You look tired. You really look burnt out. You have bags under your eyes and you look stressed. I think it just hit you. In the last twenty-four hours it dawned on you that you have some things you need to work through. For a long time you have shunned the idea of therapy because you were burnt out on it from doing too much in your youth, but the fact is that you need it, Molly. You look like hell warmed over.
You've always believed that you can read happiness on people's faces. For the most part, that's true. But lately you have been a wreck of concealed issues, glossed over truths, and inner pain. Yes, inner pain. True, burning, seething inner pain. The kind that gives you bags and makes you feel saggy. The kind that ties your stomach in knots and makes you feel like you're going to throw up.
I can't just stand aside and watch you crash and burn. I can't just stand aside and pretend that your skin doesn't look bad and your face doesn't look tight. I also can't pretend that it's temporary and going to pass. I can't pretend that the pain and issues that are written all over you haven't been there for years. I can no longer pretend that Zoloft is working and working well. You need more. You deserve more.
You're twenty-five. You're too young to wear the weight of the world on your shoulders. You should be standing upright and standing strong. You should be happy and you should be enjoying your family. Instead, your hair is dull and you are willing yourself through the days. You can only smile if you force it and your laugh isn't genuine anymore. Being eaten up from in the inside out isn't a good look for you.
Get your ass out of bed. Take care of those kids. Love that husband. Finish that degree. Make an important phone call or two. Take the steps to get yourself back. Take the steps that will lead you back to mornings when you wake up rosy and glowing. Now is your time. Get yourself back. I want to recognize you in the mirror again, soon.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
To My Reflection.
You have been a trigger for both pride and disgust, sometimes unanimously.
I have coated you in thick foundations and colored shadows. I have used scalding heat to straighten what was made to be curly and bottles of chemicals to darken or lighten what was meant to be a sort of medium brown. I have spent large amounts of money on creams and soaps made to make skin seem young forever and without blemish. I use wax to forcefully remove little eyebrow hairs gone astray. I paint your lips in colors brighter and more eye catching than the color of flesh. I puncture you with holes and fill them with silver posted jewelry that makes people ask silly questions like, "Did that hurt?"
I have starved you, stuffed you and purged you. Sometimes all in the same day. I have admired you in fleeting moments and cursed you more times than I can count. I have stood naked in front of mirrors pulling skin one way or another in attempt to smooth out stretch marks and skin that hangs from housing babies. I have lifted my breasts and held them in a position higher than where they hang naturally to create some illusion of what I imagine is "normal" for breasts. I have stared at my thighs and my backside- the bumps and width of both and resigned myself to being forever thick in those areas. I have covered most of what is visible when clothed with bright colors, pictures and words representing times past and present. Some of it I love, some of it I wish I had thought more about before committing. In the worst of times, many moons ago, I have intentionally hurt you. Carved into flesh as some sort of self punishment.
My nails are bitten into the quick. My face is almost always broken out in some sense of the word. I am incapable of accomplishing a weight less than 150lbs. Yet still You say, I am "fearfully and wonderfully made". Slowly...slowly slowly slowly, but surely, I am learning to believe You.
I have coated you in thick foundations and colored shadows. I have used scalding heat to straighten what was made to be curly and bottles of chemicals to darken or lighten what was meant to be a sort of medium brown. I have spent large amounts of money on creams and soaps made to make skin seem young forever and without blemish. I use wax to forcefully remove little eyebrow hairs gone astray. I paint your lips in colors brighter and more eye catching than the color of flesh. I puncture you with holes and fill them with silver posted jewelry that makes people ask silly questions like, "Did that hurt?"
I have starved you, stuffed you and purged you. Sometimes all in the same day. I have admired you in fleeting moments and cursed you more times than I can count. I have stood naked in front of mirrors pulling skin one way or another in attempt to smooth out stretch marks and skin that hangs from housing babies. I have lifted my breasts and held them in a position higher than where they hang naturally to create some illusion of what I imagine is "normal" for breasts. I have stared at my thighs and my backside- the bumps and width of both and resigned myself to being forever thick in those areas. I have covered most of what is visible when clothed with bright colors, pictures and words representing times past and present. Some of it I love, some of it I wish I had thought more about before committing. In the worst of times, many moons ago, I have intentionally hurt you. Carved into flesh as some sort of self punishment.
My nails are bitten into the quick. My face is almost always broken out in some sense of the word. I am incapable of accomplishing a weight less than 150lbs. Yet still You say, I am "fearfully and wonderfully made". Slowly...slowly slowly slowly, but surely, I am learning to believe You.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
A Letter to My Reflection
My hair is long and untended, it reaches down my back. It is weathered, the ends frayed and broken. It is the result of decades of abuse. It has been dyed black and blue and red and brown and has been countlessly bleached into submission. It has been curled and flat ironed and twisted into buns and braids and swept back into a daily ponytail and tucked behind my ears and pulled by baby hands.
My forehead revealed the first lines. They speak of marital strife and making ends meet and of sick children. The laugh lines came next, creases around my mouth after years of hysterical, maniacal laughter. The crow's feet followed, revealing my age.
My neck is long and elegant. My shoulders are graceful, even as they curl forward from my consistent lack of attention to posture. My biceps are strong, toned from years of picking up sturdy little boys and carrying groceries. The hair on my arms is just peach fuzz, so blonde it's almost white.
My hands show the most wear. They are almost unrecognizable now, cracked and dry from laundry and dishes. The rest of my skin is soft and fair, a trait I carry over from my girlhood.
My breasts look swollen, slung low from pregnancy and nursing. The skin on my chest has been stretched so tight and thin that I can see the bright blue veins underneath the surface, pumping thick, rich blood.
My belly is round, heavy, soft like bread dough that has been pulled and kneaded. My babies lived here.
Stretch marks begin just under my ribs. They encircle my waist, run wild down into the space between my legs. They are shiny now, pearl-like, shimmery.
My legs are thick and powerful. They have carried the weight of pregnancy. They have climbed stairs, paced hallways and squatted to allow the baby's head to break through.
This body, it has never failed me. It has rewarded me, four times, with new life, healthy and pure.
I cannot hate a body that has served me well.
There is nothing here to regret.
Rae
My forehead revealed the first lines. They speak of marital strife and making ends meet and of sick children. The laugh lines came next, creases around my mouth after years of hysterical, maniacal laughter. The crow's feet followed, revealing my age.
My neck is long and elegant. My shoulders are graceful, even as they curl forward from my consistent lack of attention to posture. My biceps are strong, toned from years of picking up sturdy little boys and carrying groceries. The hair on my arms is just peach fuzz, so blonde it's almost white.
My hands show the most wear. They are almost unrecognizable now, cracked and dry from laundry and dishes. The rest of my skin is soft and fair, a trait I carry over from my girlhood.
My breasts look swollen, slung low from pregnancy and nursing. The skin on my chest has been stretched so tight and thin that I can see the bright blue veins underneath the surface, pumping thick, rich blood.
My belly is round, heavy, soft like bread dough that has been pulled and kneaded. My babies lived here.
Stretch marks begin just under my ribs. They encircle my waist, run wild down into the space between my legs. They are shiny now, pearl-like, shimmery.
My legs are thick and powerful. They have carried the weight of pregnancy. They have climbed stairs, paced hallways and squatted to allow the baby's head to break through.
This body, it has never failed me. It has rewarded me, four times, with new life, healthy and pure.
I cannot hate a body that has served me well.
There is nothing here to regret.
Rae
Dear Mom and Dad,
When I think back to my earliest memories, this is what I see: A fine tooth comb with a sharp, pointed end, and Mom combing my bangs into absolute perfection, before church, or before a photograph. I see long hair, down my back and my screaming wails as she would untangle all of the knots. I see dresses and nightgowns and culottes and my eyes wandering to the girls in jeans on horseback. I see Mom licking her thumb and dabbing the corners of my mouth. I see constant evenings with strangers, our home or theirs and the warnings beforehand that I should be on my best behavior. I see the first grade, when I'd get A's and finish my work before everyone else. They'd just give me extra work. I see certificates and report cards and awards. I memorized Bible verses and the books of the Bible and I recited them with precision. It never felt like it was enough. I see me in the 2nd grade, homeschooled, sitting at the dining room table, trying to perfectly form each letter, each word, each sentence. I was a typical firstborn, with an innate desire to succeed, but I was something else as well. I was a pastor's daughter. Throughout my childhood and adolescence, I felt, acutely, that all eyes were on me. All of the time. I felt an entire congregation watching every move I made, judging me, clucking their tongues, whispering amongst each other. It might not have been that way, but this is the way it felt. Being a born introvert, the spotlight terrified me. I learned to shake hands and to smile politely and address my elders as "sir" and "ma'am." I spent years and years trying to get everything right--because I wanted to be perfect, but also because I wanted to make you proud. At the same time, I saw myself alienated from the rest of the world. I saw everyone outside of church regard me as a weirdo. In the early days there was no Halloween costumes, no pants, no secular music, no rated PG movies. I felt as if I resided in between two worlds, neither of which completely accepted me.
With time, I began to see the truth of the situation: I would never be perfect. I could be perfect sometimes, but eventually, I would fail. Someone would disapprove. Someone would be disappointed. I felt faulty, broken, stupid, incapable. Now that I'm an adult, I realize that it is truly impossible to achieve perfection. You can never please everyone. But back then, I just saw myself as a complete failure. I felt voices inside of my head, scolding me. "You should have done this. You could have done that. You shouldn't have done this. You could have done that instead." It was exhausting and it was neverending. Add religion on top of this and the whole thing just gets worse and worse. Religion gives you a different set of voices. "You are a sinner. You will always be a sinner. No matter how hard you try, you will sin and you will do it again and again. God knows that you are going to sin before the thought even crosses your mind. He knows every mistake you'll ever make in your entire life. He expects every misstep. There is nothing you can do to change that situation." It felt bleak and hopeless. Nothing I did was ever going to be good enough. And so, during my adolescence, I stopped trying. If I couldn't be perfect, and I couldn't please everyone, I'd just go in the opposite direction. If everyone was just holding their breath, waiting for me to fail, I'd hurry up and get it over with.
I remember Dad telling me, "You have intentionally rejected everything that your mother and I believe or care about." And it was true, I had, but it wasn't just because I was trying to. I had always been a skeptical child. I remember asking Dad, "What do you mean that God has always been...that He has no beginning and no end?... How did Noah fit two animals of every species on a boat?... How do we know that our religion is the right one, when everyone else believes that THEIRS is the right one?" The truth of the matter is that I had never felt God, felt his presence, felt him working in my life. I had simply just stopped pretending that I had.
I rebelled against you and against Christianity and against most of the civilized world. To you, it was terrible and heartbreaking, but what you didn't see is that, behind the scenes, I was always keeping myself in check. You had given me a moral compass and had instilled a sense of responsibility. I never took things too far. I had not completely given up on myself, or my need to please you. I kept my grades just high enough. I chose to take Honors classes. I told my friends "no way." I followed the important rules. I stood up for others when no one else would. It was rare for me to flat out defy authority figures. Instead, what you saw, was a package of birth control in the bathroom. I had lost my virginity in a way that I didn't want, or expect, but afterwards, I had called up a friend with a car and made an appointment at Planned Parenthood and obtained a prescription just in case I ever found myself in a similar situation. I would be protected. In my mind, it was an enormous act of bravery and responsibility. In your mind, it was another sign that I was becoming someone you didn't want me to be. It wasn't the future you had planned for me.
What I know now, is that teenagers must reject their parents in order to find their own sense of identity. It is a normal phase of development and it is absolutely necessary. Everything must be rejected and discarded in order for rebuilding to occur. You took it all personally, and you didn't need to. It wasn't all about you. I loved you, which should have been all that mattered, but I needed to find my own way in the world. There were things I believed that opposed your own beliefs, but it did not happen that way because I wanted to hurt you. It just happened that way because I am who I am and I believe what I believe. Just like you do.
Dad got sick and he was hospitalized and you told me it was because of the enormous amount of stress he was under, worrying about me. I don't know why you told me that. I wonder if you thought that guilt would instantly change me into a different person--a person who tried harder to shape up and be who you needed me to be.
Later, when I got pregnant at eighteen, you told me that Dad could get kicked off of the elder board. I don't know why you told me that, as if there was a way that I could go back in time and fix it. My guilt intensified and it weighed heavily on me, all of the time.
Now that I'm a parent, I realize that no matter how hard I try, I have made mistakes and I have done things and said things to my children that I regret. I have done the best that I can, but there will inevitably be things that I wish I could go back and change. I know, without a doubt, that you were doing the best that you could. All that really matters, in the end, is that we love our children. And I never once questioned your love.
I wonder sometimes, what it feels like to believe that your child is going to Hell. I can't even begin to imagine it. It is unfathomable. It must be terrifying and consuming. This is the thought I keep in my head when I don't allow you into my life as fully as I want you to be. I have friends who say, "My mother is my best friend. I tell her everything." My mother is my best friend, but even in my thirties, I carefully choose what I reveal to you. I have to. I feel a responsibility to protect you from aspects of my life because I still don't want you to worry. I don't want you to believe that I've gone completely astray, that I am a wreckage, a sinner, a person who is doomed to an eternity of torture and pain.
And so, although I know you will love me unconditionally, no matter what I say or do or what I believe in or who I am, you have been shielded from the innerworkings of my life simply because I love you back. I wish I could tell you everything, but I believe that it will not strengthen our relationship.
You should know that I am okay. I am a responsible adult with morals, even though some of those morals are vastly different than yours. I try to always make decisions that are wise. I am kind and my heart is big and I am happy. And I have you to thank for all of that.
Lots of love,
Rae
With time, I began to see the truth of the situation: I would never be perfect. I could be perfect sometimes, but eventually, I would fail. Someone would disapprove. Someone would be disappointed. I felt faulty, broken, stupid, incapable. Now that I'm an adult, I realize that it is truly impossible to achieve perfection. You can never please everyone. But back then, I just saw myself as a complete failure. I felt voices inside of my head, scolding me. "You should have done this. You could have done that. You shouldn't have done this. You could have done that instead." It was exhausting and it was neverending. Add religion on top of this and the whole thing just gets worse and worse. Religion gives you a different set of voices. "You are a sinner. You will always be a sinner. No matter how hard you try, you will sin and you will do it again and again. God knows that you are going to sin before the thought even crosses your mind. He knows every mistake you'll ever make in your entire life. He expects every misstep. There is nothing you can do to change that situation." It felt bleak and hopeless. Nothing I did was ever going to be good enough. And so, during my adolescence, I stopped trying. If I couldn't be perfect, and I couldn't please everyone, I'd just go in the opposite direction. If everyone was just holding their breath, waiting for me to fail, I'd hurry up and get it over with.
I remember Dad telling me, "You have intentionally rejected everything that your mother and I believe or care about." And it was true, I had, but it wasn't just because I was trying to. I had always been a skeptical child. I remember asking Dad, "What do you mean that God has always been...that He has no beginning and no end?... How did Noah fit two animals of every species on a boat?... How do we know that our religion is the right one, when everyone else believes that THEIRS is the right one?" The truth of the matter is that I had never felt God, felt his presence, felt him working in my life. I had simply just stopped pretending that I had.
I rebelled against you and against Christianity and against most of the civilized world. To you, it was terrible and heartbreaking, but what you didn't see is that, behind the scenes, I was always keeping myself in check. You had given me a moral compass and had instilled a sense of responsibility. I never took things too far. I had not completely given up on myself, or my need to please you. I kept my grades just high enough. I chose to take Honors classes. I told my friends "no way." I followed the important rules. I stood up for others when no one else would. It was rare for me to flat out defy authority figures. Instead, what you saw, was a package of birth control in the bathroom. I had lost my virginity in a way that I didn't want, or expect, but afterwards, I had called up a friend with a car and made an appointment at Planned Parenthood and obtained a prescription just in case I ever found myself in a similar situation. I would be protected. In my mind, it was an enormous act of bravery and responsibility. In your mind, it was another sign that I was becoming someone you didn't want me to be. It wasn't the future you had planned for me.
What I know now, is that teenagers must reject their parents in order to find their own sense of identity. It is a normal phase of development and it is absolutely necessary. Everything must be rejected and discarded in order for rebuilding to occur. You took it all personally, and you didn't need to. It wasn't all about you. I loved you, which should have been all that mattered, but I needed to find my own way in the world. There were things I believed that opposed your own beliefs, but it did not happen that way because I wanted to hurt you. It just happened that way because I am who I am and I believe what I believe. Just like you do.
Dad got sick and he was hospitalized and you told me it was because of the enormous amount of stress he was under, worrying about me. I don't know why you told me that. I wonder if you thought that guilt would instantly change me into a different person--a person who tried harder to shape up and be who you needed me to be.
Later, when I got pregnant at eighteen, you told me that Dad could get kicked off of the elder board. I don't know why you told me that, as if there was a way that I could go back in time and fix it. My guilt intensified and it weighed heavily on me, all of the time.
Now that I'm a parent, I realize that no matter how hard I try, I have made mistakes and I have done things and said things to my children that I regret. I have done the best that I can, but there will inevitably be things that I wish I could go back and change. I know, without a doubt, that you were doing the best that you could. All that really matters, in the end, is that we love our children. And I never once questioned your love.
I wonder sometimes, what it feels like to believe that your child is going to Hell. I can't even begin to imagine it. It is unfathomable. It must be terrifying and consuming. This is the thought I keep in my head when I don't allow you into my life as fully as I want you to be. I have friends who say, "My mother is my best friend. I tell her everything." My mother is my best friend, but even in my thirties, I carefully choose what I reveal to you. I have to. I feel a responsibility to protect you from aspects of my life because I still don't want you to worry. I don't want you to believe that I've gone completely astray, that I am a wreckage, a sinner, a person who is doomed to an eternity of torture and pain.
And so, although I know you will love me unconditionally, no matter what I say or do or what I believe in or who I am, you have been shielded from the innerworkings of my life simply because I love you back. I wish I could tell you everything, but I believe that it will not strengthen our relationship.
You should know that I am okay. I am a responsible adult with morals, even though some of those morals are vastly different than yours. I try to always make decisions that are wise. I am kind and my heart is big and I am happy. And I have you to thank for all of that.
Lots of love,
Rae
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Dear Ann,
After Tristan's birth, in which I was drugged and disconnected from the entire experience, I sat in my hospital room and waited to be discharged. It took hours and hours longer than it should have. I was required to take an Infant Care class before I could leave, even though I knew exactly how to take care of a newborn. I was not allowed to sleep with my baby in my hospital bed. I was not allowed to carry him down the hallway. He was to stay in his isolette. Every move I made was monitored. I was enraged. I swore, from that day forward, that I would never have another baby in a hospital. At that time, that was all it was about. Anger that I wasn't trusted with my own child. And later, anger that postpartum depression had destroyed the bond I should have had with Tristan--all of this I vaguely blamed on the hospital and my caretakers and their insistence that they knew what was best for me.
As the years went by, after examining my first two hospital births, my desire to birth at home was due to my belief that my medicated hospital births sabotaged my ability to breastfeed. The sleepy babies, the lazy latches, the jaundice--it all seemed interconnected and I knew that the next time, I was going to nurse my baby.
And so, five years after Tristan was born, I became pregnant. Initially, I saw my obstetrician. I googled "find a homebirth midwife" and came up with your name. Brent and I met with you, for a free, one hour consultation in your living room. I came armed with pages of questions and you answered each and every one with confident assurance. All of my fears regarding the safety of homebirth were eased. I knew I was in the right place. I went back to my OB/GYN and told her that I was discontinuing my care with her and she was disappointed. "Why??" she asked. I said, "I have to wait in the waiting room to see you, sometimes up to an hour. When I finally get into the exam room, I get five minutes with you. You weren't even there to deliver my last two babies. I want more personalized care." She told me that she was sorry, that she was pressured by her group to take more patients than she could handle. I wondered how many patients she cared for. You intentionally took only a handful a month.
During my pregnancy with Rylan, I was an information sponge. Every appointment with you was in the privacy of your home. You had a library full of books on natural birth and various other related topics. I checked out books from you every time and I read them from cover to cover. You educated me. It was a whole new world. My mind was opening up, swallowing ideas that had never occurred to me before.
Like the last two pregnancies, I was riddled with excruciating pelvic pain. You advised me to see a chiropractor and as soon as the adjustments began, I experienced very little discomfort. I couldn't believe that I went through my last two pregnancies with an obstetrician who told me "it's just a symptom of pregnancy" and brushed it off without any recommendations or suggestions. You gave me Vitamin B injections for morning sickness that eliminated my nausea for a week at a time. You gave me natural prenatal vitamins and fish oil capsules and papaya enzyme for heartburn and homeopathic remedies that immediately eased every discomfort I experienced. You raised me up, you educated me.
Towards the end of my pregnancy, around 37 weeks, I began something I now know as prodromal labor. I had contractions on and off for weeks. They weren't producing a baby and I was DONE with the pregnancy. I was frustrated and emotionally spent. I took it out on you. "If I was having a hospital birth, I would have arrived at the hospital having contractions and they would have admitted me and given me Pitocin and I WOULD HAVE HAD A BABY BY NOW!!!" I was angry at you and I was angry at myself for choosing homebirth. I became a crazy person. I yelled and sobbed and you sat calmly and empathized with me and assured me that my baby would come when he was ready to come and explained all of the reasons why my patience was important. I told you that if any point during the labor, I asked for an epidural, you were to transport me immediately to the hospital. You smiled gently and said "no problem", but assured me that it wouldn't be necessary and that you knew I could do this.
Of course, the big day came and my water broke. Contractions did not begin for two and a half hours. You were not concerned. I knew then, that if I had been at the hospital, I would have already have been connected to an IV drip, confined to bed, and I most likely would have been demanding an epidural from the pain of Pitocin induced contractions.
When the contractions finally began, you showed up at my house and brought more supplies and equipment than I ever expected. You set everything up: oxygen tanks and an IV and medications for every possible emergency and chux pads and suturing supplies and an infant scale and a handheld doppler and various other items.
Unexpectedly, my contractions slowed and stopped completely, and I experienced what I now know to be my trademark "white coat syndrome." The reason why my previous labors had been augmented and hurried up--any professional presence stops my body from progressing. You recognized this immediately and told me that you were going to go out to get something to eat and I should call you if anything changed. Later, you told me that you had fibbed. You didn't need to eat. You only left in order to give me space to do my thing. As the headlights of your Jeep were backing out of my driveway, the contractions re-appeared and ramped up with intensity and frequency. We called you back to the house and you stayed out of my way, busying yourself with preparations while occasionally monitoring the baby's heartrate and my own vital signs. I labored in my living room while watching Desperate Housewives, in the bathroom on the toilet while chatting it up with my husband, in my bedroom on a birthing ball listening to Norah Jones on the stereo. I was free to eat and drink whatever I wanted and I was free to wear my own clothes in the comfort of my own home environment.
You only checked me internally once, and that was with my permission.
When transition hit, and I started vomiting uncontrollably, you clapped your hands and excitedly said, "Good! Throwing up equals ten good contractions!" I thought back to my hospital births, when the pink basin had been set at my chin and I was terrified and sick and the nurses clucked their tongues and made me worry. I tried to lay down and it was horrific and I wondered how or why I birthed on my back for hours at a time in those hospital labor rooms. I stood up and felt my baby drop into my pelvis and I yelled to you that he was coming. You came to my side, put your hand on my shoulder and you checked my cervix. "Yep, there's a baby right there!" you remarked, gleefully. You asked me where I'd like to go and in what position and I felt like the only thing I could do was collapse onto the bed, sideways. This put you between my bed and the wall. It was a difficult position for you, but you did not mention it. My comfort was the most important.
No one told me when to push, or how to push. No one was yelling "1...2...3!" This time, there was no holding my breath or bruising the sockets of my teeth or popping blood vessels in my eyes. I grunted and was encouraged to push in whatever way my body told me to. You softly encouraged me every step of the way and explained to me what was happening and that it was all happening exactly as it should.
My baby slid out of my body and you placed him on my chest. He stayed there for a long time, as long as I wanted. You placed towels, warm from the dryer on his little body and mine. You did not touch him or take him until I asked you to. You did not rub him furiously or suction him and he did not shiver or cry. He was quiet and alert and staring up at us in wonder. You did not instruct us to cut the cord until it had stopped pulsating completely and we were ready to. You weighed him and quickly checked him over on my bed while I sat there, watching. You handed him back and I diapered him and dressed him and swaddled him and nursed him. You cleaned up all of the supplies, and the mess, and tidied up my house. And then, you tucked me, and my baby, and my husband into our bed and you sat down at my feet and read me a poem. I cried, and you cried, and you kissed my cheek and told me how proud you were of me. You turned off the light and you quietly left. We all slept wonderfully, and woke in the morning in our own bed, in our own home, to life resuming peacefully and without interruption.
My birth was not extraordinary. It was normal. It was allowed to unfold on its own, carefully and tenderly, with you simply nudging me towards trust and faith in my own body. You instilled confidence in me and the experience changed me not only as a mother, but as a woman. You handed me what would eventually become my life's passion--for birth... normal birth. You did not just give me this gift--you have given it to hundreds and hundreds of women over the years and you continue to do it because it is also your passion. You are an angel in disguise, a woman who has become an extended member of our family, even though we don't keep in touch anymore. I will never, ever forget the many kindnesses you showed me and the way your presence in my life shaped the person I have become.
With many thanks and lots of love,
Rae
As the years went by, after examining my first two hospital births, my desire to birth at home was due to my belief that my medicated hospital births sabotaged my ability to breastfeed. The sleepy babies, the lazy latches, the jaundice--it all seemed interconnected and I knew that the next time, I was going to nurse my baby.
And so, five years after Tristan was born, I became pregnant. Initially, I saw my obstetrician. I googled "find a homebirth midwife" and came up with your name. Brent and I met with you, for a free, one hour consultation in your living room. I came armed with pages of questions and you answered each and every one with confident assurance. All of my fears regarding the safety of homebirth were eased. I knew I was in the right place. I went back to my OB/GYN and told her that I was discontinuing my care with her and she was disappointed. "Why??" she asked. I said, "I have to wait in the waiting room to see you, sometimes up to an hour. When I finally get into the exam room, I get five minutes with you. You weren't even there to deliver my last two babies. I want more personalized care." She told me that she was sorry, that she was pressured by her group to take more patients than she could handle. I wondered how many patients she cared for. You intentionally took only a handful a month.
During my pregnancy with Rylan, I was an information sponge. Every appointment with you was in the privacy of your home. You had a library full of books on natural birth and various other related topics. I checked out books from you every time and I read them from cover to cover. You educated me. It was a whole new world. My mind was opening up, swallowing ideas that had never occurred to me before.
Like the last two pregnancies, I was riddled with excruciating pelvic pain. You advised me to see a chiropractor and as soon as the adjustments began, I experienced very little discomfort. I couldn't believe that I went through my last two pregnancies with an obstetrician who told me "it's just a symptom of pregnancy" and brushed it off without any recommendations or suggestions. You gave me Vitamin B injections for morning sickness that eliminated my nausea for a week at a time. You gave me natural prenatal vitamins and fish oil capsules and papaya enzyme for heartburn and homeopathic remedies that immediately eased every discomfort I experienced. You raised me up, you educated me.
Towards the end of my pregnancy, around 37 weeks, I began something I now know as prodromal labor. I had contractions on and off for weeks. They weren't producing a baby and I was DONE with the pregnancy. I was frustrated and emotionally spent. I took it out on you. "If I was having a hospital birth, I would have arrived at the hospital having contractions and they would have admitted me and given me Pitocin and I WOULD HAVE HAD A BABY BY NOW!!!" I was angry at you and I was angry at myself for choosing homebirth. I became a crazy person. I yelled and sobbed and you sat calmly and empathized with me and assured me that my baby would come when he was ready to come and explained all of the reasons why my patience was important. I told you that if any point during the labor, I asked for an epidural, you were to transport me immediately to the hospital. You smiled gently and said "no problem", but assured me that it wouldn't be necessary and that you knew I could do this.
Of course, the big day came and my water broke. Contractions did not begin for two and a half hours. You were not concerned. I knew then, that if I had been at the hospital, I would have already have been connected to an IV drip, confined to bed, and I most likely would have been demanding an epidural from the pain of Pitocin induced contractions.
When the contractions finally began, you showed up at my house and brought more supplies and equipment than I ever expected. You set everything up: oxygen tanks and an IV and medications for every possible emergency and chux pads and suturing supplies and an infant scale and a handheld doppler and various other items.
Unexpectedly, my contractions slowed and stopped completely, and I experienced what I now know to be my trademark "white coat syndrome." The reason why my previous labors had been augmented and hurried up--any professional presence stops my body from progressing. You recognized this immediately and told me that you were going to go out to get something to eat and I should call you if anything changed. Later, you told me that you had fibbed. You didn't need to eat. You only left in order to give me space to do my thing. As the headlights of your Jeep were backing out of my driveway, the contractions re-appeared and ramped up with intensity and frequency. We called you back to the house and you stayed out of my way, busying yourself with preparations while occasionally monitoring the baby's heartrate and my own vital signs. I labored in my living room while watching Desperate Housewives, in the bathroom on the toilet while chatting it up with my husband, in my bedroom on a birthing ball listening to Norah Jones on the stereo. I was free to eat and drink whatever I wanted and I was free to wear my own clothes in the comfort of my own home environment.
You only checked me internally once, and that was with my permission.
When transition hit, and I started vomiting uncontrollably, you clapped your hands and excitedly said, "Good! Throwing up equals ten good contractions!" I thought back to my hospital births, when the pink basin had been set at my chin and I was terrified and sick and the nurses clucked their tongues and made me worry. I tried to lay down and it was horrific and I wondered how or why I birthed on my back for hours at a time in those hospital labor rooms. I stood up and felt my baby drop into my pelvis and I yelled to you that he was coming. You came to my side, put your hand on my shoulder and you checked my cervix. "Yep, there's a baby right there!" you remarked, gleefully. You asked me where I'd like to go and in what position and I felt like the only thing I could do was collapse onto the bed, sideways. This put you between my bed and the wall. It was a difficult position for you, but you did not mention it. My comfort was the most important.
No one told me when to push, or how to push. No one was yelling "1...2...3!" This time, there was no holding my breath or bruising the sockets of my teeth or popping blood vessels in my eyes. I grunted and was encouraged to push in whatever way my body told me to. You softly encouraged me every step of the way and explained to me what was happening and that it was all happening exactly as it should.
My baby slid out of my body and you placed him on my chest. He stayed there for a long time, as long as I wanted. You placed towels, warm from the dryer on his little body and mine. You did not touch him or take him until I asked you to. You did not rub him furiously or suction him and he did not shiver or cry. He was quiet and alert and staring up at us in wonder. You did not instruct us to cut the cord until it had stopped pulsating completely and we were ready to. You weighed him and quickly checked him over on my bed while I sat there, watching. You handed him back and I diapered him and dressed him and swaddled him and nursed him. You cleaned up all of the supplies, and the mess, and tidied up my house. And then, you tucked me, and my baby, and my husband into our bed and you sat down at my feet and read me a poem. I cried, and you cried, and you kissed my cheek and told me how proud you were of me. You turned off the light and you quietly left. We all slept wonderfully, and woke in the morning in our own bed, in our own home, to life resuming peacefully and without interruption.
My birth was not extraordinary. It was normal. It was allowed to unfold on its own, carefully and tenderly, with you simply nudging me towards trust and faith in my own body. You instilled confidence in me and the experience changed me not only as a mother, but as a woman. You handed me what would eventually become my life's passion--for birth... normal birth. You did not just give me this gift--you have given it to hundreds and hundreds of women over the years and you continue to do it because it is also your passion. You are an angel in disguise, a woman who has become an extended member of our family, even though we don't keep in touch anymore. I will never, ever forget the many kindnesses you showed me and the way your presence in my life shaped the person I have become.
With many thanks and lots of love,
Rae
Friday, September 23, 2011
Shirlee.
It is hard to believe it has almost been a year since I spent every Tuesday morning sitting on an overstuffed brown leather sofa in the the most beautiful house on this island. I remember the first time we met at your office in Coupville. You told me what I would go through with you would be painful and at times unbearable. I remember thinking that sounded so silly, because I was so separated from all this "stuff" we would be dealing with. I remember telling you that I was not going to tell my family a thing. Looking back it seems ridiculous that I would say such a thing, but you were so gracious. You told me everything was up to me and that you understood and respected any decision I made.
The first time or two we met seemed harmless enough. I know it wasn't easy, but it didn't seem as treacherous as you had warned it may be. It quickly became as such. You picked the perfect material for us to work through, even though sometimes I felt like if I read another word out of that book I would simply die. No matter how hard the reading was on my own at home, every time I sat down with you to discuss it, I felt safe. You would sit and listen quietly, nod and point things out that I may have missed. If I was crying too terribly you would sit next to me and just hold me. You reminded me how much God loved me, no matter what. You reminded me that I mattered. You were key in helping me believe that I was more than some mediocre work. You helped me learn to believe that I am a masterpiece. You gently, gracefully and lovingly guided me through the hardest thing I have ever done.
You are an angel Shirlee. You are the softest most gracious and merciful person I have ever met and I feel so blessed to know you. You have such a high calling on your life and you are fulfilling it. You are walking with others through the most painful experiences of their lives, and you feel the pain too. You are beautiful and astounding and I hope that I can radiate even a fraction of the love that you radiate at some point in my lifetime.
Thank you for everything, you changed my life.
Love,
Brooks
The first time or two we met seemed harmless enough. I know it wasn't easy, but it didn't seem as treacherous as you had warned it may be. It quickly became as such. You picked the perfect material for us to work through, even though sometimes I felt like if I read another word out of that book I would simply die. No matter how hard the reading was on my own at home, every time I sat down with you to discuss it, I felt safe. You would sit and listen quietly, nod and point things out that I may have missed. If I was crying too terribly you would sit next to me and just hold me. You reminded me how much God loved me, no matter what. You reminded me that I mattered. You were key in helping me believe that I was more than some mediocre work. You helped me learn to believe that I am a masterpiece. You gently, gracefully and lovingly guided me through the hardest thing I have ever done.
You are an angel Shirlee. You are the softest most gracious and merciful person I have ever met and I feel so blessed to know you. You have such a high calling on your life and you are fulfilling it. You are walking with others through the most painful experiences of their lives, and you feel the pain too. You are beautiful and astounding and I hope that I can radiate even a fraction of the love that you radiate at some point in my lifetime.
Thank you for everything, you changed my life.
Love,
Brooks
Mom.
Clearly I have known you more than a day. I am not sure I could write a letter to the nicest person I knew for only one day, mostly because I don't think that person exists for me. What I do know, is that you are the nicest person I know since forever.
You smile at and compliment everyone. You tell strangers how beautiful they are and how much you love their shirt or hairstyle. You are always polite to cashiers and waitresses. You have the unique ability to make everyone around you feel at home. You listen and listen and listen and remind everyone of how special they are, no matter how crazy or nonsensical they may be. Everyone loves you Mom. Everyone who comes in contact with you is made to feel beautiful and unique. This is such a gift.
I wish I had this ability the way you do. I try, but I am not nearly as good at it. I want to think everyone is special, but I don't- which means I cannot convey it. That is the best part about you- you don't just blow smoke up peoples....noses. You mean everything you say about them and to them with your whole heart. You are a lifter upper of persons.
I wish you could take this ability and apply it to yourself. I wish you could say nice things to yourself the way you say them to other people. I wish you looked in the mirror everyday and said, "Brenda, you are fantastic!" and mean it. It makes me sad that you are so wonderful at making others feel loved, but haven't yet figured out how to love yourself.
You are beautiful mom. You are funny and kind and thoughtful and loving. You are unique and on purpose. You are hands down the nicest person I have ever known. If there was one thing I wish I had, it would be kindness and love for others the way you have it. It's so much like Jesus.
To the moon,
Brooks
You smile at and compliment everyone. You tell strangers how beautiful they are and how much you love their shirt or hairstyle. You are always polite to cashiers and waitresses. You have the unique ability to make everyone around you feel at home. You listen and listen and listen and remind everyone of how special they are, no matter how crazy or nonsensical they may be. Everyone loves you Mom. Everyone who comes in contact with you is made to feel beautiful and unique. This is such a gift.
I wish I had this ability the way you do. I try, but I am not nearly as good at it. I want to think everyone is special, but I don't- which means I cannot convey it. That is the best part about you- you don't just blow smoke up peoples....noses. You mean everything you say about them and to them with your whole heart. You are a lifter upper of persons.
I wish you could take this ability and apply it to yourself. I wish you could say nice things to yourself the way you say them to other people. I wish you looked in the mirror everyday and said, "Brenda, you are fantastic!" and mean it. It makes me sad that you are so wonderful at making others feel loved, but haven't yet figured out how to love yourself.
You are beautiful mom. You are funny and kind and thoughtful and loving. You are unique and on purpose. You are hands down the nicest person I have ever known. If there was one thing I wish I had, it would be kindness and love for others the way you have it. It's so much like Jesus.
To the moon,
Brooks
Roo.
I remember the first moment that I held you in my arms. I was stunned that you had no teeth. In my mind, I knew that babies didn't have teeth when they were born but I couldn't get over the shock of this pink, screaming, gummy kid.
It was daunting but you were cute. I loved your big brown eyes and the fact that you were as bald as an egg. You were gigantic and you cried a lot. I was expected to try and get up and feed you, but I couldn't do it. I didn't have the support or patience to breastfeed you and I stopped after less than a week. It's still high on my list of regrets.
You changed my life because you made me a mother, but I wish I had allowed you to change me more. I think that, in hindsight, I had some pretty gnarly postpartum depression going on. I know that I brought you into an ugly situation too. I'm so sorry. I was so selfish. I was unbelievably selfish. I was young and I was stupid. I wasn't ready to be a mom at nineteen. I hated your father and he hated me. I was a self-destructive, self-loathing person and all of a sudden, I was expected to care for a baby. I didn't deserve you.
I left you with sitters who were questionable. I had trouble keeping a job. I smoked and drank. I put cereal in your bottle and it was propped up with a blanket. I often resented you for waking me up in the morning. But I loved you. I was just too young to love you the right way. It took a long time for me to get to the point where I could love you right. Maybe by then it was too late because I know that things will never be the same again. A lot has happened in the last six years, hasn't it?
Now, you will be six in just over a week. You are beautiful and so smart and so verbal. You are so well-adjusted. I have never seen anyone who I think is so precious. I see your dad in your smile but the rest of your face is all mine. I want you to know that I love you. I love you for making me a mother. I want you to know that I am sorry. I am sorry that I wasn't the mother that you deserved. I want you to know that I will spend the rest of my life trying to make you proud. I will spend my life making it up to you, if I can.
Someday, I will sit down with you and read you this letter. Someday I will hold you close and tell you everything. We will talk like two adults. I will share with you why things are the way that they are. I will share with you how infinitely and immeasurably I love you. I hope that you will accept these explanations. It is my deepest, most sincere wish that I will be able to tell you, "You changed me. It is because of you that I am who I am today," and that you will see that as a compliment and an accomplishment on your part.
Love,
Mom
It was daunting but you were cute. I loved your big brown eyes and the fact that you were as bald as an egg. You were gigantic and you cried a lot. I was expected to try and get up and feed you, but I couldn't do it. I didn't have the support or patience to breastfeed you and I stopped after less than a week. It's still high on my list of regrets.
You changed my life because you made me a mother, but I wish I had allowed you to change me more. I think that, in hindsight, I had some pretty gnarly postpartum depression going on. I know that I brought you into an ugly situation too. I'm so sorry. I was so selfish. I was unbelievably selfish. I was young and I was stupid. I wasn't ready to be a mom at nineteen. I hated your father and he hated me. I was a self-destructive, self-loathing person and all of a sudden, I was expected to care for a baby. I didn't deserve you.
I left you with sitters who were questionable. I had trouble keeping a job. I smoked and drank. I put cereal in your bottle and it was propped up with a blanket. I often resented you for waking me up in the morning. But I loved you. I was just too young to love you the right way. It took a long time for me to get to the point where I could love you right. Maybe by then it was too late because I know that things will never be the same again. A lot has happened in the last six years, hasn't it?
Now, you will be six in just over a week. You are beautiful and so smart and so verbal. You are so well-adjusted. I have never seen anyone who I think is so precious. I see your dad in your smile but the rest of your face is all mine. I want you to know that I love you. I love you for making me a mother. I want you to know that I am sorry. I am sorry that I wasn't the mother that you deserved. I want you to know that I will spend the rest of my life trying to make you proud. I will spend my life making it up to you, if I can.
Someday, I will sit down with you and read you this letter. Someday I will hold you close and tell you everything. We will talk like two adults. I will share with you why things are the way that they are. I will share with you how infinitely and immeasurably I love you. I hope that you will accept these explanations. It is my deepest, most sincere wish that I will be able to tell you, "You changed me. It is because of you that I am who I am today," and that you will see that as a compliment and an accomplishment on your part.
Love,
Mom
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Dear You.
I don't remember your name. What I do remember is that you were friends with my uncle while he lived in Kansas. I don't remember what he was doing in Kansas, but I remember visiting him there for a summer. I remember a lot of things about that trip. I remember waking up with a gigantic canker sore and him rushing me to the dentist. I remember eating a lot of oranges. I remember you.
You were really tan and you had blond hair. You were his friend in a place where he was far away from his wife and the rest of his family. Looking back, my guess is that you had a crush on him. My uncle is the smartest, kindest, most intelligent man that I know. He's handsome and athletic. He's a doctor. He likes kids and he loves dogs. He's funny and he can draw well. He's that person that is good at any and everything that he does. I was in awe of him as a small child and I am still in awe of him today. In fact, possibly even more so now. I won't go into that here though. We're here to talk about you.
You and my uncle took me to a place that was similar to Chuck E. Cheese. It had really lame food, games, tickets to be won, and it probably wasn't very impressive. I liked it then though because I was a kid. I remember you tirelessly playing Skeeball with me. You won tickets for me and took part in all of the games. You even smiled for a couple of pictures with me. I still have them. I have long, brown, ratty hair. I am wearing a shirt with a cartoon character on it. You have on shorts and a white tee. You look genuinely happy to be with me.
I remember that I cashed in my tickets for a slinky. It was silver and I ruined it on my uncle's apartment stairs later that night. Then, my uncle and I left Kansas. I believe we drove to Illinois together because he was finally moving back to live with his wife. They'd only lived apart because he was a grad student and she had a really important job that she couldn't leave. I was sad to say goodbye to you and I kept calling you my friend.
I only knew you for one day. You were very nice to me. Thanks.
Love,
Molly
You were really tan and you had blond hair. You were his friend in a place where he was far away from his wife and the rest of his family. Looking back, my guess is that you had a crush on him. My uncle is the smartest, kindest, most intelligent man that I know. He's handsome and athletic. He's a doctor. He likes kids and he loves dogs. He's funny and he can draw well. He's that person that is good at any and everything that he does. I was in awe of him as a small child and I am still in awe of him today. In fact, possibly even more so now. I won't go into that here though. We're here to talk about you.
You and my uncle took me to a place that was similar to Chuck E. Cheese. It had really lame food, games, tickets to be won, and it probably wasn't very impressive. I liked it then though because I was a kid. I remember you tirelessly playing Skeeball with me. You won tickets for me and took part in all of the games. You even smiled for a couple of pictures with me. I still have them. I have long, brown, ratty hair. I am wearing a shirt with a cartoon character on it. You have on shorts and a white tee. You look genuinely happy to be with me.
I remember that I cashed in my tickets for a slinky. It was silver and I ruined it on my uncle's apartment stairs later that night. Then, my uncle and I left Kansas. I believe we drove to Illinois together because he was finally moving back to live with his wife. They'd only lived apart because he was a grad student and she had a really important job that she couldn't leave. I was sad to say goodbye to you and I kept calling you my friend.
I only knew you for one day. You were very nice to me. Thanks.
Love,
Molly
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
SiahBoo.
Jesiah Brady,
I am cheating writing you this letter. I made you pinky promise me something just so I could write to you. Also because I have no clue who the other last person I pinky promised was. You actually haven't pinkied me anything yet- you tried to make me promise to buy you a giant LEGO set from Walmart, but I told you it had to be something not involving money and you were stumped. You are in the backyard right now "talking it out" with your friend and since I am sure you will come up with something, I am starting my letter.
When I was pregnant with you I gained 100lbs. You were the perfect reason to eat whatever I felt like whenever I felt like it, so I ate nothing but pizza and Super China Buffet for 9 straight months. Because of this I got pre-eclampsia and had a rechid, horrible, terrible, unforgettable birthing experience. My blood pressure got so high and stayed that way for so long during your birth that even after you were out I was sick sick sick. My blood pressure wouldn't come down, I was sick from all the meds they used to keep me from seizing, and I had been cut open.
(You just came in to pinky promise me that I would let you wrestle with the boys outside. I said no. I here sighs of defeat coming from the backyard...oh you're coming back in- "Promise me I never have to go to school!" Uhm no.)
You looked JUST like your father. I couldn't breastfeed because you wouldn't latch on, and I was too sick and anxious to even try very hard. We did not connect. A week later when I got to go home, I was so engulfed in post postpartum depression Travis had to force me to interact with you. I am glad he did. I am glad your Daddy is strong for me when I can't be. So I held you. I fed you. I changed you. We connected. Your Dad left right about that time for 6ms, and it was just you and me.
I feel like it was pretty much just you and me from then on out for too long. I was your only constant, and I guess in a way still am. Back then your Dad and I weren't doing so hot. It wasn't good for you, or me, or him- so me and you packed it up and went to Grandaddies. I will never forget the guilt I felt over you not being able to have a Mom and Dad together. I will never forget how painful it was to leave you at Mrs. Deatons daycare every morning while you screamed your guts out because I had to work. You hated that place. Lucky for you, God showed up quickly and began to fix the situation between me and your Dad, and we ended up back where we belonged.
Things since then haven't been all sunshine and rainbows, but pretty darn close. You have had some bumps in the road, big ones and little ones. I know some of those bumps have been because of the earlier years in your life, and I wish I could change so much so that you wouldn't have to deal with "stuff" now. I know that I can't go back. I also know you are much stronger than any of us may think and just like a phoenix, will rise up from ash. You astound me Jesiah. You are by FAR the most interesting boy I know.
("Mama I think I finally found out- "You take me and Aiden to the beach." "Honey, it's fall." "I need to keep thinking.")
You are the epitome of a 50/50 mix of mother and father. You are creative, artistic and eccentric. You are thoughtful and sensitive, kind and caring. You are SO loud and SO weird. You are rough and tumble until you get hurt and then you are either really really mad at your aggressor or crying like a small child. You are mohawks and skinny jeans- far too young to have such a sweet sense of fashion. You prefer hip-hop music to any other genre available. You have no patience and you hate sweating more than anything in the world. You hate when other kids talk about things that are inappropriate and you tell them so. You are a cuddle-bug, who always makes sure he gets prayed for at night, and wants me to lay with him and tell him silly made up stories. You were my saving grace. You are so many things Jesiah Brady Decker and I cannot wait to see who you become.
I love you forever no matter what,
Mama
PS. There has yet to be a pinky promise.
Dave, Revisited.
Bee-
I love you. I love you even more than I did in those first days of our relationship, when we made pinkie promises to each other about silly things. I love being a mom, don't get me wrong, but you are what gets me out of bed in the morning. You are the reason I get dressed each day, the motivation behind each mile I run, and the reason that I want to get a good job after I graduate.
I remember when I would make you pinkie promise that you loved me, because I was afraid that you were too good to be true. I still think that. You are too good to be true. There is no way that someone like you could possibly love an asshole like me. You're good in all of the ways that I'm not. I know that they say opposites attract, but we really are total opposites and I stand in awe of you. Every amazing quality that you have is one that I wish I had myself.
I spent a lot of time making you pinkie swear things to me. I don't do that anymore because five years and a family later, I am pretty sure that you're committed. I do have a couple of things that I could pinkie swear to you:
-I pinkie swear to always love you.
-I pinkie swear that you'll always feel at home wherever I am.
-I pinkie swear to be the best mom that I can be for our children.
-I pinkie swear to always make sure you have underwear that fit.
-I pinkie swear to do the best that I can to make a home that you want to come home to at night.
-I pinkie swear to never stop making fun of your sleepwalking.
-I pinkie swear to always tell you when you have bad breath.
-I pinkie swear that someday you and I will travel Europe together.
-I pinkie swear that I think you are the most handsome man in the world.
I could go on and on, but the bottom line is that I think that you are the best thing that ever happened to me. I love you more than I could ever explain. I feel lucky and blessed every day that I have a husband who loves me, wants to help me, wants to hang out with me, and treasures me as much as I treasure him. I hope that I make you feel as lucky as you make me feel.
Respeck,
Molly
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
G.
You are an amazing woman. I have watched you for over a year now and I am, truly, in awe of you. I remember when we first became friends, how I thought you were strong then. You were a first time mom, going through a very long deployment, and you were totally calm about it. You confidently and gracefully made astoundingly unselfish choices for your sweet son. You had been dairy-free for almost a year for the sake of breastfeeding. Your son was cloth diapered, co-sleeping, and gently guided through life. You'd had a long journey toward becoming a mother and you were determined to embrace it fully. You were one of the best moms I had ever met.
Now, here we are. We will be friends forever but your whole life has changed. Everything came crashing down around you. Now you live far away from me and we don't get the chance to talk as often as I'd like. Here's the part that I am in awe of: You haven't faltered for even a moment. You haven't stumbled. You haven't whined. You rolled up your sleeves, dusted off your "bad ass mamajama" pants, and got your hands dirty. You have busted your butt to do the best things you can as a mom and as a person. You are bad ass.
I know that you have your moments. I know that you are lonely and hurting. I know that this has not been easy. I also know, because I have watched, that you are rocking it. You are doing a damn fine job, my friend. I wish that I were closer to you so that I could babysit or just come over and cook you dinner after a long day at school. I wish that I could sit and gab with you for hours on end and get your take on everything. I wish that you were here to watch Puff grow up and to hear the fact that "Goldie" has actually gotten a little closer to the real thing.
I wish that I could be of more help to you, because I know that the weight on shoulders must be crushing. I'm sorry that I can't. What I can do is write you this letter and let you know that I think you are doing fantastic. I know that you have an amazing life ahead of you. I know that the future is going to be bright for you and your son. I know this because you will refuse to accept anything but the brightest future imaginable. You will not quit until you and he are secure, happy, and well cared for. I know you and I know that you will make the world's best lemonade out of life's lemons.
You are an all-powerful, amazon warrior.
Love you. Kiss that baby for me.
-Molly
Now, here we are. We will be friends forever but your whole life has changed. Everything came crashing down around you. Now you live far away from me and we don't get the chance to talk as often as I'd like. Here's the part that I am in awe of: You haven't faltered for even a moment. You haven't stumbled. You haven't whined. You rolled up your sleeves, dusted off your "bad ass mamajama" pants, and got your hands dirty. You have busted your butt to do the best things you can as a mom and as a person. You are bad ass.
I know that you have your moments. I know that you are lonely and hurting. I know that this has not been easy. I also know, because I have watched, that you are rocking it. You are doing a damn fine job, my friend. I wish that I were closer to you so that I could babysit or just come over and cook you dinner after a long day at school. I wish that I could sit and gab with you for hours on end and get your take on everything. I wish that you were here to watch Puff grow up and to hear the fact that "Goldie" has actually gotten a little closer to the real thing.
I wish that I could be of more help to you, because I know that the weight on shoulders must be crushing. I'm sorry that I can't. What I can do is write you this letter and let you know that I think you are doing fantastic. I know that you have an amazing life ahead of you. I know that the future is going to be bright for you and your son. I know this because you will refuse to accept anything but the brightest future imaginable. You will not quit until you and he are secure, happy, and well cared for. I know you and I know that you will make the world's best lemonade out of life's lemons.
You are an all-powerful, amazon warrior.
Love you. Kiss that baby for me.
-Molly
To The Land of the Free.
Dear America,
I don't know you all that well. I don't know anything about congress or budget costs or debt ceilings or medicare. I don't know if any of the solutions politicians are offering to fix this place are worth voting for or not. I have never voted for anything, not even American Idol. I don't know if Obama is better than Bush, or if he is even a legal resident of the US. I don't know anything about state laws concerning the right to bear arms or how much marijuana someone can have on their person without being arrested. I am not in the know about you and your legality issues, America.
What I do know is this. We aren't doing hot. We owe lots of money to lots of people, and the value of our dollar is dropping. There is a ridiculous amount of people living in poverty and working really hard to get out of it, that we do nothing for. There is also a ridiculous amount of people living in poverty and milking it that we do everything for. I know people who rob a bank can go to jail for 10+ years, but sometimes someone rapes a child and gets out in 5. I know that said people only get worse in jail because the system is whack. I know we are fighting a war that isn't actually a war and good innocent people are dying every day because of it. I know there are people all over the planet dying because they don't have clean water, and it would take very little monetarily on our part to help, but instead we spend all our money on clothes and shoes and cars and food that is awful for us. I know that this country is creating and selling food chemically altered that will eventually kill us, but marketing it as if it is gold. I know the same people that work for the FDA are also head reps for pharmaceutical company's that treat all the illnesses created by said chemically altered food. I know that kids are bringing guns to school. Little kids, who shouldn't even know what hate is. I know that the majority of the people in charge of this place are dirty, lying, self seeking money mongers. You can't do too well for too long with people like that at the top. I could go on forever.
You want God out of schools and government, and then you wonder why everything is so vile and backwards and ugly, why people are so angry. You want God out, but then want us to pray when things are going wrongly, when everything is falling apart. You want to take out everything good, and selfless and fill it with the idea that the individual is who matters. YOU YOU YOU. DO YOU. TAKE CARE OF YOU. LOOK OUT FOR YOU. No wonder we are a mess America. We are a nation of people that could be functioning in community, looking out for each other, doing what is right by our peers both nationally and internationally. Instead we are a nation of individuals looking out only for ourselves, and doing whatever it takes to have more of everything that means power. You're a disaster, and you are only getting worse.
Brooks Decker
I don't know you all that well. I don't know anything about congress or budget costs or debt ceilings or medicare. I don't know if any of the solutions politicians are offering to fix this place are worth voting for or not. I have never voted for anything, not even American Idol. I don't know if Obama is better than Bush, or if he is even a legal resident of the US. I don't know anything about state laws concerning the right to bear arms or how much marijuana someone can have on their person without being arrested. I am not in the know about you and your legality issues, America.
What I do know is this. We aren't doing hot. We owe lots of money to lots of people, and the value of our dollar is dropping. There is a ridiculous amount of people living in poverty and working really hard to get out of it, that we do nothing for. There is also a ridiculous amount of people living in poverty and milking it that we do everything for. I know people who rob a bank can go to jail for 10+ years, but sometimes someone rapes a child and gets out in 5. I know that said people only get worse in jail because the system is whack. I know we are fighting a war that isn't actually a war and good innocent people are dying every day because of it. I know there are people all over the planet dying because they don't have clean water, and it would take very little monetarily on our part to help, but instead we spend all our money on clothes and shoes and cars and food that is awful for us. I know that this country is creating and selling food chemically altered that will eventually kill us, but marketing it as if it is gold. I know the same people that work for the FDA are also head reps for pharmaceutical company's that treat all the illnesses created by said chemically altered food. I know that kids are bringing guns to school. Little kids, who shouldn't even know what hate is. I know that the majority of the people in charge of this place are dirty, lying, self seeking money mongers. You can't do too well for too long with people like that at the top. I could go on forever.
You want God out of schools and government, and then you wonder why everything is so vile and backwards and ugly, why people are so angry. You want God out, but then want us to pray when things are going wrongly, when everything is falling apart. You want to take out everything good, and selfless and fill it with the idea that the individual is who matters. YOU YOU YOU. DO YOU. TAKE CARE OF YOU. LOOK OUT FOR YOU. No wonder we are a mess America. We are a nation of people that could be functioning in community, looking out for each other, doing what is right by our peers both nationally and internationally. Instead we are a nation of individuals looking out only for ourselves, and doing whatever it takes to have more of everything that means power. You're a disaster, and you are only getting worse.
Brooks Decker
Dearest Robynne,
I wish we could go back to the weekend before Zoe was born, when we ate delicious food and watched a chick flick together and excitedly discussed your impending labor. When we shopped for the last few baby items and I cackled at the sight of you trying to get your fully pregnant body into an inner tube. When we floated in the pool in the late July sunshine and soaked up the Summer. It was calm then, the calm before the biggest storm that would completely annihilate every dream you were holding in your hands. It was a bittersweet time, that weekend. I think of you and your perfectly round belly, your colorful bikini top and a dandelion tucked behind your ear. I smile at the memory and I curse it all in one breath. It's unfathomable how life can change so quickly and how fast it can turn its back on you.
When we say that losing a child is the worst possible experience one could ever face in life, it's not a cliche. It is the stuff of nightmares. It is the reason I woke up, sobbing and sweating in the middle of the night when Aidan was young and I'd had a dream that he was hit by a semi-truck. It is the reason I panicked after five full minutes of losing Rylan in a department store. It is the dark, obsessive wanderings of my mind when my children are away from me and the unimaginable horrors I have heard on the nightly news bubble to the forefront of my mind. It is the fear that was hiding in the center of my chest as Tristan was surrounded by a flurry of white coats in an Emergency Room, sick with pneumonia. It is the insanity that made me put my hand to Jack's face every few minutes when he was a newborn, to check for his exhalations. It is the reason why the industry has produced a childproof lock for everything. Mini blind strings. The sharp corners of a coffee table. Electrical outlets. The knife drawer. The oven. Every mother carries the fear within her, tries to stifle it, tries to not let it overwhelm her and invade every waking moment.
So when people say, "I cannot even begin to imagine what you're going through," this, to me, is the cliche. We have all imagined it, whether we've morbidly entertained the thought or have only let it slide past the backs of our eyelids before we've quickly brushed it away. Every mother who hears your story is crying with you. Every mother who has carefully tucked away the seed of crippling fear deep in her chest, has the knowledge that the possibility of losing her child is a result of the overwhelming and expansive love they feel, and never quite experienced until they were transformed into mothers. The woman who has just discovered two lines on a home pregnancy test feels it, and the great grandmother who is taking her last breath of life is still feeling it. We are all hoping and praying and begging that our children will outlive us.
And so, every day that you wake up to a life without your daughter, and you make yourself a cup of tea, I am astonished. Every day that you prepare your breakfast or brush your teeth or take a shower or make a phone call, or just simply put one foot in front of the other, I stand in utter amazement. As the days have slid into weeks and now into months, and you have found your laughter again, I am humbled by your strength. Every step you take, even backwards and then forward again, are proof that you are the most astounding woman I have ever known. I know that you feel crazy, and even in those crazy times, I want you to see what I see. That hidden under the layers and layers of sorrow and an outstanding amount of grief, is a spirit that cannot be broken, even when it feels that way to you. Even when you feel that you've lost your mind, everyone around you can only see a mother who is making her way through life with grace and reverence and beauty. Your strength persists. It is there and it is thriving, even in the moments when you feel the weakest. And in those moments, I will be there. In all of my sarcastic glory and my inappropriate humor and my stubborn unwillingness to shed too many tears; I will be there. And each and every time you need a help up, my hand will be extended to you. Not out of pity, but as a token of my gratitude for allowing me to walk beside you during the darkest days of your life. And for the lessons and the gifts that your life and Zoe's have given me.
I love you, lady. Just keep swimming.
Rae
When we say that losing a child is the worst possible experience one could ever face in life, it's not a cliche. It is the stuff of nightmares. It is the reason I woke up, sobbing and sweating in the middle of the night when Aidan was young and I'd had a dream that he was hit by a semi-truck. It is the reason I panicked after five full minutes of losing Rylan in a department store. It is the dark, obsessive wanderings of my mind when my children are away from me and the unimaginable horrors I have heard on the nightly news bubble to the forefront of my mind. It is the fear that was hiding in the center of my chest as Tristan was surrounded by a flurry of white coats in an Emergency Room, sick with pneumonia. It is the insanity that made me put my hand to Jack's face every few minutes when he was a newborn, to check for his exhalations. It is the reason why the industry has produced a childproof lock for everything. Mini blind strings. The sharp corners of a coffee table. Electrical outlets. The knife drawer. The oven. Every mother carries the fear within her, tries to stifle it, tries to not let it overwhelm her and invade every waking moment.
So when people say, "I cannot even begin to imagine what you're going through," this, to me, is the cliche. We have all imagined it, whether we've morbidly entertained the thought or have only let it slide past the backs of our eyelids before we've quickly brushed it away. Every mother who hears your story is crying with you. Every mother who has carefully tucked away the seed of crippling fear deep in her chest, has the knowledge that the possibility of losing her child is a result of the overwhelming and expansive love they feel, and never quite experienced until they were transformed into mothers. The woman who has just discovered two lines on a home pregnancy test feels it, and the great grandmother who is taking her last breath of life is still feeling it. We are all hoping and praying and begging that our children will outlive us.
And so, every day that you wake up to a life without your daughter, and you make yourself a cup of tea, I am astonished. Every day that you prepare your breakfast or brush your teeth or take a shower or make a phone call, or just simply put one foot in front of the other, I stand in utter amazement. As the days have slid into weeks and now into months, and you have found your laughter again, I am humbled by your strength. Every step you take, even backwards and then forward again, are proof that you are the most astounding woman I have ever known. I know that you feel crazy, and even in those crazy times, I want you to see what I see. That hidden under the layers and layers of sorrow and an outstanding amount of grief, is a spirit that cannot be broken, even when it feels that way to you. Even when you feel that you've lost your mind, everyone around you can only see a mother who is making her way through life with grace and reverence and beauty. Your strength persists. It is there and it is thriving, even in the moments when you feel the weakest. And in those moments, I will be there. In all of my sarcastic glory and my inappropriate humor and my stubborn unwillingness to shed too many tears; I will be there. And each and every time you need a help up, my hand will be extended to you. Not out of pity, but as a token of my gratitude for allowing me to walk beside you during the darkest days of your life. And for the lessons and the gifts that your life and Zoe's have given me.
I love you, lady. Just keep swimming.
Rae
Monday, September 19, 2011
The Man Upstairs.
I don't remember the day we met. It wasn't some moment that I will never forget. I don't have this fond memory of falling to my knees in your glory. What I do remember is times that came after that. I remember worshiping with a group of my peers at the Upper Room, Pastor Charlton playing the keyboard and your presence being so thick in the room it was paralyzing. I remember going to spring break retreat in Gulf Shores and knowing I would never be the same. I came home and broke up with my boyfriend for you. I talked about my "spiritual language" at the lunchroom table. You filled me with something I had never been full of before.
(I have to FF here because I actually did go back to being the same for a long while.)
I know that when I was acting like a bat out of hell you kept me safe. More so than I probably know or could comprehend. I know when I was 20 years old and 6 months pregnant standing in my sky blue painted dining room crying out to you because my life was a mess and it was my fault, you showed up- even though I had spent so many years ignoring and denying you. I know in that moment you began building my character, shaping me into the person I was meant to be. I don't think you have stopped since then, even in my own staleness. I know when my marriage was falling apart you made me strong and patient and thoughtful and hopeful. You took what was broken and made it whole again. I know in my darkest moments, the ones that only me and you see, you are there and you are holding me. I know that no matter how dark those moments have become, no matter how close I am to the bottom of the barrel, you have never dropped me- and I know you never will. You have loaned me the two most awesome human beings I know, and trusted me to show them who you are and how much you love them.
I could go on forever. Everything good in my life has come from you, and is because of you.
(I have to FF here because I actually did go back to being the same for a long while.)
I know that when I was acting like a bat out of hell you kept me safe. More so than I probably know or could comprehend. I know when I was 20 years old and 6 months pregnant standing in my sky blue painted dining room crying out to you because my life was a mess and it was my fault, you showed up- even though I had spent so many years ignoring and denying you. I know in that moment you began building my character, shaping me into the person I was meant to be. I don't think you have stopped since then, even in my own staleness. I know when my marriage was falling apart you made me strong and patient and thoughtful and hopeful. You took what was broken and made it whole again. I know in my darkest moments, the ones that only me and you see, you are there and you are holding me. I know that no matter how dark those moments have become, no matter how close I am to the bottom of the barrel, you have never dropped me- and I know you never will. You have loaned me the two most awesome human beings I know, and trusted me to show them who you are and how much you love them.
I could go on forever. Everything good in my life has come from you, and is because of you.
Dave, Trevor, Simon, Harley, JoLyn, Bri, Colt, Jack, Joe, Josh, and Mario-
When I saw that I had to write to the person who gave me my best memory, I was really torn. My life up to now is comprised of great memories. Dave seems like he would be the obvious choice since we are married, he has given me children, and he's my best friend. But the truth is that there is no one correct choice for this letter. You guys are all my answer. Some of the best times of my life are because of you guys.
I look back, fondly, and wish that we could go back to the days of hanging out in Bri and Colt's living room, listening to beats. Not big parties, nothing too crazy, just all of us, together, having a great time. I remember the first time Dave introduced me to all of you guys and how excited he was for me to meet Bri, Colt, Harley, and JoLyn. I will never forget summers with Simon and Trevor and hungover Sundays on the couches in their teeny, tiny apartment.
Simon's birthday party with cake, crab legs and Frangelico in my living room on West 18th St, smoking cigars with JoLyn on the porch of her house while everyone else danced in the living room, drinking PBR at my house until the sun came up, smoking cigarettes out of Alex's window so her apartment wouldn't smell like smoke, zoned out conversations about life, and lots and lots of music. All I have to do is hear one of your names to have a flood of wonderful memories come back to me.
That was the beginning of Dave's and my relationship, which is obviously one of the most important things in my life. All of you were apart of it. All of you watched us become what we are. You have all supported us from day one. You have all been there for us as a couple, no matter what. You all started out as Dave's friends, but now you are my friends too. You're the Godparents to our children and the one who married us and we've counted on to baptize them.
We've all changed so much in the five and a half years since Dave and I became a couple. We've all really grown up and we're all living adult lives. I'm proud of all of us. I'm amazed by the differences in the choices we've made and the paths we've taken. No matter where we are or what we're doing, I think we can always count on each other. Although we are making new memories that often don't include one another, we will always have those first couple of years. I'll always love you guys. I know, with certainty, that I can speak for Dave too. We love you, we miss you, and we are so grateful for all of the good times.
Love,
Molly
I look back, fondly, and wish that we could go back to the days of hanging out in Bri and Colt's living room, listening to beats. Not big parties, nothing too crazy, just all of us, together, having a great time. I remember the first time Dave introduced me to all of you guys and how excited he was for me to meet Bri, Colt, Harley, and JoLyn. I will never forget summers with Simon and Trevor and hungover Sundays on the couches in their teeny, tiny apartment.
Simon's birthday party with cake, crab legs and Frangelico in my living room on West 18th St, smoking cigars with JoLyn on the porch of her house while everyone else danced in the living room, drinking PBR at my house until the sun came up, smoking cigarettes out of Alex's window so her apartment wouldn't smell like smoke, zoned out conversations about life, and lots and lots of music. All I have to do is hear one of your names to have a flood of wonderful memories come back to me.
That was the beginning of Dave's and my relationship, which is obviously one of the most important things in my life. All of you were apart of it. All of you watched us become what we are. You have all supported us from day one. You have all been there for us as a couple, no matter what. You all started out as Dave's friends, but now you are my friends too. You're the Godparents to our children and the one who married us and we've counted on to baptize them.
We've all changed so much in the five and a half years since Dave and I became a couple. We've all really grown up and we're all living adult lives. I'm proud of all of us. I'm amazed by the differences in the choices we've made and the paths we've taken. No matter where we are or what we're doing, I think we can always count on each other. Although we are making new memories that often don't include one another, we will always have those first couple of years. I'll always love you guys. I know, with certainty, that I can speak for Dave too. We love you, we miss you, and we are so grateful for all of the good times.
Love,
Molly
To the Person who Gave me my Favorite Memory
Dear T-Bug,
This is not a letter I think I would want you to read. Luckily, it's a story that starts badly and finishes with a happy ending.
It goes back twelve years.
When I found out I was pregnant with you, I was barely twenty years old. Your brother was nine months old. It was the last thing I wanted, the worst possible twist of fate I could have imagined at the time. I was a single mother and I was barely managing to afford and take care of Aidan. I was in no state to become a mother of two. But what I did was pull up my boot straps and deal with it.
I hated being pregnant, not surprisingly. I've always despised pregnancy. I gained another 65 pounds on top of the 30 that I was still carrying from my first pregnancy. I did not take care of myself. I did things I am not proud of. I was not excited for another baby. "But I already HAVE a baby," I said to myself. "What in the world would I do with another one???"
I had to go off of my anti-depressants during the first two trimesters. And when I finally returned to them when you were fully developed in my womb, they didn't seem to do much good.
During my labor, I demanded every drug they could give me. I was disconnected from my body, from my pregnancy, and from you. I just wanted it all to be over and done with.
I breastfed you for two days before throwing in the towel and proclaiming that it was "just too much work."
You came home from the hospital and slept the first night for eight unbroken hours. You kept this up for the rest of your life. You literally slept through the night, every night, for your entire infanthood. You never cried, and when you did, your father and I would stare at you, shocked at the noises coming out of your mouth as if they were completely alien and foreign to us. You started smiling around six weeks and you've never stopped. You have smiled and laughed and have been joyful and content your entire life.
But for me, in those early days, I felt differently. Postpartum depression sucked me into a dark, black hole that I could not crawl out of. The walls within our small, cramped, darkened apartment felt like they were swallowing me up. Every task was exhausting. Aidan was just toddling around then, and every outing required me to carry you in your carseat while balancing Aidan on my other hip. I mechanically completed the daily baby-care tasks, but only because I had to. Most of the time, you sat in your bouncy seat drinking from a bottle I had propped up with a receiving blanket. When I look back on that time, all I see is complete and utter blackness.
And then, when you were eighteen months old, I noticed a pinpoint of light.
I took time out of my workday to pick you up from daycare and bring you to a WIC appointment. I'm sure they weighed and measured you and remarked on your size and your bubbly disposition. I'm sure they said, as everyone used to say back then, "Is he ALWAYS this happy?" I'm sure I half-smiled and said "yeah" and didn't think much of it. We left the health center and I took you to the grocery store to pick up milk and eggs. I remember pushing you in the shopping cart. I remember all of this with extreme clarity. You were babbling and smiling and laughing and I looked away from the shelves and into your face and I began to feel something. It didn't creep up slowly. Instead, it hit me full force. It was an immediate awakening and I heard my inner voice exclaim, "Oh my God! I love this child! I! LOVE! THIS! CHILD!" It was such a simple realization, but in those days, when depression had stolen everything from me, it was like a flotation device had been thrown out to me, right before I drowned at sea. Your sweet little baby ways tugged and tugged at my heartstrings until finally, you rescued me from an infinite void of despair and pulled me out of it.
I have done my best to repay you for this and you have done nothing but forgive me for my transgressions. You have loved me in the worst of times. From that single day, a decade ago, you have brought nothing but light into my life. You were, and continue to be, My Sunshine. Even as your feet have outgrown mine and you are finding your way into adolescence. You are my hero, and we are bonded. A year and a half too late, but bonded nonetheless, and you are the only person I have to thank for it.
Love forever and ever,
Mom (Rae)
This is not a letter I think I would want you to read. Luckily, it's a story that starts badly and finishes with a happy ending.
It goes back twelve years.
When I found out I was pregnant with you, I was barely twenty years old. Your brother was nine months old. It was the last thing I wanted, the worst possible twist of fate I could have imagined at the time. I was a single mother and I was barely managing to afford and take care of Aidan. I was in no state to become a mother of two. But what I did was pull up my boot straps and deal with it.
I hated being pregnant, not surprisingly. I've always despised pregnancy. I gained another 65 pounds on top of the 30 that I was still carrying from my first pregnancy. I did not take care of myself. I did things I am not proud of. I was not excited for another baby. "But I already HAVE a baby," I said to myself. "What in the world would I do with another one???"
I had to go off of my anti-depressants during the first two trimesters. And when I finally returned to them when you were fully developed in my womb, they didn't seem to do much good.
During my labor, I demanded every drug they could give me. I was disconnected from my body, from my pregnancy, and from you. I just wanted it all to be over and done with.
I breastfed you for two days before throwing in the towel and proclaiming that it was "just too much work."
You came home from the hospital and slept the first night for eight unbroken hours. You kept this up for the rest of your life. You literally slept through the night, every night, for your entire infanthood. You never cried, and when you did, your father and I would stare at you, shocked at the noises coming out of your mouth as if they were completely alien and foreign to us. You started smiling around six weeks and you've never stopped. You have smiled and laughed and have been joyful and content your entire life.
But for me, in those early days, I felt differently. Postpartum depression sucked me into a dark, black hole that I could not crawl out of. The walls within our small, cramped, darkened apartment felt like they were swallowing me up. Every task was exhausting. Aidan was just toddling around then, and every outing required me to carry you in your carseat while balancing Aidan on my other hip. I mechanically completed the daily baby-care tasks, but only because I had to. Most of the time, you sat in your bouncy seat drinking from a bottle I had propped up with a receiving blanket. When I look back on that time, all I see is complete and utter blackness.
And then, when you were eighteen months old, I noticed a pinpoint of light.
I took time out of my workday to pick you up from daycare and bring you to a WIC appointment. I'm sure they weighed and measured you and remarked on your size and your bubbly disposition. I'm sure they said, as everyone used to say back then, "Is he ALWAYS this happy?" I'm sure I half-smiled and said "yeah" and didn't think much of it. We left the health center and I took you to the grocery store to pick up milk and eggs. I remember pushing you in the shopping cart. I remember all of this with extreme clarity. You were babbling and smiling and laughing and I looked away from the shelves and into your face and I began to feel something. It didn't creep up slowly. Instead, it hit me full force. It was an immediate awakening and I heard my inner voice exclaim, "Oh my God! I love this child! I! LOVE! THIS! CHILD!" It was such a simple realization, but in those days, when depression had stolen everything from me, it was like a flotation device had been thrown out to me, right before I drowned at sea. Your sweet little baby ways tugged and tugged at my heartstrings until finally, you rescued me from an infinite void of despair and pulled me out of it.
I have done my best to repay you for this and you have done nothing but forgive me for my transgressions. You have loved me in the worst of times. From that single day, a decade ago, you have brought nothing but light into my life. You were, and continue to be, My Sunshine. Even as your feet have outgrown mine and you are finding your way into adolescence. You are my hero, and we are bonded. A year and a half too late, but bonded nonetheless, and you are the only person I have to thank for it.
Love forever and ever,
Mom (Rae)
The last person I kissed...
For most of my pregnancy with you, your name was Oliver. I think we got made fun of one too many times and a last minute decision via text message to your Daddy changed your name, forever, to Jack. Just Jack. After an Aidan, a Tristan, and a Rylan, people don't understand why we didn't choose Kieran or Julian to follow suit. But besides the fact that I was starting to get confused with all of the "an" names, you needed something different. Different, but classic. And of course, like most people, you grew right into your name. It has evolved over the years. Jackaroo. Jackaroni. Jackelope. Jackallopian Tube. Jackie. Jack-Jack. But mostly, just "baby." You'll be three in a few months. And you are still "the baby."
At first, I thought Rylan would be my last child. I was convinced. In fact, his birth announcements included the following quote:
"...the last one: the baby who trails her scent like a flag of surrender through your life when there will be no more coming after--oh, that's love by a different name. She is the babe you hold in your arms for an hour after she's gone to sleep. If you put her down in the crib, she might wake up changed and fly away. So instead you rock by the window, drinking the light from her skin, breathing her exhaled dreams. Your heart bays to the double crescent moons of closed lashes on her cheeks. She's the one you can't put down.”
― Barbara Kingsolver, The Poisonwood Bible
Except that when Rylan was around a year old, I started to realize that someone was missing. There was an empty chair at the dinner table. I'd look in the rear view mirror while driving our minivan and realize that there was an empty seat. Someonewasmissing Someonewasmissing Someonewasmissing. I began to know it and feel it with certainty. Our family was not complete.
Your poor father...I begged him for just one more and promised him it'd be the last time and of course he caved. You were my last stab at a daughter, but when the ultrasound revealed your gender, this time, I didn't cry. I just laughed and laughed.
Thinking that with the fourth baby, I'd have a lightning fast, easy-peasy birth, I was not prepared for the 22 hours of labor and your nearly-10-pound-body barreling out of me with searing pain that felt like all of my bones were going to crack right in half. This experience has now been overshadowed by the fact that you were born in my bedroom, into a pool of warm water, with a midwife standing by, watching, as I pulled your body from mine and lifted you onto my chest.
You are my little tow-headed boy. You are the one that clings to me, wrapping an arm and a leg around me while you sleep to make sure I won't slip away. You are dirty fingernails and bare feet and my days full of wonder and mischief. You are the entertainment, the amusement. You are the stubborn insistence. You are the one that gets toted around, carried, dragged, tickled to death and picked on. You are the mimic, the monkey, the laughter that carries us through each day. You belong, baby.
You are the toddler who cannot pronounce the hard "G" sound or the hard "K" sound. And so, at the most unexpected moments, you are the little one who stomps towards me with purpose and demands:
"Dimmy Tiss."
Your little pink lips purse and your eyes close, revealing your long, dark eyelashes. And I know, with absolute certainty, that my missing baby has been found, and I am helpless to do anything but obey your order.
With lots of love,
Your Mama (Rae)
At first, I thought Rylan would be my last child. I was convinced. In fact, his birth announcements included the following quote:
"...the last one: the baby who trails her scent like a flag of surrender through your life when there will be no more coming after--oh, that's love by a different name. She is the babe you hold in your arms for an hour after she's gone to sleep. If you put her down in the crib, she might wake up changed and fly away. So instead you rock by the window, drinking the light from her skin, breathing her exhaled dreams. Your heart bays to the double crescent moons of closed lashes on her cheeks. She's the one you can't put down.”
― Barbara Kingsolver, The Poisonwood Bible
Except that when Rylan was around a year old, I started to realize that someone was missing. There was an empty chair at the dinner table. I'd look in the rear view mirror while driving our minivan and realize that there was an empty seat. Someonewasmissing Someonewasmissing Someonewasmissing. I began to know it and feel it with certainty. Our family was not complete.
Your poor father...I begged him for just one more and promised him it'd be the last time and of course he caved. You were my last stab at a daughter, but when the ultrasound revealed your gender, this time, I didn't cry. I just laughed and laughed.
Thinking that with the fourth baby, I'd have a lightning fast, easy-peasy birth, I was not prepared for the 22 hours of labor and your nearly-10-pound-body barreling out of me with searing pain that felt like all of my bones were going to crack right in half. This experience has now been overshadowed by the fact that you were born in my bedroom, into a pool of warm water, with a midwife standing by, watching, as I pulled your body from mine and lifted you onto my chest.
You are my little tow-headed boy. You are the one that clings to me, wrapping an arm and a leg around me while you sleep to make sure I won't slip away. You are dirty fingernails and bare feet and my days full of wonder and mischief. You are the entertainment, the amusement. You are the stubborn insistence. You are the one that gets toted around, carried, dragged, tickled to death and picked on. You are the mimic, the monkey, the laughter that carries us through each day. You belong, baby.
You are the toddler who cannot pronounce the hard "G" sound or the hard "K" sound. And so, at the most unexpected moments, you are the little one who stomps towards me with purpose and demands:
"Dimmy Tiss."
Your little pink lips purse and your eyes close, revealing your long, dark eyelashes. And I know, with absolute certainty, that my missing baby has been found, and I am helpless to do anything but obey your order.
With lots of love,
Your Mama (Rae)
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Puppy Love.
Dear Lennon-
The first thing I did this afternoon when I walked through my door was give you a kiss. You may be slobbery, but I love giving you a good smooch. I know that you will never read this, because you are a dog, but I love you. You are the most consistent, affectionate, innocent person in my life and I don't know where the Beeman house would be without you.
I feel so blessed to have you in my life because there was a time when I thought that we would never find the right dog. We were looking for a puppy, from a rescue, with pit bull blood, and we are military. A lot of rescues wouldn't give us a chance and we got a lot of rejection letters. Then I found you. You were called "Squirm" then and you were a fat little thing with lots of extra skin.
The nice young lady that you lived with checked us out and decided to give us a chance and she brought you to meet us. It was love at first sight. I will never forget your floppy years, big feet, and the innocent way you looked up at me that first day you came to our home. You settled right into a routine of peeing on our floor and snuggling with me at night.
I started out on the right foot with you because I broke every rule in the dog owning book and let you sleep with me. You are a great snuggler. In fact, you snuggled with me every night until Puff was born and I kind of miss you. Sadly, you are now ninety pounds and there's no room for you in our bed. However, I will never forget those first snuggles. We had a good, year-long run right?
You are so stubborn. You won't pee on a leash (thank God we have a fenced yard now), you like to poop on the same spot, you pretty much refuse to get out from under my feet if I am carrying a crying child, you stalk my kids and park yourself as close to them as you can, and you are the most vocal creature I have ever met. But you are also the most trustworthy being in this home. Your intentions are one hundred percent pure. All that you want is to make sure your kids are okay, your mommmy is doing what she should be, and your daddy is throwing the ball. You lovingly chew on your cats and you diligently make sure that when the baby is crying I attend to it promptly. You even seem to enjoy it when you are treated like a horse, jousting partner, or baby rather than the formidable ninety pound dog that you are.
You had us from hello, Lennon. I cannot imagine coming home and not being greeted by your booming bark. I don't even want to picture my room without your bed in the corner and my living room would be barren without your crate. I think Huxley would lose his sense of equilibrium if he were not constantly covered in your slobber. I won't even let my mind wander to what Archer would do if he didn't have you. He loves you more than anything in the whole world. I knew that I wanted a dog, God knew that I needed you. Never has there been a dog more perfect for a family. You're a Beeman through and through.
Love,
Mom
Pizee.
Pie,
You are a light. You are sunshine and rainbows, even in your most awnry moments. You are independent, smart and funny. You are your brothers sister. (Boogers dipped in ranch are STILL boogers.) You are fashion forward, on your own. (If I go into your room one more time and see every item of clothing you own on the floor you are getting a spanking.) You are a toddler TV show addict. You are a fantastic singer, with what seems to be the skills of your father in making up your own songs. You are a superior builder of blocks both colored and alphabet. You make the best LEGO spaceships. You are better than anyone I know at making Jesiah mad. You eat enough granola bars to feed an army and drink enough of anything to cause drought. You are terribly patient and still when receiving both manicures and pedicures. You also always pick the best nail colors. You refuse to let me do your hair- which I like to attribute to your being so fashion forward. Who needs a ratting comb? Not you. You let me pick out your library books. (I am sure you know how important it is to me that we get the ones with the best illustrations.) You play so awesomely at the gym by yourself, allowing me to get in a full workout with only a few potty breaks. You call Woody from Toy Story "Toy Story" and play with him as if he is here with you. You always remind me to pray for you at bedtime. You are stubborn, difficult and strong willed. You are fantastic Presley Francis Carson Decker. You are everything I could have dreamed of having in a little girl, strawberry curls and all.
I love you forever,
Mommy
Saturday, September 17, 2011
An Explanation.
To the Non-Existant,
Today we are supposed to write to someone we would like to give a second chance to. This task seems simple enough, but there is not one person I can come up with. The problem lies in that I generally give people 2nd, 3rd, 4th and even 5th chances before said individual even realizes I think they need a redo at all. I prefer to give folks the benefit of the doubt most all of the time and that usually means putting up with nonsense for much longer than necessary before deciding there is a cut off. I like to think people can see when they screw up and take ownership without my pointing it out. I don't normally vocalize my distaste until it has occurred again and again and again. Then it is too late.
Maybe this isn't fair. Maybe I should just tell people what I really think about their actions or non actions every time there is a discrepancy. That sounds like a lot of work, and something that really isn't my job. It seems to me, if there are enough discrepancies that warrant my cutting you off, there isn't much I could have ever said to make you change anything.
In conclusion, there is no one I want to give a second chance to. If I know you, you will have one, and two and three and four without my saying it.
Brooks
Today we are supposed to write to someone we would like to give a second chance to. This task seems simple enough, but there is not one person I can come up with. The problem lies in that I generally give people 2nd, 3rd, 4th and even 5th chances before said individual even realizes I think they need a redo at all. I prefer to give folks the benefit of the doubt most all of the time and that usually means putting up with nonsense for much longer than necessary before deciding there is a cut off. I like to think people can see when they screw up and take ownership without my pointing it out. I don't normally vocalize my distaste until it has occurred again and again and again. Then it is too late.
Maybe this isn't fair. Maybe I should just tell people what I really think about their actions or non actions every time there is a discrepancy. That sounds like a lot of work, and something that really isn't my job. It seems to me, if there are enough discrepancies that warrant my cutting you off, there isn't much I could have ever said to make you change anything.
In conclusion, there is no one I want to give a second chance to. If I know you, you will have one, and two and three and four without my saying it.
Brooks
Dear Dad-
When I saw that today I had to write to someone that I want to give a second chance to, I immediately knew that I wanted to write to you. It was one of the only "no-brainer" moments I have had since I took up this project. We didn't speak for about five years, by my choice, and we have only recently come into contact again. We still haven't seen each other and you've never had the privilege of meeting my kids or my husband.
I won't say that I am not angry with you because I still am. I don't know if I ever won't be angry with you for the past. You still haven't ever really apologized for some of the things that bother me and I know you probably never will because I don't think that you think you have done anything wrong. I get that. I understand it because I firmly think that you did, even now over seven years after we had that last fight.
If we are being honest, I don't think that you were a very good dad. I don't think that you knew how to be one and I think that your priorities were in the wrong order. I think that they still are. But since we are being honest, I am over it. I don't need you to be the daddy that I always dreamed of. I am twenty-five now. I have my own children and I have my own family. I have a life that I love. I am ready to give you a second chance because I am past the point of wanting and needing you to assume a role that you can't assume.
I think that we can be friends and I miss you. I miss your puffy, white hair and your really corny jokes. I miss the way that your eyes crinkle up at the corners when you smile, laugh, or concentrate really hard. I miss your voice and the way you speak. I miss being around you and pretending I actually care enough to dislike Notre Dame just because you like them.
The fact is that you are my father and I love you. I think that there's still a chance for us. I really regret the fact that I live over a thousand miles away from you because I think that if I lived closer we would do a lot of hanging out. I think that you and David would get along really well and I know that you'd like my kids. I am not usually the best with forgiveness and it did take me five years to decide to entertain the notion of forgiving you, but I am finally there. I am finally (mostly) over it. I am finally ready to give it a shot.
I get it now and I still love you. I forgive you, in spite of everything, I really do.
Love,
Molly
I won't say that I am not angry with you because I still am. I don't know if I ever won't be angry with you for the past. You still haven't ever really apologized for some of the things that bother me and I know you probably never will because I don't think that you think you have done anything wrong. I get that. I understand it because I firmly think that you did, even now over seven years after we had that last fight.
If we are being honest, I don't think that you were a very good dad. I don't think that you knew how to be one and I think that your priorities were in the wrong order. I think that they still are. But since we are being honest, I am over it. I don't need you to be the daddy that I always dreamed of. I am twenty-five now. I have my own children and I have my own family. I have a life that I love. I am ready to give you a second chance because I am past the point of wanting and needing you to assume a role that you can't assume.
I think that we can be friends and I miss you. I miss your puffy, white hair and your really corny jokes. I miss the way that your eyes crinkle up at the corners when you smile, laugh, or concentrate really hard. I miss your voice and the way you speak. I miss being around you and pretending I actually care enough to dislike Notre Dame just because you like them.
The fact is that you are my father and I love you. I think that there's still a chance for us. I really regret the fact that I live over a thousand miles away from you because I think that if I lived closer we would do a lot of hanging out. I think that you and David would get along really well and I know that you'd like my kids. I am not usually the best with forgiveness and it did take me five years to decide to entertain the notion of forgiving you, but I am finally there. I am finally (mostly) over it. I am finally ready to give it a shot.
I get it now and I still love you. I forgive you, in spite of everything, I really do.
Love,
Molly
Friday, September 16, 2011
Dear Brooks
I think it'd be really funny if I wrote this letter and said "When I first met you, I thought you were way too cool for me. But then I came to find out, you're not really that cool! Yay, we're friends now!!!"
But of course that's not entirely true.
The first time I saw you, I was standing inside of a roller derby booth. I shrank away. I think you were with your husband, and maybe your kids were there. All I remember is thinking: "Those people are cool. They're like retro, vintage, rockabilly, pinup, hipster-y type people. What are they doing in Oak Harbor???"
The next time I saw you was at derby. Maybe a meeting. You had friends. It all looked very clique-ish. There were inside jokes being thrown around. I was uber intimidated. I thought to myself, "Wow. That woman is DEFINITELY way too cool to be MY friend."
I added you as a friend on Facebook anyway, and I stalked your profile. That's when I found out you loved Jesus. "What in the hell..?" I was shocked. And confused. And somewhat fascinated. "She has piercings all over her face and a large majority of her skin is covered in tattoos. Is this right? Maybe she's just joking. She's not a Christian." Well. Clearly, you are.
We attended a barbecue/get together. You asked me what kind of music I liked. I never really have any idea how to answer that question to begin with, coupled with the fact that I was stunned that you were speaking to me. I think I was too busy staring at your perfect hair and makeup and funky outfit and thinking "Doesn't this chick have children? How in the world does she always look so put-together?" I looked down at the jeans I've been wearing since 2003 and the grease stained Old Navy t-shirt I've probably had for even longer.
You tried to talk to me at practice once. You asked me about Fiona Apple. I started to crack. Anyone who is a fan of Fiona Apple, too cool for me, or too Christian for me...well, it just wipes the slate clean and makes me realize that you're a decent human being with excellent taste in music.
I don't know what happened after that, but somehow a friendship developed and I got to know who you really are, underneath the badass exterior. There are things I thought you'd be like that still hold true: You've lived an interesting life. You are creative and deep and insanely talented. You're smart and sarcastically hilarious. But there are other things I hadn't known before: You are a devoted mother and wife and you appear to handle both roles fantastically. You are the world's greatest listener. You stay true to your morals.
You are the shit, my friend. My coolest (way too cool for me) friend and I am so thankful to have you in my life.
With love,
Rae
But of course that's not entirely true.
The first time I saw you, I was standing inside of a roller derby booth. I shrank away. I think you were with your husband, and maybe your kids were there. All I remember is thinking: "Those people are cool. They're like retro, vintage, rockabilly, pinup, hipster-y type people. What are they doing in Oak Harbor???"
The next time I saw you was at derby. Maybe a meeting. You had friends. It all looked very clique-ish. There were inside jokes being thrown around. I was uber intimidated. I thought to myself, "Wow. That woman is DEFINITELY way too cool to be MY friend."
I added you as a friend on Facebook anyway, and I stalked your profile. That's when I found out you loved Jesus. "What in the hell..?" I was shocked. And confused. And somewhat fascinated. "She has piercings all over her face and a large majority of her skin is covered in tattoos. Is this right? Maybe she's just joking. She's not a Christian." Well. Clearly, you are.
We attended a barbecue/get together. You asked me what kind of music I liked. I never really have any idea how to answer that question to begin with, coupled with the fact that I was stunned that you were speaking to me. I think I was too busy staring at your perfect hair and makeup and funky outfit and thinking "Doesn't this chick have children? How in the world does she always look so put-together?" I looked down at the jeans I've been wearing since 2003 and the grease stained Old Navy t-shirt I've probably had for even longer.
You tried to talk to me at practice once. You asked me about Fiona Apple. I started to crack. Anyone who is a fan of Fiona Apple, too cool for me, or too Christian for me...well, it just wipes the slate clean and makes me realize that you're a decent human being with excellent taste in music.
I don't know what happened after that, but somehow a friendship developed and I got to know who you really are, underneath the badass exterior. There are things I thought you'd be like that still hold true: You've lived an interesting life. You are creative and deep and insanely talented. You're smart and sarcastically hilarious. But there are other things I hadn't known before: You are a devoted mother and wife and you appear to handle both roles fantastically. You are the world's greatest listener. You stay true to your morals.
You are the shit, my friend. My coolest (way too cool for me) friend and I am so thankful to have you in my life.
With love,
Rae
I Judge You for Judging Me. A Letter to Organic Jane.
Dear Wonder Woman,
I see you at the commissary with your hemp purse, worn in Birkenstock clogs, and crochet sweater. I see you browsing isles, picking only the best for your family. I see you reading labels and abruptly placing things back into their spot on the shelf. In the checkout line I see your buggy. It is barely full, and consists only of fresh organic produce, organic dairy products, organic juices, free range meat, and organic canned goods. I look into that cart and wonder how in the world you feed a whole family with such a tiny amount of stock. My own cart is stuffed full and overflowing with frozen pizza, fruit snacks, an enormous bulk bag of Fruit-O's, flavored coffee creamer, egg whites in a carton and an EF ton of juice. It's 100% though. The kind with veggies mixed in. That counts for something right?
The problem is I know that despite your sweet organic smile, you are judging me. You are eying my cart, and my red headed toddler thinking, "That poor little girl. Her mother is stuffing her full of poisons and is too ignorant to know." I do know Wonder Woman. I KNOW. I know because I was you for a short time. I was the lady with the cart only a quarter of the way full and worth upwards of $200. I was staring at people and their own groceries thinking what idiots they were. I saw them and their instant potatoes and handi-snack cheese dippers and I judged their intelligence and labeled them ignorant.
Neither of us is ignorant. You believe that somehow buying organic food will prolong the life and health of your family. You might be right. I believe that I can spend all my money on organic food all day and still die some sort sort awful death due to chemicals. I might be right. I get you, Wonder Woman. You are putting all your trust in right food, right water, right eating utensils, right paper products, HEPA filter vacuums and free range chickens. I think this is wise, I just choose not to live this way. I chose to trust God and not become completely absorbed with the fact that EVERYTHING ON THE PLANET is killing us. We are screwed, organic oranges or not. Lets stop looking at each other as opponents and learn to be friends. Lets share ideas that make life easier and healthier. Lets bend. Both of us.
Namaste....or whatever...(sorry, that's judging...)
Brooks
I see you at the commissary with your hemp purse, worn in Birkenstock clogs, and crochet sweater. I see you browsing isles, picking only the best for your family. I see you reading labels and abruptly placing things back into their spot on the shelf. In the checkout line I see your buggy. It is barely full, and consists only of fresh organic produce, organic dairy products, organic juices, free range meat, and organic canned goods. I look into that cart and wonder how in the world you feed a whole family with such a tiny amount of stock. My own cart is stuffed full and overflowing with frozen pizza, fruit snacks, an enormous bulk bag of Fruit-O's, flavored coffee creamer, egg whites in a carton and an EF ton of juice. It's 100% though. The kind with veggies mixed in. That counts for something right?
The problem is I know that despite your sweet organic smile, you are judging me. You are eying my cart, and my red headed toddler thinking, "That poor little girl. Her mother is stuffing her full of poisons and is too ignorant to know." I do know Wonder Woman. I KNOW. I know because I was you for a short time. I was the lady with the cart only a quarter of the way full and worth upwards of $200. I was staring at people and their own groceries thinking what idiots they were. I saw them and their instant potatoes and handi-snack cheese dippers and I judged their intelligence and labeled them ignorant.
Neither of us is ignorant. You believe that somehow buying organic food will prolong the life and health of your family. You might be right. I believe that I can spend all my money on organic food all day and still die some sort sort awful death due to chemicals. I might be right. I get you, Wonder Woman. You are putting all your trust in right food, right water, right eating utensils, right paper products, HEPA filter vacuums and free range chickens. I think this is wise, I just choose not to live this way. I chose to trust God and not become completely absorbed with the fact that EVERYTHING ON THE PLANET is killing us. We are screwed, organic oranges or not. Lets stop looking at each other as opponents and learn to be friends. Lets share ideas that make life easier and healthier. Lets bend. Both of us.
Namaste....or whatever...(sorry, that's judging...)
Brooks
Dear Gus-
The first moment I laid eyes on you, I judged you. I loved you endlessly, but I just knew that you were going to be exactly like your daddy. I saw those blue eyes (which I knew were staying blue), that fair skin, and that David Beeman face and I was convinced that I was going to be raising a miniature Dave.
I made a grave mistake. I should not have judged you based on the way you looked. You are sitting behind me right now, and you still look exactly like your father. It's uncanny and, honestly, sometimes it's kind of creepy. However, you act nothing like him. As far as personalities go, you are exactly like me. You a stubborn, opinionated, hate being wrong, love having the last word, set in your ways, picky and particular, and brilliant.
I never, not even for a moment, anticipated that I would not be raising a laid-back, mellow, easy-going little boy. I imagined you letting things roll off of your back, snuggling, and taking life one step at a time. Instead, you are a pain in the butt. You take everything personally, you hate to snuggle with me, and you charge into everything without thinking about it. Your mouth and emotions rule you, just like me.
How could I have been so blind? Our birthdays are three days apart. We share a sign and we share DNA. You may look like your daddy, but you are all me. No wonder we butt heads so much.
I want you to know that in spite of my erroneous judgment and my frustration with you at times, I think you are fabulous. You have this twinkle in your big blue eyes that gets me every time. You have such an amazing, people-centered way of living that I am in awe of you. Other moms talk about how brilliant their little geniuses are (and I do think you are brilliant), but I talk about how amazingly well you remember people and how much you care about your friends. I love that you think you are really, truly Spiderman. I love that you challenge me and I think it's adorable when you stomp your feet and yell, "DON'T MAKE ME MAD!"
I am so proud of your masterful ability to do puzzles and your enthusiasm for Star Wars, that I can't even begin to describe it. I will willingly wear the skeeziest Wonder Woman costume on the planet, if it brings a smile to your face. I am still just as in awe of you as I am of your baby brother. I know sometimes you might not think I am, but it's true. You fascinate me and I am so honored to be able to go through this journey of life with you.
I love you, you bossy little cuss.
Love,
Mom
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Self.
Dear Brooks,
You have made it through a lot. Much more than you think about or give yourself credit for on any sort of regular basis. You have had your heart broken numerous times for numerous reasons. Sometimes by boys, or girls....but most all the breakage was your own fault. You constantly put yourself in damaging situations with damaging people.You lived in self destruct.
You always went out with the same guys. The same loser, selfish, dirt bag guys- and when you somehow stumbled upon one that wasn't all these things, you discarded him. You sat around pining after boys that could have cared less about you. You gave yourself physically, mentally and emotionally to boy after boy after boy, none of whom respected, loved or even cared for you at all. You cried and whined and blah blah blah on and on...you gave up your youth in exchange for self hate.
You stayed friends with other females who were absolutely toxic. They fed off of you. She fed off of you. She took and took and took and gave nothing. She stole from you and denied it. She smiled and batted her eyes and winked. Everyone loved her, and it was constantly breaking you. But you never budged.
If it wasn't a boy or a girl breaking you, it was you breaking you. You were never even enough for yourself. You thought you were ugly and fat and useless. You starved yourself, you purged, you adopted a personal style that was loud and obnoxious in order to offset the feeling of going unnoticed. You cut and cut and cut as if the bleeding and the mess of scars was needed to remind you of how worthless you actually were. You chose music that fed the demon of worthlessness. You refused to try in school because accomplishing great things academically would have made you less useless and you couldn't allow that to happen. You did not wallow in self hate, you drowned in it.
You have broken your own heart Brooksie. You let people have you who never deserved you, and you fled from the ones who did. You allowed yourself to be eaten alive by every negative thing life could find to throw at you. You made some terrible choices, and suffered terrible consequences- that has been the nature of your beast.
Brooks
You have made it through a lot. Much more than you think about or give yourself credit for on any sort of regular basis. You have had your heart broken numerous times for numerous reasons. Sometimes by boys, or girls....but most all the breakage was your own fault. You constantly put yourself in damaging situations with damaging people.You lived in self destruct.
You always went out with the same guys. The same loser, selfish, dirt bag guys- and when you somehow stumbled upon one that wasn't all these things, you discarded him. You sat around pining after boys that could have cared less about you. You gave yourself physically, mentally and emotionally to boy after boy after boy, none of whom respected, loved or even cared for you at all. You cried and whined and blah blah blah on and on...you gave up your youth in exchange for self hate.
You stayed friends with other females who were absolutely toxic. They fed off of you. She fed off of you. She took and took and took and gave nothing. She stole from you and denied it. She smiled and batted her eyes and winked. Everyone loved her, and it was constantly breaking you. But you never budged.
If it wasn't a boy or a girl breaking you, it was you breaking you. You were never even enough for yourself. You thought you were ugly and fat and useless. You starved yourself, you purged, you adopted a personal style that was loud and obnoxious in order to offset the feeling of going unnoticed. You cut and cut and cut as if the bleeding and the mess of scars was needed to remind you of how worthless you actually were. You chose music that fed the demon of worthlessness. You refused to try in school because accomplishing great things academically would have made you less useless and you couldn't allow that to happen. You did not wallow in self hate, you drowned in it.
You have broken your own heart Brooksie. You let people have you who never deserved you, and you fled from the ones who did. You allowed yourself to be eaten alive by every negative thing life could find to throw at you. You made some terrible choices, and suffered terrible consequences- that has been the nature of your beast.
Brooks
A Letter I Really Don't Want to Write.
I think that writing to you is counterproductive because I doubt you will read it and, most of the time, I prefer not to think about you. I'm happy. Really, truly, genuinely happy. I'm married to the best man in the world. The man I married is worth a thousand of you and I love him too much to explain. I lucked out when it didn't work out with you because I went on to better things.
I can't believe the things that I did to get you to love me. I can't believe how hard I tried. It seems especially ridiculous now that I am loved by someone who wants nothing from me in return. I bent over backwards. I put up with endless bullshit. I loved you. You loved booze. You loved to party. You loved drugs. You were the angriest person I have ever met in my life and you don't do a very good job hiding it. You have a grudge against life and a grudge against the world, and the saddest thing is that it has gotten you nowhere. Even today, at close to thirty-years-old, you haven't accomplished much if anything.
Your anger has consumed you and you almost took me along for the ride. I was so busy being into you, that I didn't realize that I was becoming you. I could never understand why things were so on and off between us. I could never understand why, for short times, it was so great and then all of a sudden, you were gone. You never left me for other girls, you left me to drink and to party and to do drugs. I became angry. I became bitter. I became desperate. I sought your attention in a really unhealthy way. Had my life not taken a sharp turn, I might still be in that drug-fueled, alcohol-induced craziness that you existed in.
I thank God every day for that sharp turn. I thank God for leading me away from you. The irony is that when the lines turned pink on that pregnancy test, I was sad because I knew it was the end of me and you, but the truth is it was a gift meant to deter me from the curse that was you. I see you on Facebook and I see you around still and I remember that moment when I realized that there was no hope left for the two of us and it still makes me sad.
You have so much potential. I think we had so much potential. I would have loved to say that I married my first love and to tell a story about how we met when I was fifteen and have been together ever since. But I wouldn't want to be married to you. Not to the person you were or the person you have become. You haven't become much, in fact. You are still a lost, angry kid. I hope that someday I see you and realize that you are happy, the way that I am happy. I wish you only the best and have no hard feelings. I've moved on. I grew up, fell in love, and settled down. I hope the same happens for you, but I know that it won't until you let go of all that rage.
I wish you peace and healing.
I can't believe the things that I did to get you to love me. I can't believe how hard I tried. It seems especially ridiculous now that I am loved by someone who wants nothing from me in return. I bent over backwards. I put up with endless bullshit. I loved you. You loved booze. You loved to party. You loved drugs. You were the angriest person I have ever met in my life and you don't do a very good job hiding it. You have a grudge against life and a grudge against the world, and the saddest thing is that it has gotten you nowhere. Even today, at close to thirty-years-old, you haven't accomplished much if anything.
Your anger has consumed you and you almost took me along for the ride. I was so busy being into you, that I didn't realize that I was becoming you. I could never understand why things were so on and off between us. I could never understand why, for short times, it was so great and then all of a sudden, you were gone. You never left me for other girls, you left me to drink and to party and to do drugs. I became angry. I became bitter. I became desperate. I sought your attention in a really unhealthy way. Had my life not taken a sharp turn, I might still be in that drug-fueled, alcohol-induced craziness that you existed in.
I thank God every day for that sharp turn. I thank God for leading me away from you. The irony is that when the lines turned pink on that pregnancy test, I was sad because I knew it was the end of me and you, but the truth is it was a gift meant to deter me from the curse that was you. I see you on Facebook and I see you around still and I remember that moment when I realized that there was no hope left for the two of us and it still makes me sad.
You have so much potential. I think we had so much potential. I would have loved to say that I married my first love and to tell a story about how we met when I was fifteen and have been together ever since. But I wouldn't want to be married to you. Not to the person you were or the person you have become. You haven't become much, in fact. You are still a lost, angry kid. I hope that someday I see you and realize that you are happy, the way that I am happy. I wish you only the best and have no hard feelings. I've moved on. I grew up, fell in love, and settled down. I hope the same happens for you, but I know that it won't until you let go of all that rage.
I wish you peace and healing.
Jeff
The first time I noticed you, we shared a high school honors English class. You sat across the room from me. I had a perfect view. Your eyes quivered and darted back and forth, never ending. It was a medical condition no one had been able to figure out. Something about you fascinated me.
Later, we shared a US History class. I sat in front of you and I would come into class reeking of cigarette smoke. You labeled me a "stupid pothead." You were the classic nerd. You were president of the chess club. You played Dungeons and Dragons. You were near-genius. I bet you that I'd score a better grade on the final and when I beat you by a few points, our fate was sealed.
We were the odd couple, and I don't know quite how it worked (when it was actually working). Like most of the boys I dated in high school, I was terrible to you. I cheated on you and used you and manipulated you and broke up with you.
I don't remember the timeline of our relationship anymore. All I have are fuzzy memories.
I remember you getting on top of me in your bedroom and choking me. I remember kicking you off of me and running out of your house, barefoot.
I remember you handing me a note in a darkened movie theater. The note said something like, "I am breaking up with you. Don't call me, don't email me. We are finished."
I remember discovering you online late at night, sneaking out of the house and into my parent's minivan to drive to meet you.
In my memory, our love was pure madness. A mentally unstable, wild, passionate teenage love that one can experience only through the deliriousness of youth.
I remember waking up on Valentine's day with my car full of balloons and a needle taped to the steering wheel. Inside of each balloon held a reason why you loved me.
I remember sitting in my parent's living room as you held my hands and casually told me that I was dead, and that if you stayed with me, your own death was inevitable.
I remember you calling me in the middle of the night to tell me that you were seeing someone else.
I remember walking out of the abortion clinic and seeing you in the waiting room, your head in your hands and tears in your eyes.
I had invasive dreams about you for years and years after we lost contact and I thought I would never truly get over you.
I believe now that time truly does heal all wounds. I very rarely think of you. No feelings remain.
I know now, when my blurred memories reveal the past, that I was bad to you and you were bad to me. I was not your victim. We were only just two troubled teenagers hungry for love, for something bigger than ourselves.
I have forgiven myself and I have forgiven you. And life marches on.
Rae
Later, we shared a US History class. I sat in front of you and I would come into class reeking of cigarette smoke. You labeled me a "stupid pothead." You were the classic nerd. You were president of the chess club. You played Dungeons and Dragons. You were near-genius. I bet you that I'd score a better grade on the final and when I beat you by a few points, our fate was sealed.
We were the odd couple, and I don't know quite how it worked (when it was actually working). Like most of the boys I dated in high school, I was terrible to you. I cheated on you and used you and manipulated you and broke up with you.
I don't remember the timeline of our relationship anymore. All I have are fuzzy memories.
I remember you getting on top of me in your bedroom and choking me. I remember kicking you off of me and running out of your house, barefoot.
I remember you handing me a note in a darkened movie theater. The note said something like, "I am breaking up with you. Don't call me, don't email me. We are finished."
I remember discovering you online late at night, sneaking out of the house and into my parent's minivan to drive to meet you.
In my memory, our love was pure madness. A mentally unstable, wild, passionate teenage love that one can experience only through the deliriousness of youth.
I remember waking up on Valentine's day with my car full of balloons and a needle taped to the steering wheel. Inside of each balloon held a reason why you loved me.
I remember sitting in my parent's living room as you held my hands and casually told me that I was dead, and that if you stayed with me, your own death was inevitable.
I remember you calling me in the middle of the night to tell me that you were seeing someone else.
I remember walking out of the abortion clinic and seeing you in the waiting room, your head in your hands and tears in your eyes.
I had invasive dreams about you for years and years after we lost contact and I thought I would never truly get over you.
I believe now that time truly does heal all wounds. I very rarely think of you. No feelings remain.
I know now, when my blurred memories reveal the past, that I was bad to you and you were bad to me. I was not your victim. We were only just two troubled teenagers hungry for love, for something bigger than ourselves.
I have forgiven myself and I have forgiven you. And life marches on.
Rae
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Dear Brent
You have a nervous habit of drumming your fingers on the closest and most available surface. It gives me my own, eye twitching anger twitch.
You gently suck/slurp the top layer of your hot coffee. It makes me want to scream.
You let the alarm clock go off, either until I kick you, or you hit snooze 8,643 times before you get up. What is UP with that???
You curl your upper lip oddly when you talk. You've been doing that since you were fifteen years old.
You type at a snail's pace. Although compared to my 115 words per minute, I suppose anything is snail pace. Still, it makes me want to elbow my way in and do it for you.
You draw up plans to make dozens and dozens of pieces of furniture and you rarely ever carry them out.
You spend money on things I think are stupid. You either buy them already broken, or when they do break, you never fix them.
You pay bills at an alarmingly slow rate, with paper and pencil and by-hand calculations. I have an Excel spreadsheet! With formulas! It's RIGHT THERE for you!!!
You watch the most boring television shows. Things on the History Channel and the Discovery Channel. I feel as if I can't handle another documentary on Hitler or The Universe.
You detest my adoration for the internet.
Your dance moves consist of basically just grinding on me and you look silly.
You wait way too long to shower after a long day on a construction site.
Attending your family functions mostly just drive me crazy.
I could probably keep on and on like this for forever. But here is the end-truth: I love you. I love that you wake up before 5 in the morning to work all day at a physically torturous job that you despise, just to provide for your family. I love that you spoil the crap out of us with things that I would feel guilty buying myself. I love that you are always cooking, that you produce gourmet meals when it appears as if there is nothing in the kitchen. I love that you always make me a late night snack. I love that you watch reality TV shows with me, even when you are wishing you could be watching your preferred program. I love your simplicity, your desire to just be happy with your family life. I love that you have aspirations and interests. I love that you love your relatives and want to spend time with them and want our children to know what it's like to exist in a big community of family. I love that you perservere through our crazy life on little sleep and practically non-existent time for yourself. And I love that you love me, even when I'm nagging and bitching and having an anxiety attack because you've hung the shirts on their hangers in the wrong direction. You deserve a medal, sir. A big fat one.
Love, Rae
You gently suck/slurp the top layer of your hot coffee. It makes me want to scream.
You let the alarm clock go off, either until I kick you, or you hit snooze 8,643 times before you get up. What is UP with that???
You curl your upper lip oddly when you talk. You've been doing that since you were fifteen years old.
You type at a snail's pace. Although compared to my 115 words per minute, I suppose anything is snail pace. Still, it makes me want to elbow my way in and do it for you.
You draw up plans to make dozens and dozens of pieces of furniture and you rarely ever carry them out.
You spend money on things I think are stupid. You either buy them already broken, or when they do break, you never fix them.
You pay bills at an alarmingly slow rate, with paper and pencil and by-hand calculations. I have an Excel spreadsheet! With formulas! It's RIGHT THERE for you!!!
You watch the most boring television shows. Things on the History Channel and the Discovery Channel. I feel as if I can't handle another documentary on Hitler or The Universe.
You detest my adoration for the internet.
Your dance moves consist of basically just grinding on me and you look silly.
You wait way too long to shower after a long day on a construction site.
Attending your family functions mostly just drive me crazy.
I could probably keep on and on like this for forever. But here is the end-truth: I love you. I love that you wake up before 5 in the morning to work all day at a physically torturous job that you despise, just to provide for your family. I love that you spoil the crap out of us with things that I would feel guilty buying myself. I love that you are always cooking, that you produce gourmet meals when it appears as if there is nothing in the kitchen. I love that you always make me a late night snack. I love that you watch reality TV shows with me, even when you are wishing you could be watching your preferred program. I love your simplicity, your desire to just be happy with your family life. I love that you have aspirations and interests. I love that you love your relatives and want to spend time with them and want our children to know what it's like to exist in a big community of family. I love that you perservere through our crazy life on little sleep and practically non-existent time for yourself. And I love that you love me, even when I'm nagging and bitching and having an anxiety attack because you've hung the shirts on their hangers in the wrong direction. You deserve a medal, sir. A big fat one.
Love, Rae
Papa
Travis,
You pester my mind in both good and bad ways, which I imagine is not too uncommon considering we have been married for just short of a decade. I will start with the negative so that we may end on a good note.
First off, you smoke like a chimney. I understand the desire to smoke, I still sneak one in every now and then. What I don't understand is the absolute nonchalant attitude concerning the severity of burning up a pack a day. You will die from this. It may not manifest as lung cancer, but it will manifest and it will kill you. I try and communicate with you about my desire for us to grow old together, preferably without you in an iron lung, or a hole in your throat that makes you sound like a robot. You genuinely do not care. I don't understand it and it drives me nuts.
Secondly, you are never satisfied with your vehicle. You build a bike, like it for a moment, sell it. You trade one car for another, throw money into it to make it what you want, see something else you like, trade again. It's like there is this enormous black hole in your soul that is calmed only when you feed it a new vehicle. I imagine this problem is genetic, as I have watched your father feed the same demon. Maybe it is a genuine love of something non living, which I will never understand. I take that back. My black hole eats clearance items, which would be the same if the items were thousands of dollars and took fixing.
Lastly here, in the bad section I must mention religion. It irks me beyond all things that you refuse to genuinely contemplate spirituality. This, like smoking, is something you just do not care about. You don't think about life after death, or miracles, or healing, or the tortured state of humanity and the human soul. All of these things are "Whatev." to you. The little bit that you DO think about or "know" is inaccurate and when corrected it is as if the correct information makes no difference in your opinion. You think the Bible is silly, yet you know nothing about it. You are faithless. You want God to come down and tap you on the back, yet you refuse to acknowledge that God exists just based on what you see everyday. You are the epitome of a man away from God and I wish you had any concept of His love for you regardless of that.
NOW, onto how you pester my mind in a good way!
You make me think logically. You question my reasoning and emotional response. You don't let me get away with being less than who I really am. You make me think outside of my self built box of ideas and beliefs. You push my buttons in a way that is almost as endearing as it is agitating. When I question you you give honest thought to what I may be asking, but always stay true to yourself even when it isn't what I want. You don't care that I don't understand certain aspects of you, and you don't change them due to my lack of understanding. You accept that I have some mental hangups, but never accept or let me accept allowing them to run my life. You push me, Decker. You push me to do things I need to do, but don't want to. You push me to think when I don't want to think and stop thinking when I am over thinking. You drive me crazy in so many ways, but I would not be the woman, wife, mom, daughter, sister, or human that I am today without you behind me. Behind this great woman surely stands a great man. I love you.
You pester my mind in both good and bad ways, which I imagine is not too uncommon considering we have been married for just short of a decade. I will start with the negative so that we may end on a good note.
First off, you smoke like a chimney. I understand the desire to smoke, I still sneak one in every now and then. What I don't understand is the absolute nonchalant attitude concerning the severity of burning up a pack a day. You will die from this. It may not manifest as lung cancer, but it will manifest and it will kill you. I try and communicate with you about my desire for us to grow old together, preferably without you in an iron lung, or a hole in your throat that makes you sound like a robot. You genuinely do not care. I don't understand it and it drives me nuts.
Secondly, you are never satisfied with your vehicle. You build a bike, like it for a moment, sell it. You trade one car for another, throw money into it to make it what you want, see something else you like, trade again. It's like there is this enormous black hole in your soul that is calmed only when you feed it a new vehicle. I imagine this problem is genetic, as I have watched your father feed the same demon. Maybe it is a genuine love of something non living, which I will never understand. I take that back. My black hole eats clearance items, which would be the same if the items were thousands of dollars and took fixing.
Lastly here, in the bad section I must mention religion. It irks me beyond all things that you refuse to genuinely contemplate spirituality. This, like smoking, is something you just do not care about. You don't think about life after death, or miracles, or healing, or the tortured state of humanity and the human soul. All of these things are "Whatev." to you. The little bit that you DO think about or "know" is inaccurate and when corrected it is as if the correct information makes no difference in your opinion. You think the Bible is silly, yet you know nothing about it. You are faithless. You want God to come down and tap you on the back, yet you refuse to acknowledge that God exists just based on what you see everyday. You are the epitome of a man away from God and I wish you had any concept of His love for you regardless of that.
NOW, onto how you pester my mind in a good way!
You make me think logically. You question my reasoning and emotional response. You don't let me get away with being less than who I really am. You make me think outside of my self built box of ideas and beliefs. You push my buttons in a way that is almost as endearing as it is agitating. When I question you you give honest thought to what I may be asking, but always stay true to yourself even when it isn't what I want. You don't care that I don't understand certain aspects of you, and you don't change them due to my lack of understanding. You accept that I have some mental hangups, but never accept or let me accept allowing them to run my life. You push me, Decker. You push me to do things I need to do, but don't want to. You push me to think when I don't want to think and stop thinking when I am over thinking. You drive me crazy in so many ways, but I would not be the woman, wife, mom, daughter, sister, or human that I am today without you behind me. Behind this great woman surely stands a great man. I love you.
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