When my eyes opened at 5:05am today, I thought two things. First, that I had 'slept in', because for the previous two mornings, I woke up for no particular reason whatsoever at 4:30am, like that's just a thing I do now, and Adulting is getting more fun by the minute around here. Second, I realized that I had to go to the grocery store. It's 48 hours before the biggest food holiday of the year, and I have to go brave it alone.
I showered and said a prayer in front of the mirror, "Please God, let this go smooth. Let me stick to my list, let any impulse buy be chocolate. Let me keep a little faith in humanity. Let my journey be safe and swift and, if it's not too much to ask, let stuff be on sale. Let me find a little joy. Let me always remember that if I die in the parking lot of a Wal-Mart, it is Your Will."
Spoiler Alert: I didn't die. Am grateful.
On the quiet, windy drive to the store, I started running through Holiday's Past. Once, the boy ate an entire Thanksgiving dinner and then barfed, prompting everyone to play our favorite holiday game, "Food Poisoning or Stomach Bug?" The boy turned 18 in October. This is the last holiday season that he is legally required to attend.
On a Thanksgiving Eve, years ago, my dearly departed mother-in-law bragged about a garage sale find- a $1 hand mixer. She pulled it out of the box and started mixing something for the next day's dinner, and then the mixer blew up and the roasted turkey smell competed with the smell of burnt plastic.
My dad loved to take a perfectly roasted turkey from the oven and soak up all of the praise for it, even though I have never been sure what exactly he did to it besides put it into the oven and then take it back out again hours later. But, in all of my memories, I see him standing with his electric carving knife smiling.
Holidays are like that, huh?
I wanted to give my kids picture perfect holidays, straight from a Thomas Kinkade painting holidays, I wanted Thanksgiving with a perfect turkey and a 'tablescape' straight from the pages of a magazine. But, I'm staring down the barrel of 40, and I'm learning, ever so slowly, that those paintings aren't real. They come from a bottle of paint. (I should note that at least a little of my holidays are going to come from a bottle, too. Thanks Winery of Ellicottville!)
On my trek to the grocery store, I was standing in what I thought was a low traffic area, trying to rearrange the items in my cart to make room, when a lady came from behind. She had a cart piled high with all of the usual suspects and I heard her say, "I converted the recipe wrong, so I was short on green beans." And I honestly wanted to say, "Same." Aren't we all just a few beans short of a full casserole?
I made my way to the beverage aisle and there was a tiny old lady trying to reach a 2 liter of Ginger Ale from a too high shelf, so I offered to help. Maybe I can't give my kids the perfect holiday, but I can reach the Ginger Ale for somebody's grandma. Maybe I can't have everyone at the table that I long to sit with, but I can be grateful or the ones that are there, and hope for the best next year.
If you are reading this, then you play a role in my life, and I am grateful for you. I give thanks that you're reading this. I hope and pray that you have a smooth and tasty holiday. If you're missing someone special from your table, let me say that I am sorry, and I feel you. If you're alone for the holiday, and you don't want to be, call me, we'll figure something out. If you're expecting the perfect holiday, worthy of a canvas, I hope that you aren't disappointed and that you tell me how you did it. If you still have to go to the grocery store to prep for your dinner- the prayer in the first part of this story seemed to work out pretty well for me.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Tuesday, November 21, 2017
Tuesday, September 12, 2017
If You Want To Walk
Life got crazy. It's nothing earth shattering, and in the grand scheme of things, it's all minor and will be short lived. But it's hard to remember that when you're in the thick of it, isn't it? It's difficult to keep moving forward when you feel the weight of life bearing down. For me, I keep hearing myself say, "I just want to lie down." Which is usually the best indicator that I should do the exact opposite.
I asked Zoe to go for a walk with me yesterday. I had work and a thousand things to do around the house, she had homework and SnapChat and a thousand other things to do, as well, but we went. Whenever life gets a little crazy, I start to feel guilty because I don't feel like I am giving enough of myself to her, and despite her insistence that she's "FINE, MOM", we set out on the trail to spend at least a little time together without the distractions that pop up on a regular basis these days.
As we were walking past her best friend's house, we decided to stop to see if her friend wanted to walk for awhile. The friend wasn't home. The friend's dog, Bella, was. We patted the dog and headed on our way, but the dog had already accepted the invitation on behalf of her absent young lady, and Bella ran ahead of us on the trail for a mile, stopping to check back with us every so often. We lost sight of her at one point, only to have her pop out of a corn field, and scare a little pee out of at least one of us. (No names.) (It was me.) We got back to Zoe's friend's, but the dog wasn't ready to end the adventure yet. So we walked around Placek Park for another 20 minutes, trying to convince her that my calf muscles have an expiration date. Zoe called her friend, the dog ran out in front of a car and gave us a collective heart attack. The dog ran towards a family, we screamed that she is "SUPER NICE! SHE DOESN'T BITE!" After crossing the street and checking very carefully into some dumpsters, where Zoe and I finally just sat down on the concrete of the walking trail and clapped a lot and called her name, Zoe's friend and her mom came and got the dog, and we gathered our exhausted legs and walked the rest of the way back to my car, where we clocked in with over six thousand steps, two thousand of which we owe solely to Bella the Dog.
To the general public, we looked like a couple of girls who weren't smart enough to put our dog on a leash. To the dog, we looked like easy marks in a game of tag. To my tired, somewhat overwhelmed heart- we looked like exactly what I needed.
We will keep moving forward. When we come across problems, we will put our heads down and clap and look silly to the people standing around us. We may even walk around with the problem for a while, just to see if it resolves itself. We will come out on the other side, tired and sore, but stronger. And then we will wake up tomorrow and do it all again.
"If you want to walk fast- walk alone. If you want to walk far- walk together."- African Proverb
I asked Zoe to go for a walk with me yesterday. I had work and a thousand things to do around the house, she had homework and SnapChat and a thousand other things to do, as well, but we went. Whenever life gets a little crazy, I start to feel guilty because I don't feel like I am giving enough of myself to her, and despite her insistence that she's "FINE, MOM", we set out on the trail to spend at least a little time together without the distractions that pop up on a regular basis these days.
As we were walking past her best friend's house, we decided to stop to see if her friend wanted to walk for awhile. The friend wasn't home. The friend's dog, Bella, was. We patted the dog and headed on our way, but the dog had already accepted the invitation on behalf of her absent young lady, and Bella ran ahead of us on the trail for a mile, stopping to check back with us every so often. We lost sight of her at one point, only to have her pop out of a corn field, and scare a little pee out of at least one of us. (No names.) (It was me.) We got back to Zoe's friend's, but the dog wasn't ready to end the adventure yet. So we walked around Placek Park for another 20 minutes, trying to convince her that my calf muscles have an expiration date. Zoe called her friend, the dog ran out in front of a car and gave us a collective heart attack. The dog ran towards a family, we screamed that she is "SUPER NICE! SHE DOESN'T BITE!" After crossing the street and checking very carefully into some dumpsters, where Zoe and I finally just sat down on the concrete of the walking trail and clapped a lot and called her name, Zoe's friend and her mom came and got the dog, and we gathered our exhausted legs and walked the rest of the way back to my car, where we clocked in with over six thousand steps, two thousand of which we owe solely to Bella the Dog.
To the general public, we looked like a couple of girls who weren't smart enough to put our dog on a leash. To the dog, we looked like easy marks in a game of tag. To my tired, somewhat overwhelmed heart- we looked like exactly what I needed.
We will keep moving forward. When we come across problems, we will put our heads down and clap and look silly to the people standing around us. We may even walk around with the problem for a while, just to see if it resolves itself. We will come out on the other side, tired and sore, but stronger. And then we will wake up tomorrow and do it all again.
"If you want to walk fast- walk alone. If you want to walk far- walk together."- African Proverb
Wednesday, August 23, 2017
Taste Your Words
When I was eleven years old, I wrote a poem. I worked for days to perfect it. I searched the thesaurus in the school's library, I read it aloud in front of a mirror. I worked harder than I had ever worked on any assignment. I labored. I shared it with exactly one person. A trusted teacher. I remember the butterflies in my stomach when I left it on his desk and shyly asked him to read it. "I wrote this thing." I said, unwilling to even label it as a poem, because, in my sixth grade mind, poems were for professionals.
Two days went by, I studied his face during every class. He gave no indication that he had any sort of reaction at all, and for little while, I wondered if I had actually left the paper, or if I had somehow dreamed the entire thing.
On the second day, during the last class, during the last minute of the day, he requested that I stay after the bell rang. I spent the next few minutes in a kind of frozen hell. I wanted to throw up, and then run, or run while throwing up.
After the last classmate had left the room, he said that he had liked my poem, that he could tell that I had worked hard on it. My spirit lifted. Then, he said, "Do you know what the word 'plagiarize' means?" I said that I did. Then he went on to detail what happens when a writer steals another writer's work. That passing someone else's work off as one's own is dishonest and hurtful to the person who put their best efforts into whatever they were writing. I got the message. The poem was good, so good, in fact, that my trusted teacher didn't believe that I had written it.
The poem found it's way into the trash can, I faced a long, sad walk home. I hadn't copied anyone's work. The words had been mine alone. I couldn't be angry with him. He had been as kind as an adult could be who was crushing the inspiration of a preteen girl. I am nearly forty years old, and all it takes is a second to remember the shame I felt, needlessly, sitting in that empty classroom. Words matter.
Two days ago, I shared a post about my father's death. A teacher I trusted and adored (and still adore!) in eighth grade commented that I should write more often. Her praise of my words lifted me up and made my feet light for the rest of the day. She had that effect in the eighth grade, as well. Words matter.
I write all the time. I write long, elaborate stories in my head. I write while I am reading and cooking and folding laundry. I write because it's how my brain works. I just don't share because that is also how my brain works. Sometimes I sit at the computer typing for hours. I reread what I wrote, and then I wish for anonymity because writing is a whole different animal from sharing. Sharing doesn't come anywhere near as easily as writing. Every single time I have shared a blog post, I feel like vomiting. Or running. Or running while I vomit. I always, without fail, want to take it all back and shove it back inside my head for another day. But the words matter.
I am happiest when I am putting thought to paper (or screen, as the case may be). So, I just wanted to say, thank you for reading my words. Thank you for your comments. Thank you for your 'likes' on Facebook. Thank you for the texts you sent. Thank you for what you said to me out loud, with all the world around us to hear. Your words? They matter. I carry them around with me, sometimes for YEARS.
There's a great quote, "Be sure to taste your words before you spit them out". This week, all of your words tasted sweet and light- and I am really and truly grateful.
Two days went by, I studied his face during every class. He gave no indication that he had any sort of reaction at all, and for little while, I wondered if I had actually left the paper, or if I had somehow dreamed the entire thing.
On the second day, during the last class, during the last minute of the day, he requested that I stay after the bell rang. I spent the next few minutes in a kind of frozen hell. I wanted to throw up, and then run, or run while throwing up.
After the last classmate had left the room, he said that he had liked my poem, that he could tell that I had worked hard on it. My spirit lifted. Then, he said, "Do you know what the word 'plagiarize' means?" I said that I did. Then he went on to detail what happens when a writer steals another writer's work. That passing someone else's work off as one's own is dishonest and hurtful to the person who put their best efforts into whatever they were writing. I got the message. The poem was good, so good, in fact, that my trusted teacher didn't believe that I had written it.
The poem found it's way into the trash can, I faced a long, sad walk home. I hadn't copied anyone's work. The words had been mine alone. I couldn't be angry with him. He had been as kind as an adult could be who was crushing the inspiration of a preteen girl. I am nearly forty years old, and all it takes is a second to remember the shame I felt, needlessly, sitting in that empty classroom. Words matter.
Two days ago, I shared a post about my father's death. A teacher I trusted and adored (and still adore!) in eighth grade commented that I should write more often. Her praise of my words lifted me up and made my feet light for the rest of the day. She had that effect in the eighth grade, as well. Words matter.
I write all the time. I write long, elaborate stories in my head. I write while I am reading and cooking and folding laundry. I write because it's how my brain works. I just don't share because that is also how my brain works. Sometimes I sit at the computer typing for hours. I reread what I wrote, and then I wish for anonymity because writing is a whole different animal from sharing. Sharing doesn't come anywhere near as easily as writing. Every single time I have shared a blog post, I feel like vomiting. Or running. Or running while I vomit. I always, without fail, want to take it all back and shove it back inside my head for another day. But the words matter.
I am happiest when I am putting thought to paper (or screen, as the case may be). So, I just wanted to say, thank you for reading my words. Thank you for your comments. Thank you for your 'likes' on Facebook. Thank you for the texts you sent. Thank you for what you said to me out loud, with all the world around us to hear. Your words? They matter. I carry them around with me, sometimes for YEARS.
There's a great quote, "Be sure to taste your words before you spit them out". This week, all of your words tasted sweet and light- and I am really and truly grateful.
Monday, August 21, 2017
Post Game Analysis- Eclipse Edition
Let's clear this up right off the bat- I wasn't excited about the eclipse until the tenth article I read, WAY too late last night. I didn't get special glasses. I didn't intend to keep the kids home. I was pretty ambivalent about the whole thing until I started reading online articles describing how rare and beautiful of an event it was going to be.
I woke up this morning, I signed the permission slip allowing Zoe to watch the show, I drove her to school, came home and poured my heart out in a blog post that had little to do with the eclipse, but also, everything to do with it. I was exited. I was observant and watchful of the sky, which, in truth, was pretty cloudy in my little corner of the world.
Here are some of my observations.
1. My dogs were acting very strange. From about 10am until 1pm, they paced, and repeatedly went to the door and barked. I don't think it really had much to do with the eclipse, though. They're pretty strange on any given day. Also, they like to go outside and play with the cats. There may have been a leaf blowing in the yard that they were barking at? Maybe I witnessed the effect of the celestial event on their behavior, but I think it was far more likely that I witnessed Just Another Day With The Abramo Dogz.
2. The cats outside could not, and probably would not, have given two craps about what was going on in the heavens. Not that I saw, anyway.
3. As the time approached what was said to be nearest to totality, it gradually got pretty dark. Crickets and the like were chirping. The light around my house was kind of eerie. I went back inside to check on the weirdo dogs and when I came back out, low and behold, John came gunning down the driveway, back from an extended weekend in Buffalo, NY with family. He pulled in two minutes before the maximum moment of totality. He likes to push the envelope.
4. We BOTH stared up at the sun, sans protective eyewear, despite all of the warnings. It should be noted that I did keep the dogs inside to protect THEIR eyes.
5. We didn't see much. It was pretty cloudy.
6. It gradually started to get lighter again.
7. I felt off-centered and jittery. At first I thought I was having some kind of "One with the universe" moment. A psychic/medium, who's page I like on Facebook (don't judge me!) said that if you were to feel anxious before, during or after the eclipse, you should 'ground down'. Literally, go outside and stand on the ground, barefoot. So, I was heading back out to do just that & figured the dogs needed to go potty by this point, and took them out, too. Then I realized that I was standing barefoot in what is my dog's bathroom, so I stepped back up onto the deck and waited for them to finish their business. While waiting, I realized that I had drank a cup of coffee, my first in almost two months, on an empty stomach. So, I went inside and ate some cheese crackers and I felt a lot better.
8. John and I watched part of the latest episode of Game of Thrones, I went and picked up Zo, he fell asleep.
The whole thing was kind of anti-climatic but I checked out Facebook and I saw a lot of very, very cool pictures of other people's eclipse experiences and something occurred to me. While I stood outside (unwisely) staring at the heavens, an awful lot of people were doing the same. A number of my fellow humans were out there, searching the sky for an experience. Waiting for the light to fade, and then shine again. Maybe some of us were frightened of it not shining again. Maybe some of us just wanted a break from the work day. Maybe some of us are fascinated by the fact that we know so much about the universe, and yet so very little. But, we were all out there, looking. Democrats, Republicans. Conservatives and liberals. Black and white and every color in between. Men and women and everyone in between. We were rich, and poor, and middle class, and we were watching.
"No matter how dark the moment, love and hope are always possible." -George Chakiris
I woke up this morning, I signed the permission slip allowing Zoe to watch the show, I drove her to school, came home and poured my heart out in a blog post that had little to do with the eclipse, but also, everything to do with it. I was exited. I was observant and watchful of the sky, which, in truth, was pretty cloudy in my little corner of the world.
Here are some of my observations.
1. My dogs were acting very strange. From about 10am until 1pm, they paced, and repeatedly went to the door and barked. I don't think it really had much to do with the eclipse, though. They're pretty strange on any given day. Also, they like to go outside and play with the cats. There may have been a leaf blowing in the yard that they were barking at? Maybe I witnessed the effect of the celestial event on their behavior, but I think it was far more likely that I witnessed Just Another Day With The Abramo Dogz.
2. The cats outside could not, and probably would not, have given two craps about what was going on in the heavens. Not that I saw, anyway.
3. As the time approached what was said to be nearest to totality, it gradually got pretty dark. Crickets and the like were chirping. The light around my house was kind of eerie. I went back inside to check on the weirdo dogs and when I came back out, low and behold, John came gunning down the driveway, back from an extended weekend in Buffalo, NY with family. He pulled in two minutes before the maximum moment of totality. He likes to push the envelope.
4. We BOTH stared up at the sun, sans protective eyewear, despite all of the warnings. It should be noted that I did keep the dogs inside to protect THEIR eyes.
5. We didn't see much. It was pretty cloudy.
6. It gradually started to get lighter again.
7. I felt off-centered and jittery. At first I thought I was having some kind of "One with the universe" moment. A psychic/medium, who's page I like on Facebook (don't judge me!) said that if you were to feel anxious before, during or after the eclipse, you should 'ground down'. Literally, go outside and stand on the ground, barefoot. So, I was heading back out to do just that & figured the dogs needed to go potty by this point, and took them out, too. Then I realized that I was standing barefoot in what is my dog's bathroom, so I stepped back up onto the deck and waited for them to finish their business. While waiting, I realized that I had drank a cup of coffee, my first in almost two months, on an empty stomach. So, I went inside and ate some cheese crackers and I felt a lot better.
8. John and I watched part of the latest episode of Game of Thrones, I went and picked up Zo, he fell asleep.
The whole thing was kind of anti-climatic but I checked out Facebook and I saw a lot of very, very cool pictures of other people's eclipse experiences and something occurred to me. While I stood outside (unwisely) staring at the heavens, an awful lot of people were doing the same. A number of my fellow humans were out there, searching the sky for an experience. Waiting for the light to fade, and then shine again. Maybe some of us were frightened of it not shining again. Maybe some of us just wanted a break from the work day. Maybe some of us are fascinated by the fact that we know so much about the universe, and yet so very little. But, we were all out there, looking. Democrats, Republicans. Conservatives and liberals. Black and white and every color in between. Men and women and everyone in between. We were rich, and poor, and middle class, and we were watching.
"No matter how dark the moment, love and hope are always possible." -George Chakiris
Eclipsed
Today at 11:37am, the moon will begin to cover the sun. At 1:03pm, it will reach maximum coverage, and will continue to move across the sun until 2:29pm. For a few minutes the day will become night. The shadows will take over. An event that astronomers say hasn't occurred in the United States, in this capacity, in nearly a hundred years.
But I know better.
Seven years ago today, on a hot afternoon, surrounded by people who love him deeply, my father died. The light hid in the shadows of grief and I couldn't feel the sun shining. I remember the beginning. I remember when the shadows began their journey across my sun, but the details surrounding it grow murkier every day. Because I have learned that it wasn't all about the darkness. Seven years ago on this day, my sun indeed went dark, and it was incredibly painful, and it was hard to navigate in the twilight, but with time, the sun began to shine again, if not quite as bright as before.
In the beginning, I had a difficult time just walking around with that darkness hanging over me. My grief was heavy and weighed down every moment of the day. My world seemed to constantly exist in a perpetual state of gloom. Inky blackness threatened everything. I couldn't remember anything but the darkness. Seven years later, I chose to remember the moments when the sun shined so brilliantly. I chose to remember, not the moment of maximum totality, but all of the moments before that, when I lived with his laugh and the warmth of his smile.
Last week, I was shopping in a local store. The cashier's phone began to ring from her pocket and from an aisle close to the registers, I heard her say, "Hi Mom", and then she let out a big laugh and said, "Sorry, Dad!" When I put my purchases on the counter, she apologized to me for taking the call. I told her that there was absolutely no need for an apology. When I got to my car, I nearly wept with the knowledge that my phone isn't going to ring. And then, that night, I had a dream about a house on west 10th Street, with my father peeking over the top of a cup of coffee. We didn't speak. It only lasted a moment. But for that moment, the sun was bright.
He was funny and sarcastic and flawed. He cried when his dog died, he smoked like a chimney. He drank his iced tea with no ice. He liked his coffee black and his jokes R-rated. He worked hard to have a beautiful lawn. He was a night owl. He hugged me like no one ever can, or will again. He drove slowly. He listened to country music. He hated potatoes. He shook his head when words escaped him, and you could understand exactly what he was saying. He was stubborn. He could be cold and unmoving. He could be warm and welcoming. He liked socks that reached his knee caps and tee-shirts with pockets and western shirts with pearly buttons. He was lightness, and darkness, and all the shadows in between, and I love him deeply and I miss him the same as the number of stars in the sky.
Seven years ago, when the shadows moved over the sunshine, I could not fathom a moment where I would not feel broken and lost. I have since learned not to fear the shadows of my grief. Shadows exist because there is light nearby.
But I know better.
Seven years ago today, on a hot afternoon, surrounded by people who love him deeply, my father died. The light hid in the shadows of grief and I couldn't feel the sun shining. I remember the beginning. I remember when the shadows began their journey across my sun, but the details surrounding it grow murkier every day. Because I have learned that it wasn't all about the darkness. Seven years ago on this day, my sun indeed went dark, and it was incredibly painful, and it was hard to navigate in the twilight, but with time, the sun began to shine again, if not quite as bright as before.
In the beginning, I had a difficult time just walking around with that darkness hanging over me. My grief was heavy and weighed down every moment of the day. My world seemed to constantly exist in a perpetual state of gloom. Inky blackness threatened everything. I couldn't remember anything but the darkness. Seven years later, I chose to remember the moments when the sun shined so brilliantly. I chose to remember, not the moment of maximum totality, but all of the moments before that, when I lived with his laugh and the warmth of his smile.
Last week, I was shopping in a local store. The cashier's phone began to ring from her pocket and from an aisle close to the registers, I heard her say, "Hi Mom", and then she let out a big laugh and said, "Sorry, Dad!" When I put my purchases on the counter, she apologized to me for taking the call. I told her that there was absolutely no need for an apology. When I got to my car, I nearly wept with the knowledge that my phone isn't going to ring. And then, that night, I had a dream about a house on west 10th Street, with my father peeking over the top of a cup of coffee. We didn't speak. It only lasted a moment. But for that moment, the sun was bright.
He was funny and sarcastic and flawed. He cried when his dog died, he smoked like a chimney. He drank his iced tea with no ice. He liked his coffee black and his jokes R-rated. He worked hard to have a beautiful lawn. He was a night owl. He hugged me like no one ever can, or will again. He drove slowly. He listened to country music. He hated potatoes. He shook his head when words escaped him, and you could understand exactly what he was saying. He was stubborn. He could be cold and unmoving. He could be warm and welcoming. He liked socks that reached his knee caps and tee-shirts with pockets and western shirts with pearly buttons. He was lightness, and darkness, and all the shadows in between, and I love him deeply and I miss him the same as the number of stars in the sky.
Seven years ago, when the shadows moved over the sunshine, I could not fathom a moment where I would not feel broken and lost. I have since learned not to fear the shadows of my grief. Shadows exist because there is light nearby.
Tuesday, January 31, 2017
My twelve year old wants her birth story. It's a conversation prompted by an upcoming unit on the reproductive system in Health class. It's fine, really. It should be fine. I can, mostly, answer honestly. She's irritated because the boys in class were giggling and laughing about something that the teacher said in regards to a baby coming out of the birth canal, and I say to her, "Girl....you have a birth canal. You came from a birth canal....it's not funny, it's life. It's why we are. It's beautiful and powerful and miraculous, and it's painful and scary and boys never really get over laughing about the mystery of the female body, so just get yourself used to rolling those beautiful brown eyes." She laughs, but there are more questions. I'm fine. I answer. I try to gauge the information that she needs without overwhelming her, because this is a girl who just learned that a 'tramp stamp' isn't an actual stamp...it's a tattoo. I want to give her the information. I want to arm her with the best truths that I know and I want her to understand the power of the female body and I want her to wield the power in her hands like she is a goddamn goddess. But there's still more.
I can tell her the funny parts. I was in labor for, by my count, fourteen hours. I made dinner and rearranged furniture and packed for everyone to be gone for a couple of days. I picked up kids from school and I called her Dad and told him to hurry home, but by the time I finally checked into the hospital, got to a room, and got into a gown, I was dilated to ten, and the doctor barely had time to sit down before her arrival on the scene. We walked into the hospital at 6:30, she was born at 7:10. There was no time for drugs, there was no time for family. Just me, her dad, a nurse who all but begged me to hold off on pushing, and a hurried doctor. I remember, sitting here, like it was yesterday, hearing that nurse say, "Jennifer, I can do it, but I don't want to, so maybe let's try to wait for the doctor?"
She is, as she has always been, on her own schedule. She has more questions. Why's and why-not's. It's ok. I can answer, mostly. But something in me hesitates, just a little. I feel as though I am not telling her the whole truth.
The bare truth is this......I am struggling because her birth story is so closely tied to another. A birth story from 19 1/2 years ago.
I was 19 years old when I found out that I was pregnant. Having grown up in a family with single mothers, I was both scared to death, and doubtful that my nineteen year old self could handle what I knew, even then, to be the most difficult job imaginable. I was afraid. I was scared to tell anyone, and so I didn't. I started drinking a lot of milk, I wore baggy shirts, and I waited for an answer from the God that I found myself praying to all hours of the day and night. I thought about abortion, but someone I knew and loved was struggling to conceive, and I couldn't make sense in my brain of why God wouldn't give them a baby, but gave one to me. And so, four months into the pregnancy, I admitted to the outside world that the pregnancy existed, and I asked that couple to adopt my baby.
Five months. I lived for five months knowing that the child growing inside me was no longer mine. I marvel at that thought now, because, today, my world is measured by my kids.
In early fall, I woke up at nine o'clock in the morning to my first contraction. I alerted the adoptive mother, who alerted the adoptive father. We drove to the hospital on a blazing day, summer not ready to give up yet, and listened as the doctor said, "Yes, you are in labor, come back later." And so, we went back to their house, and we waited. I napped, and while I did so, the adoptive mother made several calls, and when I awoke, there were many, many more people in the room. Twelve. Twelve extra people, not including me, that baby, and the adoptive parents, sat around, just waiting. I was contracting, the adoptive mother was stressing. Fifteen hours after the initial contraction, I, among others, decided that the hospital would probably be the best place to wait out the remainder of the time, and so, in a caravan, we headed back to the hospital.
For another six hours, I walked the halls and tried to hold conversation with the people who were there to see the show. They were there out of love, I know, but it felt to me like they were there to witness my destruction.
Finally, 21 hours after that first contraction, my doctor broke my water, and left the room to do rounds, only to be called back by a frantic nurse moments later. My daughter was here. Except, that she wasn't MY daughter. She was promised to someone else. And there were people everywhere, and I just wanted a minute to absorb what the hell had just happened to me, to my body and my mind and to my soul. I just wanted a minute to look at her, and explain myself, and I wanted to tell her things that I would never get to say.
What I didn't know then, was that we, she and I, had run out of time.
Later, much later, after everyone had gone home for some much needed rest, I lay in that hospital bed begging for answers. Just begging anyone who came near me to LISTEN for a minute. By now, I had seen her face. By now, I knew the shape of her nose. And I just needed someone to LISTEN for a second. Was I sure? Was this right? Was I failing her? And Jesus H. Christ, could I get a Tylenol because my back was hurting so bad that when I tried to stand up, I thought I was going to faint from the pain. My doctor prescribed Darvocet, and I spent the remainder of the day and night on the cusp of consciousness. I don't remember my parents coming back that day, but I have pictures showing they did. And I don't remember the lawyer coming, but I know that I signed.
The next day, we were discharged.
Walking away from her was the hardest thing I have ever had to do in my life. There is no pain to which I could compare it. I can not, with any clarity, tell you what goodbye looked like. I don't remember. I know that I woke up every hour and a half that night. I know that the next time I visited her, I prayed for some miracle that would make her mine again. I chanted that prayer to myself so many times over the coming months that you could number the stars and still not reach the correct amount of times that I uttered the word, please.
A reunion was not to be. As a matter of fact, nineteen and a half years later, as I sit and write this in my dining room, I can honestly tell you that very little of what I prayed for in that situation has come to pass. She doesn't speak to me, though she could. She is a college freshman, and past that, I don't know much more about her life.
So, when the 12 year old wants her birth story, the one I want to tell is this: my story and her's, our birth story, is closely tied to the story of a girl who didn't understand what she was giving up. It was done out of love, absolutely. I wanted more for her. I wanted everything for her, and I felt that I had nothing to offer. That first girl, her very existence paints my world with a different color every single day of my life.
After she was gone, I didn't want to have children. I thought it would be unfair to her, to find out that I had chosen not to be a mother to her, but chose to fulfill that role for a different child. Then, I met a man who had children. I reasoned with myself, and I came to the conclusion that if I didn't actually give birth to the kids, it wouldn't be a betrayal of her. And then, one day in late April, my now husband, made an off-hand comment about pregnancy, and was immediately sent to the drug store to purchase two tests. Two, because one wouldn't be sufficient evidence.
When the strip developed the second line, I was securely locked in the bathroom, alone, with the water running so he couldn't hear me sob. I wasn't overwhelmed with gratitude or joy. I was broken hearted because I felt what I had done was the ultimate level of disloyalty to the memory of my daughter, who at that point, was six, and had no idea that I was her birth mother.
Joy came later. Joy came in the face of her father, telling me that it was going to be ok. Joy came in the face of my five year old stepson, who was excited about the prospect of a brother. Joy came, but she wasn't my first emotion.
In the following three months, I reasoned my way into thinking that it would hurt less if the child I carried was a boy, and in July, during an ultrasound appointment, we learned with no uncertainty, that it was a girl. On the way to the car after the appointment, I asked her dad if he was disappointed that it was not a boy, to which he scoffed and reminded me that he had said from the beginning that he wanted a healthy child, period. I was grateful for her health. I was grateful for her existence, and some place deep inside myself, I realized that this was what was supposed to be. That this child I now carried was supposed to be mine.
And so, on a snowy December day, I waited too long to make the calls I had to make, because I didn't want my time with her to end. On that winter evening, when the nurse asked if I minded having students in the room for my labor and delivery, I said no. I didn't want spectators. When she came into the room, with a head full of dark hair and legs stretched long, for just a second, I looked away. I was afraid of the face I was going to see there.
Later, after visitors, with the lights dimmed and her dad snoring on the hospital love seat, I stared at her, unable to look away for even a moment. God in Heaven, I loved her. And right in that second, of me staring at her, and her looking back at me, I realized that I had never truly understood the extent of what I had done six years prior. Even for all of my brokenness and self hatred, I came to realize the magnitude of what walking away from that first baby had done to me.
Every second of every minute after they put that 6 pound wonder in my arms was a moment that I was reminded of what I had given away. Every diaper was a diaper that I didn't change, every bottle was a feeding that I missed.
And so, when the 12 year old wants her birth story, I tell her that birth, like life, is messy and painful. And maybe someday I will tell her the whole story, and maybe someday, I will be able to tell the whole story to the girl who came first. Maybe I will tell them how much their stories are alike, neither wanting to wait until everyone was ready. Maybe I will tell them how much their stories differ, how I left the hospital the first time a broken mess of a girl who didn't fully understand the length and breadth of the commitment I had made, and how I left the hospital the second time feeling more whole than I had felt in six years. Maybe I will tell them that the first night after I left the hospital, I woke up every hour and a half, and later learned that the baby had done the same, miles away. Or maybe I will tell them that the second girl baby slept through the night three weeks after she was born, secure in the knowledge that her mother was never more than three feet away from her at any given moment.
These are our birth stories. There can not be just one. They are weaved together. I can not, and would not, untangle the threads that connect us.
I can tell her the funny parts. I was in labor for, by my count, fourteen hours. I made dinner and rearranged furniture and packed for everyone to be gone for a couple of days. I picked up kids from school and I called her Dad and told him to hurry home, but by the time I finally checked into the hospital, got to a room, and got into a gown, I was dilated to ten, and the doctor barely had time to sit down before her arrival on the scene. We walked into the hospital at 6:30, she was born at 7:10. There was no time for drugs, there was no time for family. Just me, her dad, a nurse who all but begged me to hold off on pushing, and a hurried doctor. I remember, sitting here, like it was yesterday, hearing that nurse say, "Jennifer, I can do it, but I don't want to, so maybe let's try to wait for the doctor?"
She is, as she has always been, on her own schedule. She has more questions. Why's and why-not's. It's ok. I can answer, mostly. But something in me hesitates, just a little. I feel as though I am not telling her the whole truth.
The bare truth is this......I am struggling because her birth story is so closely tied to another. A birth story from 19 1/2 years ago.
I was 19 years old when I found out that I was pregnant. Having grown up in a family with single mothers, I was both scared to death, and doubtful that my nineteen year old self could handle what I knew, even then, to be the most difficult job imaginable. I was afraid. I was scared to tell anyone, and so I didn't. I started drinking a lot of milk, I wore baggy shirts, and I waited for an answer from the God that I found myself praying to all hours of the day and night. I thought about abortion, but someone I knew and loved was struggling to conceive, and I couldn't make sense in my brain of why God wouldn't give them a baby, but gave one to me. And so, four months into the pregnancy, I admitted to the outside world that the pregnancy existed, and I asked that couple to adopt my baby.
Five months. I lived for five months knowing that the child growing inside me was no longer mine. I marvel at that thought now, because, today, my world is measured by my kids.
In early fall, I woke up at nine o'clock in the morning to my first contraction. I alerted the adoptive mother, who alerted the adoptive father. We drove to the hospital on a blazing day, summer not ready to give up yet, and listened as the doctor said, "Yes, you are in labor, come back later." And so, we went back to their house, and we waited. I napped, and while I did so, the adoptive mother made several calls, and when I awoke, there were many, many more people in the room. Twelve. Twelve extra people, not including me, that baby, and the adoptive parents, sat around, just waiting. I was contracting, the adoptive mother was stressing. Fifteen hours after the initial contraction, I, among others, decided that the hospital would probably be the best place to wait out the remainder of the time, and so, in a caravan, we headed back to the hospital.
For another six hours, I walked the halls and tried to hold conversation with the people who were there to see the show. They were there out of love, I know, but it felt to me like they were there to witness my destruction.
Finally, 21 hours after that first contraction, my doctor broke my water, and left the room to do rounds, only to be called back by a frantic nurse moments later. My daughter was here. Except, that she wasn't MY daughter. She was promised to someone else. And there were people everywhere, and I just wanted a minute to absorb what the hell had just happened to me, to my body and my mind and to my soul. I just wanted a minute to look at her, and explain myself, and I wanted to tell her things that I would never get to say.
What I didn't know then, was that we, she and I, had run out of time.
Later, much later, after everyone had gone home for some much needed rest, I lay in that hospital bed begging for answers. Just begging anyone who came near me to LISTEN for a minute. By now, I had seen her face. By now, I knew the shape of her nose. And I just needed someone to LISTEN for a second. Was I sure? Was this right? Was I failing her? And Jesus H. Christ, could I get a Tylenol because my back was hurting so bad that when I tried to stand up, I thought I was going to faint from the pain. My doctor prescribed Darvocet, and I spent the remainder of the day and night on the cusp of consciousness. I don't remember my parents coming back that day, but I have pictures showing they did. And I don't remember the lawyer coming, but I know that I signed.
The next day, we were discharged.
Walking away from her was the hardest thing I have ever had to do in my life. There is no pain to which I could compare it. I can not, with any clarity, tell you what goodbye looked like. I don't remember. I know that I woke up every hour and a half that night. I know that the next time I visited her, I prayed for some miracle that would make her mine again. I chanted that prayer to myself so many times over the coming months that you could number the stars and still not reach the correct amount of times that I uttered the word, please.
A reunion was not to be. As a matter of fact, nineteen and a half years later, as I sit and write this in my dining room, I can honestly tell you that very little of what I prayed for in that situation has come to pass. She doesn't speak to me, though she could. She is a college freshman, and past that, I don't know much more about her life.
So, when the 12 year old wants her birth story, the one I want to tell is this: my story and her's, our birth story, is closely tied to the story of a girl who didn't understand what she was giving up. It was done out of love, absolutely. I wanted more for her. I wanted everything for her, and I felt that I had nothing to offer. That first girl, her very existence paints my world with a different color every single day of my life.
After she was gone, I didn't want to have children. I thought it would be unfair to her, to find out that I had chosen not to be a mother to her, but chose to fulfill that role for a different child. Then, I met a man who had children. I reasoned with myself, and I came to the conclusion that if I didn't actually give birth to the kids, it wouldn't be a betrayal of her. And then, one day in late April, my now husband, made an off-hand comment about pregnancy, and was immediately sent to the drug store to purchase two tests. Two, because one wouldn't be sufficient evidence.
When the strip developed the second line, I was securely locked in the bathroom, alone, with the water running so he couldn't hear me sob. I wasn't overwhelmed with gratitude or joy. I was broken hearted because I felt what I had done was the ultimate level of disloyalty to the memory of my daughter, who at that point, was six, and had no idea that I was her birth mother.
Joy came later. Joy came in the face of her father, telling me that it was going to be ok. Joy came in the face of my five year old stepson, who was excited about the prospect of a brother. Joy came, but she wasn't my first emotion.
In the following three months, I reasoned my way into thinking that it would hurt less if the child I carried was a boy, and in July, during an ultrasound appointment, we learned with no uncertainty, that it was a girl. On the way to the car after the appointment, I asked her dad if he was disappointed that it was not a boy, to which he scoffed and reminded me that he had said from the beginning that he wanted a healthy child, period. I was grateful for her health. I was grateful for her existence, and some place deep inside myself, I realized that this was what was supposed to be. That this child I now carried was supposed to be mine.
And so, on a snowy December day, I waited too long to make the calls I had to make, because I didn't want my time with her to end. On that winter evening, when the nurse asked if I minded having students in the room for my labor and delivery, I said no. I didn't want spectators. When she came into the room, with a head full of dark hair and legs stretched long, for just a second, I looked away. I was afraid of the face I was going to see there.
Later, after visitors, with the lights dimmed and her dad snoring on the hospital love seat, I stared at her, unable to look away for even a moment. God in Heaven, I loved her. And right in that second, of me staring at her, and her looking back at me, I realized that I had never truly understood the extent of what I had done six years prior. Even for all of my brokenness and self hatred, I came to realize the magnitude of what walking away from that first baby had done to me.
Every second of every minute after they put that 6 pound wonder in my arms was a moment that I was reminded of what I had given away. Every diaper was a diaper that I didn't change, every bottle was a feeding that I missed.
And so, when the 12 year old wants her birth story, I tell her that birth, like life, is messy and painful. And maybe someday I will tell her the whole story, and maybe someday, I will be able to tell the whole story to the girl who came first. Maybe I will tell them how much their stories are alike, neither wanting to wait until everyone was ready. Maybe I will tell them how much their stories differ, how I left the hospital the first time a broken mess of a girl who didn't fully understand the length and breadth of the commitment I had made, and how I left the hospital the second time feeling more whole than I had felt in six years. Maybe I will tell them that the first night after I left the hospital, I woke up every hour and a half, and later learned that the baby had done the same, miles away. Or maybe I will tell them that the second girl baby slept through the night three weeks after she was born, secure in the knowledge that her mother was never more than three feet away from her at any given moment.
These are our birth stories. There can not be just one. They are weaved together. I can not, and would not, untangle the threads that connect us.
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