Mini-Me

Welcome to a Secret Subject Swap. This week 14 brave bloggers picked a secret subject for someone else and were assigned a secret subject to interpret in their own style. Today we are all simultaneously divulging our topics and submitting our posts.

My “Secret Subject” is:

What is something you thought you would never do- yet you did and loved?

It was submitted by: http://sparklyjenn.blogspot.com/

This is kinda cheesy and cliche but it's true, so oh well. Deal with it. haha.

__________________________________

If you had spoken to younger me any time in my life before I developed a rounded belly full with child, I would have told you that I never wanted kids. Ever. I was adamant about it.

I had reasons. Most were pretty solid. I grew up in a harsh environment and had a short temper like my dad. I was terrified that I would end up being like him, raise a kid in the hell that I grew up in with him. I remember saying those things to people. It was a risk, and in my youth when it was less controlled I felt it too much a risk to ever think it was a good idea. And really, I was still too fucked up from it all even by my early 20s to think I would ever grow out of it or get over it. There hadn’t been a person yet to suggest counseling or help to get over that part of my life, being raped at a young age. And when a friend of mine was murdered not long after my 21st birthday, the whole of it sent me in a booze spiral following almost identically in my father’s addictive footsteps. I drowned myself in it—not binge drinking occasionally but drinking myself to sleep every day, waking up with hangovers more days than not, drinking over eating…. By then, kids no longer even crossed my mind. I was too cut off from anything real to even consider it.

It interfered with work, with going to school, with every aspect of my life. I made shitty decisions and hid and lost what little of myself I had been able to get to know. I honestly can’t say if I simply got tired of living that way or if it was one event or another that happened during those months that finally tipped me over the edge, but I finally went to a doctor for antidepressants. I won’t say they were a miracle by any means, but my drinking slowed down enough to allow me to be a little more functional. I met my ex-husband right about then, and as much as I joke about alcohol having a lot to do with our relationship, I stabilized a lot more being with him. I stopped drinking regularly but not altogether, found a better job with better pay and a stabilized schedule, and we ended up getting married. Something else I said I’d never do. I was vulnerable, though, and it saved me even if it didn’t last.

It was about a year into our marriage that I found out I was pregnant. Several months before that, I had to have my gallbladder removed, and despite being on birth control, my cycle hadn’t stabilized, so I decided to stop taking the pill to see if things would even out. I know, I know…but we DID use back up protection. I was 24, then, so not entirely stupid, just stupid enough to take myself off the pill on my own. I started getting sick every day and having terrible pains like cramps but sharper and lower. When I found out, I cried. Hard. It wasn’t what I wanted; I was terrified. He was terrified. We were a mess.

It took a few days for the shock of it to wear off enough for the two of us to actually get excited, but I can’t tell you I loved being pregnant. That’s not what this little story is about at all. I didn’t have an easy time of it. I puked all day every day for 6 months and working around people didn’t help that at all. The smell of stale cigarette smoke or an unbathed hillbilly would leave me sick for hours. My pubic bone separated early from being on my feet all day making me have to give up work early on medical leave, and I had vertigo in the later months. The little shit also liked to push into my ribs every time I was in the car til I couldn’t breathe from the pain. Delivery wasn’t any easier considering he almost killed me (literally). The delivery nurses didn’t put the contraction monitor on my belly correctly and dosed me with too much pitocin and wouldn’t believe me that I was having contractions. I went from 0 to 10 on the pain scale way too fast and too early, my cervix wouldn’t dilate on one side, and my epidural didn’t work for anything but my legs and giving me the shakes. My heart went crazy during my emergency c-section, and after it was all done, I couldn’t even hold my baby from the shakes I still had. I didn’t even understand how bad things were until the doctor came in the room and said, “I thought we were going to lose you there for a minute.”

So pregnancy and delivery didn’t really do anything for my hesitance on being a mom. That might be the greatest understatement of all time considering I refuse to physically have another child even though there are times I can’t think of anything else besides having another baby in my life (not that I like to admit that out loud). I’m too afraid I might die in labor.

Getting home and settled and into the swing of things helped. I didn’t connect with him right off, but I can tell you that my heart calmed down all on its own without drugs in the o.r. when I heard him cry the first time. The bond was there; I just didn’t know how to bring it out at first. I remember laying in bed with him one morning when he was a few weeks old, staring at his little face after I fed him, and wondering what the fuck I had gotten myself into. I said, “I love you” in a sing songy kind of way, and he lit up with the most perfect smile I had ever seen. It was over for me then, and I fell head over hills for the kid.

I won’t say the being a mom part has been all that easy either. It has definitely seen its share of strikes and gutterballs, but I wouldn’t trade the boy for anything in the world even when I have been my most frustrated. It might be cliché to say, but it’s the absolute truth. My relationship with him is different than anything I’ve ever known. Im his mom but also his friend, his biggest champion and his teacher (in every sense of the word since I homeschool him). We have open discussions on every issue under the sun, and I refuse to keep him in the dark about current events. We call each other on our bullshit, but he also respects that Im his mom, and if I make a rule, it’s for a reason, a reason that I make sure to explain. I’m not an authoritarian. We figure this whole thing out together, and that works for us. And there’s really nothing like seeing your kid love all the movies and music and cartoons and foods that you did as a kid (except The Labyrinth…god, I almost disowned him over that). I’ve given him half my DNA, carried him for 9 months, almost gave my life for his and would if it ever came to it, but sharing those things that I loved and watching him discover them for himself is like giving him a part of my soul for his own. He’ll always remember those times we shared watching Ghostbusters or Star Wars or TMNT, and for all of my days, I’ll remember the way his eyes lit up the first time he heard Darth Vader say his iconic line.

It hasn’t been a fake Pinterest sort of motherhood for me, but yes I love it. And if the opportunity arises for me to foster or adopt, I may do it again one day. Even on days when my csection scar flares up and reminds me of the worst of it, I still wonder why I was so resistant to the idea to begin with, and I call that a win.

_________________________________________

Here are links to all the sites now featuring Secret Subject Swap posts. Sit back, grab a cup, and check them all out. See you there:

Baking In A Tornado http://www.bakinginatornado.com/2017/02/secret-subject-swap-let-me-count-ways.html

Dinosaur Superhero Mommy http://dinoheromommy.com/

Spatulas on Parade http://spatulasonparade.blogspot.com/2017/02/buffalo-cups-and-sss.html

The Diary of an Alzheimer’s Caregiver http://www.thediaryofanalzheimerscaregiver.com/blog.html

The Lieber Family Blog http://www.thelieberfamily.com/2017/02/senior-moments.html

Sparkly Poetic Weirdo http://sparklyjenn.blogspot.com/

Simply Shannon http://shannonbutler.org

The Bergham Chronicles http://berghamchronicles.blogspot.com

Confessions of a part time working mom http://thethreegerbers.blogspot.com/2017/02/february-secret-subject-swap-and-action.html

Not That Sarah Michelle http://notthatsarahmichelle.blogspot.com

Southern Belle Charm http://www.southernbellecharm.com

The Angrivated Mom http://www.angrivatedmom.wordpress.com

When I Grow Up http://kimberlyyavorski.com/whenigrowup/what-to-do-with-all-the-stuff/

New Definitions

Welcome to a Secret Subject Swap. This week 14 brave bloggers picked a secret subject for someone else and were assigned a secret subject to interpret in their own style. Today we are all simultaneously divulging our topics and submitting our posts.


My “Secret Subject” is:

If you had to describe your family what would you say?

It was submitted by: http://www.thediaryofanalzheimerscaregiver.com/

Oh what a week for me to get this prompt. I think I handled this with all the grace I could muster though. 

_________________________________________________________________

Family is a difficult subject for me. I need to be upfront about that from the get go.

I’ve talked about my family, or at least my old family in the past on a few occasions on this blog. I talked about my father…the hellacious childhood he put me through (and not just me) and the way I found forgiveness after he died, closure for lack of a better term, in the pieces of him I see in myself. And I talked about my estranged relationship with my grandmother who did nothing but bring me down as a kid and young adult to the point where it was no longer healthy to be in her life or have her in mine.

I don’t really talk about my family in the present because I don’t really know how to express the way I feel these days.

For the most part, I am estranged from most of my actual relatives, blood relatives, and I am okay with that. It makes my life easier not having to deal with all the drama that a family like that brings to the table, and really I am just not the kind of person who enjoys faux pleasantries on holidays. Love is a difficult thing to fake.

My brother, mother, stepfather, nieces and nephews are in my life, but those relationships are fairly limited. I see them on holidays and we get together once a week typically for a family dinner at my mom’s house, but even those are strained these days for a myriad of complicated reasons that, for once, I probably shouldn’t discuss on a public blog. I don’t want to make things worse nor do I want to hurt anyone’s feelings which is pretty much synonymous for exactly how things go on those weekly dinners. I show up, give hugs, stick to myself, and leave as soon as dinner is over. The tension is often palpable, and I leave feeling anxious and hollow and foolish for having stayed in this town for as long as I have.

But…oh thank god there’s a but…

My kiddo and I are our own family most of the time which often includes one of my best friends in the world, one of my only friends in the area. We have disagreements and tension like any family. The kid has an honestly gotten smartass mouth and he has a tendency to tell some fibs at times, and oh god is he such a little messmaker, but he’s my everything. There’s no strain in that relationship. Even on the worst days and in the worst moments, I want nothing more than to see him smile even if it meant barfing a glittery rainbow of unicorn shit at his feet for his amusement. We can name all the clichés right here and now and they still wouldn’t hold a candle to that kind of love. It’s like nothing under the sun…no romantic love can touch that mix of protectiveness, nurturing, nostalgia for the baby days, pride, love, and adoration. Nothing. Not a thing. That love makes all the dysfunction and tension oft associated with the rest of the family a bit easier to swallow.

He’s not my reason for waking up every day as I have heard other parents say. The beauty of life itself gives me plenty of reason to wake up, make my coffee, and gaze out the window over the kitchen sink, mug in hand, relishing everything being alive has to offer—the little things like sun-dried sheets and maple syrup and cola candy and cats purring on your feet while you write. But, he makes waking up that much better and a fuckton more fulfilling.

Add in the best friend that makes me laugh and shares my love of movies and music (even if he should read more!!), someone to hold my hand when I need it and give me adult conversation about politics and social issues and a post apocalyptic landscape. He’s lovely and bearded and silly when I need it sometimes to his detriment but he puts up with me and knows how I take my coffee and what I can and cannot eat and what my favorite bands are. Perhaps it is unconventional, but family these days doesn’t have a normal definition to most of the population. Family, now, doesn’t have to come with traditional blood ties and a cookie cutter image of nuclear and extended relatives. Family is what you make it, the people you choose to surround yourself with and love unconditionally. Given that definition, I think, despite the madness of my blood ties, I am one lucky lady.

______________________________________________________

Here are links to all the sites now featuring Secret Subject Swap posts. Sit back, grab a cup, and check them all out. See you there:

http://www.BakingInATornado.com Baking In A Tornado

http://berghamchronicles.blogspot.com/ The Bergham Chronicles

http://www.thediaryofanalzheimerscaregiver.com/ The Diary of an Alzheimer’s Caregiver

http://dinoheromommy.com/ Dinosaur Superhero Mommy

http://www.southernbellecharm.com Southern Belle Charm

http://notthatsarahmichelle.blogspot.com Not That Sarah Michelle

http://mybrainonkids.net My Brain on Kids

http://thelieberfamily.com The Lieber Family Blog

http://batteredhope.blogspot.com Never Ever Give Up Hope

http://www.someoneelsesgenius.com Someone Else’s Genius

http://thethreegerbers.blogspot.ch/ Confessions of a part time working mom

http://spatulasonparade.blogspot.com/ Spatulas on Parade

http://www.angrivatedmom.wordpress.com The Angrivated Mom

To The Boy

We were sitting, you on your DS and me reading while snacking on cauliflower with cucumber dill dip, when you asked if you could try a bite. I, knowing your extremely picky palette, was not exactly hopeful that you would enjoy but acquiesced anyway partially out of morbid curiosity imagining what sort of gagging noise and horrid face you might make this time after you had barely touched your tongue to it. To my surprise, you didn’t squint your face up and making your usual round of retching noises. Instead, it was a face of mild interest followed by only half a grimace, but in my steadfast watchfulness I noticed the smile threatening to spill forth before you opened your mouth.

“Not bad,” you said. “It has a bit of an aftertaste, but I can DILL with it.”

You didn’t burst out laughing, but looked at me knowingly, cunningly even. The joke laid out so well, so punny, that I couldn’t stop my giggles giving that look on your face a little more strength and a whole lot more satisfaction.

I was struck in that moment how it seems that overnight you’ve become something all your own. In the blink of an eye almost, you grew from the sandy blond baby who laughed uncontrollably at the silliest things to making me laugh with your own quick wit, puns, and smartassery.

You’ve evolved from loving any sort of music I play to finding your own styles and loves, to discovering things that speak to your own core.

We watch movies or read books together and notice different things gathering different meanings from what we see or read and enjoying the chance to talk about it and enlighten each other.

You have your own taste in clothes no longer content to let me pick it all out and want your hair your way worn the way you want.

I look at you, a perfect mixture of me and your father…you with his eyebrows and my freckles, his eyes and my nose, his lips and my smirk and it's hard not to think of you as my baby. It seems nearly impossible that you, almost 10, have grown from the tiny little wiggler that thought it quite hilarious to play in the toilet or eat cat food or shove a green bean up your nose to the almost-tall-as-me ball of limitless energy you are now.

I see my influence, assuredly, whenever we talk, when you make me laugh, when you give me that look of exasperation because I. just. Don’t. get. It. I can’t look at you without seeing a little bit of me, can’t talk to you without knowing that I’ve been someone you love and look up to, and that certainly makes me proud, full to bursting. But, I suppose the thing that makes me proudest is that same independence that shocked me as a sat giggling at your little pun. I love that you are becoming your own self not content to mirror me, to share in everything I love because I love it. I am so proud to watch you explore and to want to exert your own identity on the world, to seek out what makes you happy unafraid that I won’t like what you do. You only care if *you* like it and that is an incredible feat at just shy of 10 years.

I want so desperately for you to be your own man, and I see you are headed in just that direction. It thrills me to no end to see these changes in you, changes you are unafraid to make because you know through and through that I will love you always and forever no matter what you like or who you are. I have told you that time and again, but it means so much to see that you have taken that to heart and are content knowing that even if you do listen to dubstep, I love you no less even while I squint my face and make retching noises.

The Gift of Time

It's Secret Subject Swap Day! This week, 16 brave bloggers picked a secret subject for someone else and were assigned a secret subject to interpret in their own style. Today we are all simultaneously divulging our topics and submitting our posts.

My Subject is: Mother's Day, what is the BEST present you ever received as a mom OR gave to your mom.

It was submitted by: http://spatulasonparade.blogspot.com/

_____________________________________________________________

I don’t think Ive ever discussed it here on my blog, but on a Myers-Brigg inventory, I am an INFJ (introverted, intuitive, feeling, judging type). In a nutshell, it means that I crave authenticity and deep connections. I am passionate about issues that interest me and get deeply involved in those issues. As a parent, I foster independence in my child. In friendships, I want soul mates. And, in relationships I want actions not words. No matter how complicated my inner world is, I appreciate a simple life. I tend to put a fair amount of stock into the MBTI given that I am a counseling major, but it really does encapsulate the basic foundation of my personality even down to the weaknesses.

It’s that foundation—the need for authentic connections and the simplicity—that really means it isn’t necessarily the gift itself but the thought behind it that matters when someone gives me something. Given that I’m not a traditional kind of person, which I really don’t think has anything to do with my personality type, I don’t necessarily care about getting gifts on Mother’s Day. I mean, don’t get me wrong—I will totally accept one. ha. But, it isn’t a necessity.

In that regard the greatest gift I’ve ever gotten is being able to spend time with The Boy.

Awww. Sounds wretchedly cheesy doesn’t it?

It’s the truth, though.

I’m divorced and have been since 2008. That means I have to give the kiddo up generally every other weekend though we don’t really have a stable, set schedule. So, Mother’s Day doesn’t always happen on my weekends. We manage to work it out, though, and rearrange things if it happens that I won’t have him on MD or his father won’t have him on FD. Things are easy (perhaps because I overlook a lot of bullshit for the sake of ensuring the two of them have a good relationship not strained by tension), and I appreciate that. Mother’s Day is just one of those things that people do, it seems. They rush to buy gifts, give them, and get back to their own interests and lives, so right now all I want is to enjoy the little moments I have with my boy before he’s the one rushing around himself. For me, the greatest gift is that extra time and the extra appreciation. Evan never complains about weekends being changed around. In fact, that’s the way it has worked out this year, and he’s actually pretty ecstatic to be here for his mom. On Sunday, we’ll hang out more than usual. He’ll probably hold my hand when we watch a movie and make sure that he gives me less attitude when I ask him to help me clean up. He might even volunteer to help out without me even having to ask him (Whoa!). We’ll probably watch something old school that I loved when I was a kid so I can share my nostalgia with him and be enthralled with his excitement over something that brought me joy (or be crushed when he hates it like when I showed him The Labyrinth. I almost disowned him). Popcorn, sarcasm, MST3K style jokes no matter what we watch, dinner at my mom’s (for which I am making lemon sour cream cheesecake)… 

What gift could top that anyway?

____________________________________________________________________

Here are links to all the sites now featuring Secret Subject Swap posts. Sit back, grab a cup, and check them all out. See you there:

http://www.BakingInATornado.com Baking In A Tornado

http://berghamchronicles.blogspot.com The Bergham’s Life Chronicles

http://spatulasonparade.blogspot.com Spatulas on Parade

http://dinoheromommy.com/ Dinosaur Superhero Mommy

http://themomisodes.com The Momisodes

http://stacysewsandschools.blogspot.com/ Stacy Sews and Schools

http://sparklyjenn.blogspot.com/ Sparkly Poetic Weirdo

http://gndisney.wordpress.com Disneyland in Kentucky

http://www.southernbellecharm.com Southern Belle Charm

http://thelieberfamily.com The Lieber Family

http://www.someoneelsesgenius.com Someone Else’s Genius

http://thethreegerbers.blogspot.ch Confessions of a part-time working mom

http://batteredhope.blogspot.com Battered Hope

http://www.smalltalkmama.com Small Talk Mama

http://singlemumplusone.blogspot.com Searching for Sanity

Secret Subject Swap August Edition

Welcome to a Secret Subject Swap. This week, 14 brave bloggers picked a secret subject for someone else and were assigned a secret subject to interpret in their own style. Today we are all simultaneously divulging our topics and submitting our posts.

My prompt was submitted by Crumpets and Bollocks (link in the list below) and is: what is your proudest moment?

_______________________________________

Asking me to pick my proudest moment is like asking me to pick an all time favorite song. There are too many from all aspects of my life just as there are songs from every genre I listen to for me to be able to pick just one. On any given day, to be quite honest, it would be nearly impossible for me to even be able to pick a Top Ten favorite songs of all time.

Same for Top Ten albums.

Same for bands.

Music is my therapy, my salvation some days, my release, my love, my oxygen, my comfort food. And, in a way, the same can be said for my proud moments. With a life like mine (and like so many others) full of hardships, trauma, and struggles, there have been times when my proud moments were all I had to show for a life well-lived, for making the best of what I’ve had despite the troubles and the trials, for living in spite of, despite of, and instead of. I realized a long time ago that pride and humbleness are not mutually exclusive qualities. I can have one and still be the other. I can be proud of how far I've come yet be humbled by how much further I have to go. Relishing those proud moments whenever they may happen, letting them envelope me in a little warmth when things were at their worst has gotten me through some rough days.

I’m proud that I’ve made it through, proud that I’ve yet to buckle, proud of every A I’ve earned, every sacrifice I’ve made, and of the growth I’ve undergone in the last few years. I’ve been proud every time I’ve used my voice to speak up about what I’ve gone through or about subjects I feel strongly about so that maybe I can make a difference. I’m proud that I’m not afraid to get loud about things that matter to me.

I was proud the moment I saw my beautiful son, the first time he smiled, the first step he took, when I heard his first word followed shortly by dozens of others, at all his school accomplishments, and his unending ability to amaze me with his smartassery and intelligence like the time he told me when he was 3 not to “antagonize” him about his ABCs. Watching him become his own person has been a magical journey of pride that has left me fulfilled in ways that nothing else even comes close to.

I’m proud of his geekiness (inspired, perhaps, by my own)…the look on his face the first time he heard the words “Luke, I am your father” is something I hope I never forget. His love of all things Mario Brothers, his
obsession with science, Ghostbusters fandom, and bookwormishness are all points of pride swelling from my 8-bit heart, and every time he can hold his own in a geek conversation, that heart threatens to burst into balls of pixelated light like a defeated Mega Man boss.

And then there are the moments that prove just how awesome a human being I’m raising, the ones that show he’s listening and paying attention even when I feel like he never hears a word that isn’t video game related. If pressed to choose, it would likely be these that are my proudest, my favorites. The time he told my nephew that Christmas isn’t about the presents; it’s about family was the greatest Christmas gift of all time. Overhearing him tell someone not to call something “gay” or hearing from my mom that the kid scolded her for calling something “retarded” make me want to dance a wee little jig and squeal with glee. He’s paying attention, and it lets me know that I’ve instilled in this kid the makings of an extraordinary human being. I’ve planted the seeds and am watching them grow. And just like a gardener bursting with pride and joy at the sign of the year’s first tomatoes deepening to that lovely shade of red, I am over-the-moon at what I see in that boy every day.

Thanks for reading! I hope you’ll check out the rest of the bloggers who joined in today and keep a look out for the prompt I submitted. It’s a good one if I do say so myself. (ha).

http://www.BakingInATornado.com Baking In A Tornado

http://themomisodes.com The Momisodes

http://spatulasonparade.blogspot.com/ Spatulas on Parade

http://thethreegerbers.blogspot.ch/ Confessions of a part-time working mom

http://www.JuiceboxConfession.com Juicebox Confession

http://www.eviljoyspeaks.wordpress.com Evil Joy Speaks

http://sparklyjenn.blogspot.com/ Sparkly Poetic Weirdo

http://followmehome.shellybean.com Follow me home . . .

http://www.someoneelsesgenius.com Someone Else’s Genius

http://www.crumpetsandbollocks.com Crumpets and Bollocks

http://stacysewsandschools.blogspot.com/ Stacy Sews and Schools

http://berghamchronicles.blogspot.com The Bergham’s Life Chronicles

http://dinoheromommy.com/ Dinosaur Superhero Mommy

Remember That Time...?

It never fails, and I always sort of dread it--my mom will be sitting at the table with us during a family dinner

me...in that other life

or holiday or special occasion and she’ll tell a story from my childhood or maybe my brother’s back from times before my parents were divorced. There’s never that look of familiarity or recognition on my face during these stories and she’ll ask me if I remember what she’s talking about perhaps because she sees my blank look or perhaps out of habit.

I never do.

My parents separated when I was in 7th grade in my 13th year of life. Their relationship was tumultuous at best plagued with problems from the start. My mom was young when they met and from a problem home where she’d suffered abuse of every sort and had already been through so much shit in her life that maybe my dad didn't seem all that bad. He was, though… Drug and drink-addicted, mean, sexist, violent, and a bit of a criminal—growing and selling the substances he loved most, making ‘shine, and really not giving a shit about the law in any sense. The world was his oyster, and rules were for assholes.

this was his nickname for a reason

It’s not surprising, I suppose, that he didn’t exactly make for a stable childhood.

I don’t have many memories from that time in my life before age 13. I have stories shared with me by my mom and my brother. I have clips and hazy images of fights, of heartache, pain, and suffering. I have residual feelings of fear, of not knowing what it was going to be like when my father walked through the door likely already drunk from sticking around after his welding jobs were done on the farms where he worked and having a few while he talked shit in his way with the “guys.” There are fading voices in my head that echo the names I was called when I was younger. And I have memories of what it was like when I lived with him for a year and a half before I turned 16 during which time I was beaten, raped and blamed, turned onto drugs and alcohol, and saw him beaten, high, drunk, arrested, in jail, and so fucked up on cocaine that his nose would bleed and he couldn’t move...not to mention the various women that were in and out of his life who were inevitably even more fucked up than he was.

I still flinch when someone raises a hand in my vicinity even for something so benign as a high five.

There have been so many times in movies and on tv that you see someone suddenly remember what they have forgotten with a little help. They unlock repressed memories and suddenly recall all the horrible things that happened to them that were buried deep within the recesses of their minds. It’s not like that for me though. In high stress environments, storing memories is low priority for a child’s brain and eventually affects their ability to remember things for the rest of their lives. It’s not that anything is locked away to be forgotten until some day in the future when the key to the box magically presented itself; there was simply nothing there to forget. There's no box, no key to unlock it. I cannot forget what I never stored in the first place...it's just part of having that kind of life as a kid.

As a mother, I strive so hard to make sure my son will be filled to the brim with memories. We haven’t

always had the easiest life. There have surely been struggles for us, but no matter what we have made the best of our time together. I like to imagine the two of us sitting at a dinner table surrounded by family with me asking him if he remembers the time we turned boxes into miniature cars for a night at the “drive-in” or the time he peed in the cat’s bowl or when he got his first vinyl record. I imagine he'll smile and share my laugh at old times without the blank looks, the questions, the empty files where memories should be stored. I imagine that he feels secure and warm instead of so alienating, so abnormal and weird. I want that for him...those nostalgic laughs that light up our eyes when we relive those shared moments over a cup of coffee while the grandkids play in the living room making memories of their own.

My hope is that his life is so filled with warmth and laughs that there’s too much for him to possibly remember it all.

The prompt this Sunday for Sunday Confessions with More than Cheese and Beer was Forget. I hope you'll check out all the other linkups on her blog and the anonymous confessions on Facebook!

All the Memories

It's time for Sunday Confessions with More than Cheese and Beer! Today, in honor of Mother's Day, the prompt is Motherhood.

Motherhood embodies so many things including the aggravation I feel as I sit here listening to my 8 year old talking out loud to himself nonstop about whatever game he is playing.

He honestly does not even know he’s doing it. That’s the fucker of it. When I ask him if he absolutely HAS to give color commentary for every move he makes on the game he looks at me as if I’ve finally lost my mind and need a trip to the mental hospital. He also says, “I wasn’t” despite having been recorded doing this on numerous occasions. Sigh.

We’re like the odd couple, he and I. I’m extremely introverted and I tend to enjoy a clean working space, organization, and attention to the details. He, on the other hand, is a wild, chaotic tornado of talking destruction. In my living room right now, he has shoes, a drink from hours earlier, a bottle of rug cleaner out that he used to clean up a spill on the floor, headphones, drawings on notebook paper, and his WiiU remote where he is watching TV from his room in the living room where I am trying to write. We get a long about as well as the odd couple some days when I want his things out of the living room and a few minutes of peace while we hang out, but it all works out. I love him, the Oscar to my Felix. (Though, I’d like to point out that I’m not quite as anal retentive as Felix though perhaps my need to defend myself says otherwise. ha).

I think the best thing about being a mother may be the memories, though. There are the loving ones like that moment when he was just a month or so old when we were laying in bed together early in the morning and he smiled for the first time at the sound of my voice. The first kisses, the first hugs, the first “wub you” are all wonderful things to recall. There are the proud ones—the first time he scooted across the floor, the first word followed by many other words to the point that his pediatrician was shocked into silence at his 6 month checkup (and he hasn’t shut up since), his first steps, the first time he read to me, and the many times he has been awarded for grades at school. The even prouder moments from his seemingly total immersion into geek culture have been quite fun. I watched his jaw drop in shock when the words “Luke, I am your father” floated across the air to his tiny ear drums for the first time and my heart swelled.

No, seriously. We don’t fuck around with this sort of thing.

And there are funny ones too like the time the boy revenge-peed in the cat’s bowl. There’s the time he told me at 3 not to antagonize him about learning his ABCs. And there’s the time upon waking up in the morning and being sick, he assured me that he would, in fact, be fine to go to daycare as he had only had one too many Yoo-hoos the night before…

For the rest of my life, the phrase “I’m alright, I’m alright…I just had one too many Yoo-hoos last night” will be forever in my brain.

That’s why the memories are so good and such an awesome part of being a Mom. The memories you share with your child and of your child are not like any of the others even concerning a partner. You may lovingly recall the moment your significant other spoke the words “I love you” but it pales in comparison to the moment your child first did so. There’s really nothing like the feelings that swell to the surface when you think back over the years or months with your wee one and a kaleidoscope of moments flutter and washs over you leaving you in awe of the life you brought into the world and horror at how fast the time has gone already. No other memories can really do that to you—fill you with love, pride, laughs, frustration, and woe (albeit a sort of good woe) all at once.

But, that’s motherhood. And despite never wanting another one for as long as I live (hahaha) I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

(Seriously, if I ever tell you I’m pregnant and happy about it, please know that aliens have taken over my body, and I give you permission to do whatever needs to be done to take them down.)

For Evan

I wrote this letter for my son in spare moments over the last few days. Yes, I plan on reading it to him...once I figure out how to do so without turning into a blubbering mess of tears.

Dear son,

There are so many ideas and philosophies and truths and opinions and stories I want to share with you that I would run out of breath before I could tell you them all. Mothers have a hard job ahead of us that begins, at the very least, the moment we find out our children are growing inside our bodies. We have to nurture and guide and protect and teach our children to become successful adults. There are no instructions on how exactly to help a child, my child, grow into a happy, healthy adult who is kind, thoughtful, accepting, tolerant, and authentic. For every opinion you find or hear about how to do so, there is another to not only contradict it but also go so far as to say adults are ruining children by parenting any other way. It truly is a process of experimentation filled with hope, fear, and the sinking feeling that nothing you ever do could possibly be the right thing, the thing that makes all the difference.

As we both get older, I have to tell you that a lot of my fears are dwindling. I see you taking in what I say, soaking it in like a sponge. I also hear you repeating it to others. But, it is when I watch you apply my lessons about kindness, about love, about being good and just and fair that make me worry less about you and about whether or not I'm doing right by you as a mother. When I fuss at you for behaviors that are not up to par and explain, sometimes loudly and fervently, why those behaviors need correcting, I can see the disappointment on your face. It's not frustration from having to talk things through, though. There are no eyerolls nor too many sarcastic comebacks (yet at least). I can see your disappointment is with yourself. You, even at 8 years old, want to be the best you that you can be. As long as that motivation stirs your very core, my worries are small because that lesson is the important one, the one that guides all others and pushes you to make better choices. You may falter; we all do, baby. We all do. But, you will always see your bad choices for what they are, own them, and learn from them. That is what it takes in this life to make the most of the short time we have. Other people get stuck in the same circular ruts cycling through the same choices while blaming others over and over again. The less time you spend in those ruts, the more you get to experience, and I want that for you so badly. You should see and do whatever your heart desires.

Along the way, I can't protect you from all the hurt that comes with living. It's inevitable. You know already from all the names and punches that have been thrown your way from other kids at school that people can be cruel. But, that's not your style, is it? Despite all the times you've been called gay at school, you have never once used that word to try to insult someone especially after I explained that it only means a different way people are born and that it changes who they fall in love with. You've never once called someone fat or ugly or stupid. You're already quite an awesome human being, and you make me so proud I feel I might burst. But, I need you to know that people you love can and will hurt you too sometimes. People die. People leave. People make mistakes. And, sometimes cruel children grow into even crueler adults. Don't be afraid, though. It's all a part of being human. Don't avoid life just to avoid pain. I'll always be here for you to talk to, to cry with, or to put on records and let them spin while we forget about everyone else in the world. There is nothing in life more important to me than you. You are the top of the list.

I see so many times on the Internet where mothers write letters and lists of things to say and teach their children. I'm not saying my job as a Mom is over by any means. As you have grown though, I have noticed that a big part of why you take such careful notice of others and how you react to your own mistakes is because that is simply who you are. It's part of your personality to be so cool and kind. In that way, you have made my role as your mom so much easier, and I want you to know I see that. I want you to know that even when you're in trouble I am proud that the mistakes you make are small. There is no measure for how much I love you for who you are...not just because I am your mother but because you are you.

Love,


Mom

The Room of Recliners

Sitting in that room in a bright blue recliner surrounded by red construction paper hearts with a heating pad pressed desperately and firmly to my lower abdomen and tears drying on my cheeks, I wanted to shout out that I’d been lied to by everyone there. I wanted badly to demand someone take responsibility for being a dirty, lying scumbag. I did not, however, utter a word. I kept my mouth shut because underlying the anger I was feeling, I also felt guilt. Actually, there was a myriad of emotions bubbling under my pale exterior including sorrow, relief, apprehension, and shock. I sat in that recliner knowing I’d made the best possible choice given my history with pregnancy and labor but knowing that never once made having an abortion the easy choice.

See, when I had my first child, it was something straight out of an after school special that makes you seriously consider abstinence. Or perhaps it was more like a horror movie. Either way, the birth of my son was tragic and terrifying and has left me with enough insecurities to last a lifetime. That day, October 19, 2005, my doctor decided would be my son’s birthday. The boy was only a day late at that point, but the doctor thought it would be best to go ahead and induce. It had not been an easy pregnancy. I was tired. Emotional. Naive about the medical field. I went along with that choice without much concern or research into the matter. I trusted what my doctor was telling me and went with it.

When I arrived at 6 am and started the pitocin, I was nervous and excited. But hours later after I had been stressing to the nurses that I was, definitely, having contractions while they insisted I certainly was not , I was scared. Petrified. I tried so hard to tell them that I knew what was going on with my body while they failed to listen and treated me like I was a complete idiot. I was completely at their mercy, and they failed me in every way imaginable. 

Oh, you’ll know when you’re really having contractions they said.

I’m having them now, I said.

It took forever, it seemed, for those women to realize the monitor had been incorrectly placed on my pregnant belly and that, yes oh yes, I was having contractions…that I had been having contractions all along even as they decided to keep upping my dose of pitocin and laugh at me. By then, the pitocin had to be stopped.

It took hours more for me to finally see my doctor once he had seen all his patients for the day. The nurses assured him that everything was going fine, and there were no issues. But there were issues. I was crying from the pain I was experiencing that had nothing to do with contractions and telling the nurses something was wrong while they continued to tell me I could not be in pain because I had opted for the epidural. The doctor only had to look at me to figure out that things weren’t as easy, breezy as the nurses believed. When he checked himself, only one side of my cervix was dilating. He suggested a Cesarean which made me cry even more. That wasn’t what I wanted or expected to happen. He gave me 45 minutes to see if anything would change, he said. In reality, he gave me 45 minutes to come to terms with what was going to happen so I would not be so distraught in the OR.

By the time he returned, I was screaming in pain. I couldn’t hear. Couldn’t see. I remember being rolled away for the operation, but I can’t remember much else besides telling everyone in the room with me that something was wrong.

As the stronger dosage of fentanyl began to calm the pain I was feeling, I finally managed to tell them my chest was hurting. My blood pressure and heart rate had skyrocketed to dangerous levels. The doctor instructed someone to grab a shot of Inderal to force my heart rate down, but it ended up not being necessary. Right then, I heard my son cry for the first time, and things started to normalize on their own.

Afterwards, while I was still too shaky from side effects of the anesthesia to even touch my son, the doctor came in to check on me. “I thought we might lose you there for a minute.” That’s what he said to me.

It was this experience that had me sitting in that blue recliner with tears in my eyes reading the words of understanding and encouragement that women before me had written on their paper hearts taped all over that room.

I never wanted to be here. I had been a mother and held a baby in my arms and smelled him and watched him smile at me for the first time and say his first words. I had been there. I was already a mother. I didn’t want to do this…but I had to do this.

It was the experiences of that day, the day I had an abortion, that had me angry. So angry. I was angry that no one talks about this. I was angry that my friends kept telling me to think it over and be sure. Friends who I know have gone through this before would not step up and tell me what to expect, how it would feel, and how I would feel. Everyone offered to help if I’d keep it…people that didn’t even help me before when I there were times I could only afford ramen to eat. I was angry that people think this is all just a big fucking joke—that women choose to go through this instead of using condoms. I was angry that all the information I’d gotten from the clinic implied explicitly that it would feel like “bad” menstrual cramps and that I could return to work the next day. Nothing prepared me for one of the most painful experiences of my life.  And, I was angry that the receptionists were extra friendly to deceive me into believing I’d meet with an understanding staff and while most were, the most important wasn’t. The physician himself, the person responsible for vacuuming my uterus, was cold and condescending. He wasn’t the least bit concerned or attentive choosing, instead, to make the patient feel even worse about herself and the choice she made. More over, he was pushing open the cervixes of terrified women of all legal ages like he was working an assembly line he’d grown jaded with long ago while his assistant told us all to keep down our pain-filled moans out of respect for the others.

Despite all that, I still felt (and often still feel) like everything I felt and went through that day was some sort of cosmic punishment for having made this choice…that I deserved every humiliating, excruciating moment I had endured. Even now, I feel in so many ways, that it could never be punishment enough for making the choice I did. I will live with the fact that I terminated a pregnancy and what that means for the rest of my life, and I hope one day I can forgive myself.

Some of the girls sitting in recliners surrounding mine wore faces that let on the betrayal and fear they felt. 

None of us would talk or even make eye contact with one another while the shame and pain continued to wash over us. Personally, I have not talked to many people about this at all. In fact, only a handful of people know period and of those who do, only a couple know how I truly feel about it all. Talking it over is difficult when it seems impossible to truly express your range of emotions to someone who has never been in your position…even your partner is incapable, it seems, since they will never know what it feels like to carry a child or lose one by choice. To all the girls who shared my pain in the room of recliners, we shouldn’t have let each other sit there in stony silence. I, myself, could have used a knowing hug. We never should have let our mixed emotions keep us from reaching out to one another. To all my friends and not yet friends, I’ll listen and cry with you if you ever need an understanding ear. I won’t shut you out and I’ll be honest about what I went through myself. You’ll need it.  

And, finally, to all the people who think abortions are Sally the Slutbag’s version of birth control, you have no fucking clue what you’re talking about. Having sex does not make women into sluts. We had sex just as everyone has sex. In fact, people have sex and use birth control methods and still end up pregnant. It’s not all about irresponsibility and bad choices. Women who have sex are not impregnating themselves either. If you’re blaming women for having abortions, why aren’t you blaming the men whose sperm was needed and who also consciously made a choice to abort? Don’t say the dudes don’t know. They do. My partner did. It was OUR choice not just my choice. Also, knowing that women have had an abortion does not tell you our stories. We’re not in clinics every couple of weeks to “get rid of a problem.” So this is my story full of heartache, guilt, and fear. Here are my vulnerabilities and my wounds. When you read it, I hope you realize there are many more just like it.