth and transition: a turn-your-skin-inside-out intensity I was powerless to navigate.  It came like the fury of hell itself and I lay in a fetal position while I endured the onslaught.  I wasn't sure I was going to ever get up again.

But of course I did.  Because that is the truth of what growing a human baby inside your body can do to your soul: it forever negates anything else except it's final product.  A child needs it's mother.  No matter the shape of the mother, no matter the condition of her spirit, no matter the damages inflicted upon her, she must rise up and tend to business.

And so after only a handful of hours, throat raw and burning, I rise, not even remotely drained or relieved yet of the endless amount of grieving yet to do, and I go on about the business of living.  There is still the child, MY child, nay, my childREN, that have needs to meet.  I am joyful to do so but the grief lies in wait taunting me with the truth that my children, created and grown within my own womb, sustained on my own heartbeat, nourished by the priceless fluid from my body, are no longer mine.

Helpless, choice-less, defeated.  And I spend the next hours blinking back the bits of leftover anguish beading up on my eyelashes while I smile and engage in small talk.  In quiet moments I hear myself whimpering without warning.  I swallow hard, a lot...

and now the time is again the time for the floodgates of devastation to open.

This devastation will not be denied...

        

I need your prayers.

I need:  spiritual protection against worldly interference; God's indisputable righteousness laying out ahead of me; the Holy Spirit to be evident, undeniable, inescapable, and supernaturally transforming to everyone I am predestined to interact with on Thursday June 11th; the unbidden inner strength and resoluteness of Jesus as He followed the path set before him; the peace and solid belief that Truth, Love, and Justice will indeed prevail even in the face of Manipulations, Indifference, and Self Interest. 

Cover me... I'm going in.

D

        

ONE

When words pile up in my mind
like cars -  
on the Friday of a three day weekend -
and began to back up and short circuit my thoughts
spoken words are hard to
speak yet ache to be written.

The thrill and warm anticipation
of blogging
is sweet
and clarifying
and words in my head become sentences
paragraphs
monologues;
concepts and ah-ha moments;
and turn into theory.

I hoard the phrases
and savor them
let them linger and soak;
saturate in thought
while waiting for the moment
when I am able to set them free
to form into a living thing of their own

When finally I sit
shiver-lishiously
at my desk and the purr of my computer begins...
...
...
I am blank and indifferent
wasted and empty
hungry
like a weary traveller -
who's driven three hours too long into what is now a wasted day
of vacation, with hours yet still to drive -
and I am spiritless and numb

I shake my head, blink my glazed over eyes
and wonder where ---
wordlessly.

TWO

I want to tell you how dissapointed I am
in you
and I wonder if somehow that you are dissapointed too

I want to tell you that you failed
and that it wasn't my job to make you succeed
and that it shouldn't matter that you didn't know how to do it
because it was, after all, the job you'd chosen.

I want to tell you that I could still forgive you
maybe
if you'd just pick up
where you'd left off...

but that would be like me
doing your job
for you
and since your job
is me
I might as well just do it myself
and save the extra steps

and that makes me mad all over again
at you

why do I have to feel bad
over feeling mad
when it was your job to be there
not mine
in the first place?

THREE

I want to call them all
and have them over
like I did before

I want to provide
like before
and find joy in provision
like before
but I don't have the energy
like before

Besides...
they only seemed to want the provision
not the provider
so it doesn't seem
as if the joy of provision
is enough
to offset the cost
of providing.

FOUR

My child died.
It was horrible, devestating,
life destroying
and you never
ever
once
acknowledged the loss.

My entire life
was taken
in the blink of an eye
and nobody
noticed
except me.

and in the silence
that followed
when everyone else
kept going on
and I dragged my broken bleeding spirit
through the dust they left behind
you looked over and smiled
like nothing
nothing
and told me how hard it was
for you to keep up
with them

and it's the saddest truth ever
that when you think you just can't hurt
any more
there is always something
that hurts you
just enough to make you see
that you can always
always
hurt more

FIVE

I'm tired now
but there is so much driving still ahead
and no rest stop along the way
forgive me
if my conversation slows
and my companionship skills
seem nil
I'm tired
but first I have to finish this journey
before I can rest

        

Today was a pretty good day.  I did not begin the day by “washing” myself with a candle so it was pretty much a successful start. 

Any morning that begins with good smelling soap in a super cute sample size is supposed to be a good one, right?  However, a morning that starts off with the afore mentioned product and ends in a moment of wide eyed open mouthed stun, random white streaks of partially melted wax lining your body and your feet unexpectedly slipping on the suddenly treacherous shower floor is open to anything the universe decides to dish out.  So while THAT wasn’t the best morning, THAT was a different day so logically speaking, today could only be better – can I get an “Amen” on that?

*let me take a moment to acknowledge the wonderful products I discovered in the Out Of The Box Sampler I tested – described best by the words: decadent; delicious; swoon-ily scented; SQUEEEE-worthy adorably packaged; pandora’s treasures tripled; but I should add the disclaimer that if you are socially inept enough to not know the difference between a “Sample Soap” and a “Sample Tart Warmer” you probably should not use the products if you are not fully awake and aware… ‘nuff said.

I had one of the best days with my kids recently.  In a random moment I discovered a used book/book swap store.  Since going to the library usually involves astronomical late fees (can you spell pro-crass-tin-aye-shun ?) we don't get there as often as we should, want to, or have time to.  Finding the bookswap shop was a goldmine!  I gathered the kids in a hurry after school, complete with a bag full of books we scavenged up from our shelves, and we hauled off to the decadently musty smelling store where we spread out and could hardly contain ourselves.  "ooh, look at this one!" and "Hey, look, this is awesome!" and "awwww, I remember this one!" and even "put that down right now! that's NOT a book for YOU!" were a few phrases tossed out during our sojourn.  We each got a book, and I even found a goldmine collection to be used as a gift for my son who is 13 this week.  What a wonderful time we had.  It was so much fun that I got all giddy and we splurged on a restaurant dinner - did you know you could feed 3 people - including a hungry male teenager - at a sit down restaurant for under $20?  Neither did I.  But it happened!  Good times, good food, and the knowledge that our family is as strong as ever in spite of the storm we are currently weathering.  When I thought I had so little, I realized I had more than enough.
 
My new job is one that I am going to seriously enjoy enjoying.  There is a part of me that is slightly ashamed of that little fluttery heart emotion because someone I know and admire calls it a “stupid little job”.  I see their point of view but I can’t help but think that while it  may be “little” and not requiring great intelligence, neither does it call for non-intelligence, lack of self, or make me feel ashamed at the end of the day.  I’ve been there – been in that slimy shamed place where I found myself weeping and wordless when the day was done, not even feeling relieved at a paycheck but somehow prostituted by it, so maybe I just have a different perspective or even a different insight.  Would I rather be standing in front of a classroom expounding on womens rights, consumerism, the power of “no”, and the priceless importance of emotional support as I've done before? Yep – but only in a totally selfish way.  Honestly I find that I bring as much joy, life altering moments of clarity, and self  awareness into my new job as I ever did in my previous chosen career.  It’s less money, less prestige, less autonomy, but also less stress, less responsibility, less work.  Aaaand: more fun.  I have so much more than ‘enough’.

*enough defined: – anonymous email sent to me by SW -  I pray you enough sun to keep your attitude bright no matter how gray the day may appear. I pray you enough rain to appreciate the sun even more. I pray you enough happiness to keep your spirit alive and everlasting. I pray you enough pain so that even the smallest of joys in life may appear bigger. I pray you enough gain to satisfy your wanting.  I pray you enough loss to appreciate all that you possess. I pray you enough hellos to get you through the final good-bye.

And so as I finish this post and it's randomness of tarts, candles, new jobs, and new awareness, I leave you with my wishes that you too would have enough.

May you have enough today… and rejoice in it while being aware of how many have so much less and don’t even know it.

Love,

D

        

*(edited to add: This was specifically for my Mother In Law Sue, and my Aunt Linda...)
When you teach a baby to walk, you start by just helping them stand on their feet to get their legs stronger.  Then you applaud every time they are able to stand on their own.  When they fall down and cry, you scoop them up with hugs and kisses and encourage them to try again.  You begin holding their hands in yours while standing over them and allowing them to walk on their own feet with your total support – they don’t fall because you are holding them up.  It’s great fun for babies but back breaking work for you.  After a while, they graduate to walking while firmly grasping just one of your hands. Sometimes they fall and usually you are as surprised as they are.  You pick them up and hold them and then help them start over.  Before you know it really, they are off on their own feet, no longer making you stand above them bent over and shuffling – instead you are off on the sides just watching.  They fall a lot.  Sometime they are just standing there not even moving when they fall over.  The world is a tricky place.  Falling teaches babies about their bodies, about balance, about how to walk and how not to walk, how to fall and how to stop a fall, and how to get back up.  As a mom, this is the lesson that you want them to learn most, and it has nothing to do with actually walking, but everything to do with life.

The hardest part is that you can’t teach them this by telling them about it; they only learn it by doing the painful work of falling down and getting back up again.  Sometimes you get lucky and your child does a lot of observing before they walk, and then they seem to fall less.  Sometimes you have to watch the excruciating progress of a child who doesn’t just fall, but crashes spectacularly every time and has to stay down for awhile before they can get up again.

I’ve only been “mothering” for a short time, and when I look at  my children and recognize how wonderful they are, I know that it’s because while I’ve been learning to walk in the shoes of a mom, you’ve been holding my hands, applauding my efforts,  and picking  me up when I fall. 

Thank you seems so inadequate and I wanted to truly honor your devotion.  I hope the following gift lets you know how much I love you… I made a donation to the Heiffer International – a program that doesn’t just feed children and families but gives families the support they need to feed their own children.  Thru Heifer International , an order of baby chicks  as well as  a “share” of another livestock animal was purchased in your honor for a mom in a poverty stricken country -   a mom who has not worried about how often her baby falls down but about whether or not her baby will live beyond infancy - has just been given the means to support herself and her children, all because you gave ME the guidance to support MY children.  Thank you from me, my kids, and on behalf of my own mom who can’t be here now but surely is shining her ‘mom’ love down for all of us…

I love you;
D

 

        

Momentary Respite

After everything finally fell into place and against all odds, through sheer spit and kharma, they were together.  From the other room I can clearly see them and though I can’t make out every thing that is said, I can hear their noise, oh their joyful  sweet noise.  There is so much laughter  – the waves of it rolling like the tide coming in late and in a hurry.  The rise of giggles and chuckles,  wry snorts and barely suppressed guffaws swelling into peals of howling replete with knee slapping and table pounding fading away into hiccups and eye wiping only to begin again.  That joy could be, without the benefit of sound, mistaken for grief, does not escape my notice.  But this one moment is all joy.  The bossy one being imitated and mocked, the goofy one put on display and paraded around, and the charmer  being charming in all manners of charm: the recipe is far more successful than the fondant creations they aare attempting. 

In a moment of insanity perhaps, I join the play and my unexpected addition of “Ronnn …  Ronnn …  Ronnn… WEA-seley” to their round-robin singing is met with falling off the chair helpless laughter; the kind that leaves one breathless and weepy.  My heart lifts at the satisfaction of making them laugh even more.

This mix of tender sibling sweetness, the actual sweetness of melted candy bits and confectioners sugar, and the bittersweetness of grieved knowledge is too rich a concoction to hold out for long and sure enough the moment comes when hilarity is hurtful, when silly stings the heart, and when truth is too close.

From afar or from near, the picture didn’t change much  but the tone of voices became harder, more shrill and tight, the peak of waves fizzling out into small discontent rolling that takes away more than it gives and I stand to intervene.

Now they sleep.  Their faces resting in smooth peace.  Pink cheeked with smudges of chocolate still staining a cheek or two and a candy sweet aroma lingering in their hair they snore and murmur through the sugar haze of sleep.  I bless them individually and thank our creator for the momentary respite before the storm ahead.  Laughter always shores up the spirit and the slaughter that lays ahead will not defeat their inner strength.  This momentary respite has saved us all.