“I made a book of girls today, Mama!”
I haven’t seen much of Ella this week. Actually, I haven’t seen much of either girl. Opera season is in full swing. But I’ll get to that another day.
“I made it today and Mrs. J stapled it the best she could.”
Okay, baby, show it to me.
“Mmm, there are flowers on this page. And swings and a twisty slide here. And here is Zoe. And this is a page that isn’t colored on. And this page has my friends on it: Addie and Taylor Rose and Brooke. That’s it.”
Can boys like flowers too?
“No…swings and girls and flowers are only for my friends (fwiends) who are girls. No. Boys.”
I think it is safe to say that Ella is learning about gender identification. She’s known, in an academic sense I suppose, that she is a girl and her sister is a girl and mommy is a girl but that her cousin is a boy. She knows about the parts that make us girls and boys.
Ella has always been free to choose her toys. She asked for a “twash twuck” for Christmas when she was 2 and got it. And played with it. She builds with the Legos and mega blocks. She’s not so much into playing with the baby dolls as her sister and pretty much ignores the dollhouse.
This is the time of year (in the upper midwest, anyway) when I get to clean all the summer things out the girls’ dressers and put in the bigger, warmer clothes. It’s one of my favorite mom things to do. Ella wears things that I’ve never seen on her before (new or not new…doesn’t matter…equally exciting to both of us), Amelia wears what Ella used to wear and a thing or two (or six) to call her own and I get to be all nostalgic. I am packing away Amelia’s 3T summer tshirts and skirties and dresses and pajamas. She will not fit into them next summer, I can be sure. Some of those things were purchased for Ella several years ago. And, I’m sure, they will be passed on to another little girl. But never to be worn by one of my children. Sad. A little.
It is bittersweet to be leaving the years behind. On one hand, it’s easier to be a mom now than it was last fall. I don’t change diapers anymore. Ella showers, dresses and grooms herself independently. She also buckles her own seatbelt. She walks to and from the schoolbus. Amelia is okay spending whole days without me. She even sometimes sleeps in her own bed. But on the other hand, this is it. It’s not likely that I will ever get to nurse another baby or smell a newborn or help with those first steps. I won’t get to make baby food or sew tiny things.
So, here’s to girls. Here’s to growing up. Here’s to the change of seasons. And here’s to flowers and swings and twisty slides. Here’s to being five and three years old. Here’s to curly hair and long eyelashes and brown mary janes with pink flowers. And Barbies and babies and ballet. Here’s to my dryer lint always being pink.
And here’s to a mama and her babies…another autumn…together.
The midnight train has come early tonight. And is already gone.
I wanted to be in bed before the train came. I love listening to the clack, clackity, clack as I drift off. The windows are open. I will make pumpkin bars in the morning to take in celebration of my baby sister’s birthday. I had a brain blast today that told me to paint my dining room pumpkin orange.
It is fall. Officially. The weather, the clothes, the food, the colors. It is dark, by one minute, more than day.
I have been overly aware of this season ever since I was in college. I went to a tiny, private school in the middle of the prairie. The lawns were mostly lush; the trees mature and lovely and haunting no matter the time of year. The red bricked buildings creaked under a century of liberal arts education and the half dozen dorms still abide the laws of curfew and decency. Autumn on campus was, and probably still is, magical.
The meat of the school year has begun. The band sounds pretty good. Play rehearsals and set building commences. Choirs are in harmony. Parties are louder as people are more familiar. Windows stay open for days and days.
I can blink and I’m there. I made a choice one fall. I was 20 years old and I changed the ending in that big old choose your own adventure book of life. I dropped the secondary education part to my major(s). I had decided, over the summer, that I could indeed make a living at theatre. And that English degree? Was just a bonus. Because, really, what is anyone to do with an English Composition major other than grad school? I decided after a week of education classes that I was not cut out to teach anyone’s children. Or, rather, I didn’t want to deal with the red-tape of the American public (almost wrote “pubic” there…whooops) education system.
Thus, my course was changed.
I am, of course, thinking of that fall. That was the autumn that my heart was broken for the very first time. That was also the time that I began writing angst poetry in earnest. And binge drinking. And working more than I sat in class. Spending more time at the theatre and less time in bed. I learned the term “walk of shame.” Being angry was easier than being sad.
I remember the crunching of leaves in the park with the duck pond. And the cold plastic swings.
Fourteen autumns ago.
Eight autumns ago, I was madly and wildly in love. For the second time in my life. Delirious. Hungry. Aching. Arching. Planning. Wanting. Dreaming.
At seven, I was enormous. And dreaming of who our son would look like. And wondering what it would be like to bring him into the world. Folding and re-folding tiny blue sleepers, soft cotton diapers and bitty socks.
Six? I was sitting on the grass. New sod. Cement slab. Tears. Aching. Clawing at the ground where my son’s body was forever sleeping in his OshKosh overalls and the fly fishing diaper I had made him. Heartbroken. For the second time. But far, far worse than the first.
Five. My baby girl. Plump. Greedy for milk and cuddles. Mama’s girl. Daddy’s joy. I decided the moment that we brought her to Jesus, washed in the blood of the Lamb, that there was no way that I would miss a day. I made the decision to quit my job and be with her all day, every day. Mornings with the cool breeze, Price is Right on mute, sleeping baby on my chest. Perfect.
Just four years ago, my baby turned into a toddler. Full of words and wonder. Glancing up from whatever it is that she is learning and absorbing, she looks just like her daddy. And I begin to ache for another life. I want to create another tiny person. A reflection of us. A noisy joy.
When the weather turned cool three years ago, we left the house every day. Tiny babe in the sling, tiny toddler with big words and big thoughts, off to do big things. Library, playdates, lunch at daddy’s work. Music classes. Diapers for two. And then just one.
Two autumns ago, I saw it come from the fifth story window of a hospital room. In a city, a state, that I didn’t know well. My guts still healing; my scars still pink. Nervous. Sweaty. Aching. Wanting to run. Gasping for breath. Wanting to sleep. To dream. To wake up from this nightmare unfolding. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real. This can’t be my reality. Our reality. Breaths. Moments.
He was cold. I was hot. Always hot. Dry. He was cold. In sweats because it hid his cath bag on his leg better than scrub pants. And he was cold. A heart that was working so hard to keep up. To keep the healthy cells healthy. And also to nourish the cells growing out of control. The growing that nobody, nowhere, nohow could control. Or slow down. So he was cold. And I was hot. And there wasn’t anything left to say. And my heart was broken. For the third time. And I was handed a white gold band in a baggie and haven’t taken it off. It is calloused to my finger. My pointer finger. I see it every time I reach, touch, dial, hold, console, write and taste. And my heart is broken. And broken. And broken. How many times now?
The last time the leaves turned red and my babies buttoned up their fleece jackets, the tears stopped coming. I could sit in this old chair with the notebook on my lap and the cursor taunting me into submission and tap, tap, tap until the wee hours and not a drop. And then the breeze came in. And the candle flickered. And itunes dj or Pandora (or maybe it was an angel) picked just the right song.
And the tears came back. With my babies breathing softly in the far room. I ask and pray for one more moment. But you and I both know it will never be enough. So I stop asking. And I stop praying. And I resign myself to this life.
And I wonder. Back to 14 autumns ago. Would I be able to stop myself from walking into that office in the red bricked building?
Would the story have changed?
Would I be here, wishing for the midnight train?
Waiting for dawn?
Wanting a new ending?
Hoping for a beginning?
I suck as a blogger, sorry.
I had a headache and when I would start to write I would, uh,…
I don’t really have a good excuse for not writing. Even my itunes DJ thinks I abandoned it. I added some new music tonight. itunes really knows how to sell the music. I was in the mood for some Jason Mraz-ish (but not Mraz himself because I have d-bag issues with him). I found some great stuff from 03-04-05. You know, the good years. For me anyway.
Fall is here. My mood is better than, well, it was. So that’s something. As a note to self: this isn’t a good time back off on the meds. Just a thought. I am sleeping again. A little too well, a little too often. And, well, that’s why I haven’t been writing.
The littles make it to bed and I am not far behind. Getting up with Ella every morning is starting to take its toll. Er, it’s putting me on a regular, human-like schedule of sleeping at night and being awake in the day. I still love a good nap when the little one is down but I don’t “need” it. Nope. I can stop any time I want.
Wait. What?
Anyway, we are all settling into routines. My house still smells like paint and (ugly) carpet glue but it’s getting better now that the windows are open all day. So that might have something to do with the sleeping issue. Love me some crisp fall air. I made chicken noodle soup and biscuits today and changed dresser drawers from summer to fall, officially. We’re probably done with sun dresses and tank tops.
We spent the weekend with FIL at his acreage. His “neighbors” had goats, about a dozen of them. Among the herd (is it a herd of goats??) was a mama with two babies. 3 days old. By far the cutest things on the planet. I have been thinking that our next house will have land enough for goats. And a few chickens. Maybe a border collie or a hound of some sort. One of the baby goats wasn’t feeding well and got weak so the girls got to watch the farmer (and his wife) feed the baby with a syringe. You would never have known that there wasn’t a nipple on that thing the way he sucked a slurped at it. A-freaking-dorable.
I’ve been working some (boring, I know) but I really like it. I don’t get it most days…I’m not all that into opera to tell you the truth; I’m a musical theatre kind of girl…but they aren’t paying me to think. I am wrist-down labor only. Mostly computer and calendar and contracts and copier. And I get to play travel agent every once in a while which is fun.
Oh, and remember that part about getting back into WW? Yeah. About that.
Maybe I’ll save that for tomorrow night.
Filed under: My boy Will
My baby son, Will, went to heaven on this night six years ago. I wrote about him and his life and his death last year. If you thought that this blog was only about being a widow and a single mama, well, that’s only part of the story.
I think about Will in my dreams. He doesn’t often surface anymore. We didn’t have a video camera and digital cameras weren’t the norm when he was tiny. I can’t remember his cries or his babbles. Is that terrible?
I have so many regrets about my son. So, so many. I can’t even count them.
I know people who have as their life motto that they “live life without regrets.” Gee, must be nice.
This is the part where I list my regrets. Starting with wanting to not be pregnant anymore (even though, clearly, that was the only safe place for him) and ending with not buying the stupid video camera. I would give any amount of money for the girls to see and hear their brother in action.
I also regret not reaching out to others who have lost a child. When he died, the hospital sent us a brochure for the “Miscarriage, stillbirth and infant loss support group”. I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t see past my own hurts to be with others. I still don’t understand why anyone would want me, who buried an 11 month old, to attend a meeting with folks all broken up over a miscarriage. That’s not to say that it’s not traumatic. If that’s the worst that will ever happen to you. But my son was living, breathing, eating, smiling, noisy and cuddly.
I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I’m so, so tired. And I think that, for today, I’m just out of tears.
I guess that there is no comparison to losing a child. None at all.
He was our future. And we left him at the Emergency Room. Wrapped tightly in a blanket to keep him warm for just a little while longer. And we walked out, Stephen and I, hand in hand, shortly after dawn. A beautiful, fall day.
And I was the one with regrets.
I regretted that it wasn’t me. I wanted to trade places with my baby.
I would have given anything in the world to give him a future.
Right after Stephen was diagnosed, we talked long and hard about what we thought we should do. About his treatment and his illness and about the girls. Knowing full well what the outcome would be. I said “Maybe you’re supposed to go and be with our son….and I’m supposed to stay here with our girls…and someday…we can all be together again.”
And right after Stephen died, I took comfort in knowing that he was with Will…rocking him…walking with him…teaching him to fish and how to make a fire without matches. It still comforts me.
And yet, the regrets keep coming back. I can’t help myself.
Filed under: It's all about my needs
This is the holiday weekend post that nobody will probably read. It’s filled with self-doubt and loathing.
I invited myself to a Crimson and Cream season opener party with my sister. I thought it was at a bar. It wasn’t. It was in some dude’s garage. I instantly developed a severe case of social anxiety disorder and almost didn’t go. I’m glad that I did, if for nothing else than the vast array of dips and chips. Hot dip that tastes like a jalapeno popper? Don’t mind if I do. Same goes for you, crab rangoon dip.
My littles are slumbering with relatives who, I fear, will never invite them back. Ella needed a nap this afternoon but naps for her often bode poorly for bedtime. I am enjoying my quiet night and almost don’t want to sleep because when I wake up, it will all be over. I love my kids but…one night is never enough. I need one to chill and one to get stuff done. Like unpacking my sewing room. Or baking bread. Or…anything else really. Story of my life.
Why is it that I spend a good portion of my time thinking of the next moment when I don’t have to be a mom? Because it really isn’t that bad. My girls are really pretty good. I’m lucky there. And we always find things to entertain ourselves. I guess I’m just craving. Something.
That’s a really good way to think of it: a craving. They hang on me all day and I crave to not be touched. But really, I want to be touched by someone who doesn’t want anything from me. They make messes and I crave order. And to not have to be the one to create order every. time. They ask for dinner and I crave a meal that doesn’t include anything breaded, fried or between two pieces of soft bread. Or coated in an unnatural cheese powder. I also crave the times when I don’t have to prepare it. Or endure the constant motion and ramblings of small children. They fight, screech, turn on the television and leave the room, clack random things together and talk to inanimate objects. I crave silence.
But when it is silent, I can hear what’s in my head. Not crazy voices but memories banging around. I can feel my jaw ache because it is always tight; waiting for the cheap shots that seem to pepper my life. When it is really quiet, I am forced to live my life all over again. And I’m not so sure I want to do it. Especially now that I know how to do it different.
And this anxiety in social situations? Comes from being the only thirty-something in the room without a spouse, alive or not. I really dislike being single. I really don’t like being a single parent (double parent?). I feel like I am the intrusion into other people’s lives because I don’t have my own. A soul to be pitied. Nobody wants that.
And yet…
What I am really craving is to be someone’s everything again.
I miss Stephen, still, everyday. And I still am in disbelief that this is how the story ends.
I’m positive that there are a million posts, articles, tweets and Facebook rants about health care and insurance in this country.
I’ll go ahead and add mine right here.
When we lived in Iowa, I had to buy my own health insurance since I was self-employed (what…being a full time mom is self-employed…) and paid for it myself. Redundant but true. The cost was reasonable and pretty much everything was covered and medicine had a reasonable co-pay. The girls were covered by Iowa’s kick ass state kids health insurance program. It covered everything and I paid about 20 bucks a month for it.
Let’s just say…I got spoiled.
So I move. And the girls obviously can’t take Iowa insurance to a new state. And mine was not portable out of the state of Iowa (which also made going to Mayo out of the question…but that’s a different blog post entirely. God bless Mayo and their willingness to work with me.) So I have been in search of new health insurance.
The girls do not, at this time, qualify for the state health insurance here. This state is dead ass last in insuring low to middle income children. In order for the three of us to be on one policy here of the same caliber as the one I just came from was going to be in the neighborhood of $800 per month. Which, for me, is alot. More than alot. About a quarter to a third of what comes into this house. So I can’t swing that. The agent and I work with numbers and policies and I’m just about beside myself. So she gets the insurance rep on the phone who takes our info and asks a few questions about our health in a general way because she pretty much knows what the underwriters will say.
Sidenote: Who are “the underwriters”? Is that like a “ghost writer”? I’m pretty sure they don’t actually exist. Hi, I’m Bob, I’m a Construction Worker. Hi Bob, I’m Larry and I’m an underwriter. See…you need hear of that. Or maybe it’s just me. I suspect a middle level cubicle rat with a computer screen plugging in a theorem of some sort and having the computer spit out cost and benefit percentages. The line in the sand, if you will.
I get a call on Monday. Our insurance was set to expire on Tuesday. I was told that Ella would NOT be covered by this company at all. Because she has a diagnosis (NF-1). No treatment. No medication. No Complications. Nothing.
She is a child. She is five years old. And my insurance company…or soon to be I guess…won’t cover her.
I am fighting the urge to throw up.
We? Are the people to fight for. I can’t afford $800/month out of pocket. Not to mention copays and all that it doesn’t cover. My big girl? Will have to go uninsured until I can figure out what to do. And that scares the baby bejeebus out of me.
I suppose I do have other options. I can go out and find a job with some kind of employer sponsored health plan. If those even exist anymore. I could free lance and take more gigs every month to afford something spectacular for us. Or afford to stash money aside if anything were to go wrong. Of course, one MRI is, what, five grand? And that’s just for one scan.
I just feel defeated.
One more card that I don’t want to play. Can’t fold, can’t go all in.
And just waiting around is asking for trouble.
I need some new music.
Pandora has failed me with their “you must pay after 40 hours” rule. Yeesh. You mean the Internet isn’t free?
I’ve been on a Billy Joel kick. Also, 80’s and 90’s rock ballads. Still can’t get enough of those. Got a cliche? Turn it into a song. Never Say Goodbye. Every Rose Has its Thorn. Love Bites. Don’t Know What You Got Till its Gone.
It was a simpler time. Remember when we used to leave the house and return only for meals? When bikes and skates were far better than anything on TV? I had a taste of that tonight. Our neighborhood is almost complete. There are kids every-freaking-where. It’s not a through street at all. Nobody even knows we’re here really. Every yard was full at one time or another tonight, mine included. Lots of running and jumping and digging in the empty lots. New friends everywhere.
And the crisp apple taste of fall has come to our town. It probably won’t last but I’ll take it while I can.
I have accepted that this is where my children will spend their school years. The years that they will remember when they think of their childhood. They will see the layout of the house in their dreams, decades later. They will drive by long after college is over, maybe with a future husband, and remember when that looming maple was little more than a stick. I know it’s just a house. Four walls and crappy carpet. But they need to feel like it’s home. And every day it is more and more like home.
I put pictures on the walls yesterday. The kitchen has been used. The windows have been open for so many days in a row that the place doesn’t smell like paint. This might actually work for us.
It isn’t like me to be all sunshine and daisy happy. And that’s not it exactly. And it’s not even contentment. It’s just that I can see the future here. The three of us. I see our shadow every time we walk through a parking lot. Me in the middle, my babies on either side holding my hand. That’s us. That’s where we are. Right now.
And then there’s this.
So I had a friend over all day today. We were going to be productive but the breeze going through my house got the best of us and we ended up studying the insides of our eyelids. During supper, my friend mentioned that she had a cat.
“You do?!?” Ella says, dramatically. (Everything with her is all about dramatics. At five. I’m so in trouble.) “What’s his name?”
Miss Kitty. The girls laugh, repeating it.
“Is it a tiny kitten?”
Nope she’s a big, fat cat.
“As fat as my mom?!?”
Nice.
Time to get the gym membership. Little kids call it like they see it. And my kid just called it.
Filed under: Faith journey
I made the decision right around the time that my baby decided to get into bed with me. And then have a chat. About preschool and her babies and life in general. At 4am. What? Is this college again? Move over or get out. So about that time, I decided that we would be skipping church today.
At 8am the phone rang. It was my mother. Coming to my house. To go to my new church with me. Oh, and dad was with her too. So I did what any good daughter would do. I made a pot of coffee, unlocked the front door and got in the shower.
We made it to church. So I’m sitting there with my big girl hanging on one side and my baby rifling through my purse, and the minister is talking about Daniel. Daniel, thrown to the lions. Thought to be dead. Should have been dead. But the lions decided (by an act of GOD no less) that they weren’t hungry that particular day.
The life lesson is this: be thankful…on your knees thankful…that God lets you live another day.
The End.
I’m having a little trouble with this. I’m having alot of trouble, actually, with my faith. And not just faith in all things spiritual. But faith in the system, faith in the economy, the government, the food supply. I cannot take things at face value because I am not allowed to do so.
Maybe it’s too many spy movies. But nothing is as it seems. And, I have to believe (and I do), that most of the danger is in our own minds. I let my kids play in the yard. Without (eek) a grownup! And without shoes! Or a helmet! Say it isn’t so! I also sleep with the windows open. I have no fear that someone will cut the screens and enter my home and rifle through my junk drawers. I guess that’s faith in something. Faith that all the shitty things that can happen to a person has already happened.
Then why am I still not sleeping? Grinding my teeth and clenching my jaw when I do sleep? Why have I gained 35 pounds in the last 18 months? Why do I crave my own home and my own space but go crazy from being alone and not going anywhere? Why does major surgery sound appealing, if only to get a really long nap?
These are the questions that go through my head. At church. That, and, why oh why is it okay to wear white jeans? I just don’t get it. And baby doll tops? Look good on nobody. Except those that are gestating. I’m just putting that out there. Not that I have any fashion sense at all. I’m the one who cannot imagine a day without yoga pants and Keen sandals.
Part of me wants to meet with the minister. Tell my story. Again. And see if he has some wisdom that I may have overlooked. Maybe he can tell me something to make me feel better…some little gem that will reveal the peace that I have been seeking. I know…deep, right?
Maybe it’s not about that moment of clarity. Maybe nobody knows.
I could use a really good cry but I’m fairly certain that all the tears have been medicated out of me. I feel like there wouldn’t be anyone to pick my up from the bathroom floor except my babies and,well, that’s not fair to them. I want to throw something. But then I’ll just have to clean up the mess. I want to drive far, far away. But then if I came back, everything would be gone. I want to run. Okay, maybe not run (black eye) but walk. Fast. Like mall walking. I wish I was one of those people who can lose themselves in exercise. Who could push themselves until they tore their bodies apart only to do it again tomorrow. I tried that once. And couldn’t lift my baby for a week. Or the remote. Or a hairbrush.
What if Daniel had been eaten? What if he’d stubbed his toe and left a drop of blood on the rocks? What would the moral of the story been if that had happened?
Daniel did what was right and the lions got a snack.
Because that’s how it goes for most of us. I answered my phone. And instead of a lazy day with my coffee and my newspaper and a donut run…I put on makeup, shushed my littles, sang Jesus Loves Me and thought about what it would be like to get stitched up after a brutal lion attack.
I’ll bet I know what it feels like.
