Trying (Part 3: Begin Again)

I don't remember much about my toddler years. Most of my recollections are fuzzy snap shots placed far back in the album of my mind. I know that I was a willful child (but not unruly), slightly bossy and extremely sensitive.There are a few humorous stories of me clinging to grocery carts crying out for a Barbie that had to be pried from my tiny hands.

Apart from the typical "terrible twos" tantrum, I learned fairly early on how to push down my frustrations and repress my disappointments in favor of  keeping the peace. It was a natural occurrence. Typical middle child psychology (see: a deep seeded desire to be liked and accepted.) Confrontation was the enemy. (Minus a few knock down drag outs with my little sister of course.)


But every so often, no matter how docile the host, the happenings of  life will awaken a fury of emotions....



I wasn't more than 8 years old. I can still see the plush shag carpeting as I huffed and puffed my way up the stairs and slammed the door behind me. The reason for the banishment has long since faded from my memory, but the physical and emotional  reactions to my punishment are still within reach.

A tightness in my chest.

A lump in my throat.

My fists clenched tight.

Wiping the white-hot tears from my face.


I remember an overwhelming feeling that I hadn't been heard. I swallowed hard. Suddenly, the remedy to my plight became crystal clear.

I would make them hear me.


I needed to scream.


The lump in my throat seemed more like a boulder as I carefully unlocked the second story windows in my bedroom. The wet, sticky air filled my lungs and fueled my "noble" mission. With every ounce of courage I could muster, I opened my mouth and began to shout.

At first my rant consisted of the wrongdoings I had suffered during the "battle" with my parents earlier that night. That is until I noticed,


I could almost breathe again.


The mild scolding from my parents (which I'm certain I deserved) over some minor disobedience was no longer important. It had become something much more pressing. I dug deep into my diaphragm and loudly began to purge all of the problems that could possibly plague an 8-or-so year old girl. (You'd be surprised. It can be rough out there.)  Screams of frustration mixed with tears of liberation.

I had a voice.


It didn't take long before I heard a frantic knock at the door followed by an aggravated, "Christine Elizabeth! You stop that right now! The whole neighborhood can hear you!"


That was the point.


Of course I knew, as soon as the next day, that my flare-up was not the way to express myself. I wasn't brought up that way and I would never again involve the neighborhood in one of my "performances".

As wrong as it was, I haven't forgotten the freedom I felt in being able to lose myself and my hurt in a desperate, passionate, no holds barred, borderline-hysterical, temper tantrum.

In fact, there have been days, some very recent, where I have felt it-

The tightness in my chest.

The lump in my throat.


White-hot tears pouring down my face.


The desperation to be heard.



And  the once hidden urge begs to be released......

*******

I've walked the same path so many times (both literally and figuratively) to those mirrored double doors, behind which house dozens of women in every stage of fertility, that I'm certain you could blindfold me and spin me 'til I'm dizzy and I would still find my way in record time.



Here we go again.



I fully expected a Cheers greeting ("Hi Norm!") as I walked up to counter of my OB's office and fudged my arrival time, shaving off 10 minutes (as if that would get me seen any sooner.) The familiar faces merely nodded and smiled a generic welcome, waving me over to the row of empty waiting room seats. I chose one near the back, a perfect post for people watching.


The room was a buzz with new mothers quietly consoling their newborns, heavily pregnant mothers not-so-quietly consoling their rowdy toddlers and clusters of couples huddled together pouring over their freshly taken ultra sound pictures. I protectively rested my hand on my belly and smiled thinking that those moments might not be too far off.


The minutes ticked away until it was finally my turn to venture behind the swinging door. An ultrasound first, then Dr.F- the reason for my 2 little success stories. It seemed surreal to be starting this process all over again.

The ultrasound showed we were right on target for our newly discovered pregnancy- just over 4 weeks. The size of a sesame seed.


It's quite amazing that you can fall in love so deeply with something the size of a sesame seed.


And yet, mothers do it everyday.


When the mighty Dr.F entered the room he gave me even more reassurance that "The Seed" and I would have a successful journey together.


"I know you're scared given your history, but we've done this twice now," he said excitedly bobbing his head up and down, "there's no reason this won't work a third time."


No reason.


I carried his words with me and held tightly to them, convincing myself that we had found the answers. That this time would be different.


And when things began to fall apart- when I began to feel my body painfully ridding itself of my little seed of a dream, all I could think about was stomping up the stairs to my childhood bedroom. I wanted to throw open the window and let the world know that I have had more than my fair share of this horrible little game of "give and take."



I wanted to scream.


I wanted to be heard.


I wanted this to stop.




The heavy, dark gray clouds that lined the sky reflected my mood as I returned to the office to "officially" hear what I had spent days trying to deny. I laughed bitterly to myself thinking of the black bag overflowing with "new pregnancy" goodies- prenatal vitamins, formula samples, diaper coupons, all of which sat unopened on my dining room table. The generous gift that made me giddy with excitement just one week earlier was now a painful reminder of what wouldn't be.



Was this really happening again?


And not just the miscarriage- but me.


Was I really right back where I started? Scared, angry, my faith shaken and my world turned upside down?


Have I learned nothing?


How could I have gone from a place of such gratitude and contentment- so thankful for the miracle of my two daughters- to this place of  darkness and grief?


When my loss was confirmed and the necessary follow-up appointments were made, I wandered back through the lobby. Though a few tears had begun their escape down my pale cheeks, for some reason I resisted the urge to hurry to the door and instead took my time, scanning the faces of the waiting women. I'm sure now that it was a divine intervention, because just before I reached the exit, my eyes locked with a pair of equally moist, dark brown eyes belonging to a young women sitting in a wheel chair.


I recognized the look of despair and heartache that furrowed her brow and twisted her mouth.


It was only seconds of a stolen glance before she buried her face into a pile of tissues and I ran for the elevators, but the image has stayed with me.


She was a complete stranger and I knew nothing about the trial she was experiencing, but in that moment she helped me remember that I'm not alone. That this anguish isn't reserved solely for me.


Loss touches us all.



And over the next week, without so much as a stomp or howl or declaration from the second story window,


I was heard.


Because 'loss' has an unspoken language all it's own.


And with our individual losses we become better equipped with compassion and charity to comfort those who are suffering from the fresh wounds of an earthly battle lost.


This past week, I have been tenderly cared for by the hands of friends who know the power of a silent hug, a good meal and a "thinking of you" phone call.


I have been  blessed by the thoughtfulness of my beautiful family who continue to give selflessly of themselves to ease my burden.


I have been humbled by the sight of a woman and her teenage daughter standing on my doorstep with an armful of flowers meant for me.  It was only months before that this same woman was laying similar flowers on the grave of her stillborn baby girl, and yet, here she was, concerned for my grief.



We will never escape loss. So many people are struggling to reconcile the anger, confusion, and seemingly endless heartache that accompanies bereavement- and yet they make the decision to carry on, to use the searing pain for good...


....to show up on the doorstep of another in need and offer what's left of their broken heart.


I hope to continually carry these memories and moments with me through this unpredictable journey. I pray for the strength of those who courageously face each day and fight the understandable urge to scream and shout and curse their misfortune.


I long for the bravery of those who choose instead to seek out others who are mourning and help them,


to begin again.
 

Pitch Hitter: Thoughts From the Little Sis

I've had an unexpected week.  A week that I'm still processesing. Luckily my team of superheroes (because that's what my friends/family are- SUPER HEROES!) swooped in to save the day. One of whom is my little sister, Anne, who dropped everything to come stay with me and color my world happy. On top of that she's taking over my blog for this week's Bandit post!

So, without further ado, here is my lil' sister's musings about the things in life that she loves....

"Whence came and whither bound are we?

Holds something still of mystery;

But one grave thought is clear and plain,

We shall not pass this way again.”

~Eliza M. Hickok

I live my life in snapshots.


I love dress shirts on men, and the way their hands look at the end of crisp, white sleeves. I love singing so hard and so loud in the car that the old guy in the blue truck next to me can’t stop laughing at how seriously I’m taking my stop-light rocker-ballad. I love the smell of Mentholateum and the memories it stirs of my mother putting me to bed and rubbing my back---me sick with stuffy nose and achy joints. I love watching my older brother talk, act, sing, tell a story, gesture—a man born with the gift to command a room and deliver anything from a stand-up act to a sermon. I love staring at a full moon and feeling so completely small and like a child.


I love to observe in fine detail so as to greedily indulge myself with it later on. I love memories. I love capturing, extracting, emblazoning, branding, immortalizing the mundane, the sorrowful, the romantic, the entertaining, the bizarre, the uplifting. I do this both literally and figuratively. I write it, scrapbook it, take 38 pictures of it from six different angles. I bundle moments into bright bouquets of experience and hang them upside down in my memory to dry. I must preserve their zest, their color, for what are we, with out our memories? Who are we but a result of all things past?


Who are we, then, if we forget?

This passion to remember “days gone by” undoubtedly contributes to me constantly feeling like an anachronism. Translation: I wish I was born 100 years ago…even 80. I wish I grew up at a time when Hollywood was golden and women wore chiffon. I wish I lived on a farm and had milk delivered to me on my doorstep each morning in clinking, glass bottles. I wish I was that WWII nurse, panty hoes twisted, knees akimbo, caught in a “half-Nelson” half love lock with a celebrating sailor in the middle of Time Square.

(Anne in her past life.)

I wish I could go back.

I’ve never felt truly a part of the “here and now,” in this time that was designated for me. I don’t belong to the world of iphones, itunes, ieverything. I don’t like it. I don’t “get” it. Why is that?

Answer: I like to think it’s because I’m terribly nostalgic and a hopeless Romantic.

Real Answer: I don’t want to get it. I’m scared to death of what lies ahead.

I love the past because it’s sturdy and real. It's comfortable and worn, like my grandpa’s old flannel shirts. I love what the past made of my grandparents—what it made of most people who survived so much poverty and war: grateful, honorable, heroic. I love the past because the hapless chaos of the Sixties and Seventies made my parents ever so determined to give their children an ordered life complete with chore charts, timeouts, and time together. They gave us loyal love and purpose.

I love the past because it’s already been done. It’s already been battled out, prayed about, lost to, won back, gasped at, grieved about, sung through, laughed over. Lived. And they did it with grace.

I love it because I know how it ends.

For a girl who loves surprises, I’m strangely future-phobic. I don’t like the lack of control that comes from living so quickly, each day smearing into a week, then two months, then a year. All this made possible by anything and everything digital. We go so fast now! And I don’t love where we’re headed. I don’t love having 712 “friends” on Facebook and not knowing what’s going on in the lives of 682 because I never see them. I don’t love how dating and relationships have been reduced to 11pm texts that say, “S’up?” I don’t love the option of downloading a book and reading it on a glowing screen as opposed to holding the musty, dog-eared thing in my hands. I don’t love what robots we’re becoming.

If that’s what Future means, no wonder I dig my heels in and pull back against the tug of “progress.” Maybe I don’t want it. Maybe I don’t know how to handle it. Maybe I’m small-minded and afraid. I admit it. But is that really so terrible? Yes, I run to the Past and my pantry of waiting memories as often as needed. But I promise I don’t live there perpetually.

I promise I’ve managed to move forward and become a healthy, full-functioning adult in the 21st century. But I will always relish those moments when the power goes out and I’m suddenly thrust into the 19th century, candles lit (or flashlights…whatever) and faces of friends or strangers huddled together in the soft glow. I will always drink from the hose any chance I get because that gushing, metallic taste is my childhood, and my childhood was warm, and bright, sweaty, and breathless. I will always stare hard at the photograph of my grandpa Gordon as a young serviceman, trace his Kurt Douglas chin with my finger, and ache to know what it was like to be in his physical presence.

I will never stop loving those silver moments of history, whether my own or the world’s, that make me less afraid of my own future. So I might pick my kids up from school in a hover-craft someday. But if I do, I’ll be sure to tell them about my first car, a red, stick-shift Festiva the size of a can of yams. I’ll tell them how it feels to ride a bike without holding on to the handle bars, about running with my friends to the park. I’ll tell them about slowly walking to school and stooping to collect writhing worms from the previous night’s thunderstorm. I’ll tell them how it feels to stand still and absorb an Arizona sunset—how I always felt compelled to do it in silence out of total awe and respect. And then I might have to explain what silence means. So that evening, I’ll take them outside, tell them to watch, and remember...

************

"The Nanners" and Me

I know. I'm holding on tight to her coattails 'cuz I just know they'll get me into heaven!

PS. I haven't picked a topic for Miss Natalie next week.....any ideas?

Walk Beside Me

(Bandit post #2 "My Dad is a Dapper  Man.")

I can still remember the day we found out that we would be leaving our beachy paradise in Southern Florida and heading "half way across the world" to Arizona, the land of- well, dirt. It was quite a shock. My dad had the opportunity to pursue his passion of language and education at Thunderbird Graduate School and that meant packing up and heading out west. When I relayed the news to my friends at school the next day they came at me with a barrage of questions and comments.


"Will you have to live in a tee-pee?"

"I heard it never rains.......EVER."

"What about the beach?! How will you get to the beach??"




I'd be lying if I said I hadn't had the exact same thoughts.





I could count on my pre-teen hand the few things I knew about our home-to-be:

1.The movie "Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure" was filmed there.

2. Arizona was home to several Indian reservations.

3. It never rained.......EVER.


It was hard to say goodbye to the jagged rocks that jetted out from the surf where we nicked our toes and sat for hours observing sea creatures as the tide came in. We would miss the marshy fields that welcomed our games of "Ghost in the Graveyard" and "Sardines". We were all a little anxious as we watched the bright greens, brilliant oranges, and hot pinks of our tropical life swirl together in the rear view mirror as we made our way to a new home.

My parents have to be the bravest people to ever walk the planet because they opted to drive the entire family cross country, 4 kids, a minivan and giant moving van in tow. The hijinks that ensued were sitcom worthy but we managed to make it to Arizona in one piece. It was actually pretty fun for an 11 year old. (But I break out into hives just thinking about the nightmare it must've been for my poor parentals.)

It was during the last leg of our trip when I really began to take notice of the drastic change of scenery. Gone was the lush green growth that covered every inch of our Florida neighborhood. There wasn't a swamp or boardwalk in sight.  But there was brown.

Miles and miles of brown.


We had stopped to stretch our legs and refuel on the outskirts of Phoenix, when I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Dust filled my lungs and sent me into a coughing fit. The salty, moist sea air I had come to expect was long gone. This place smelled like...


brown.

It was about this time that I began imagining my new life in an adobe hut, tapping cacti for drinking water.

But as we drew closer to our destination, I began to notice clusters of cheerful (non- mud) houses, brightly painted playgrounds and even a few palm trees to remind me of our southern homestead. I had a strange and sudden peace come over me.


This place with it's many layers of  clay colored dirt and alarmingly dry heat, would be home.

It was quite amazing how quickly we all acclimated to our new life in the desert. In a flash my siblings and I  found our place with friends and activities. There was no time to be homesick. It was as if they had been holding a place for us here all along. We thrived.

My parents jumped into their new life with just as much gusto. Unfortunately, I was just a kid and  didn't notice the extreme sacrifices that were made to give our family this new start.


My father was going from a full time job to being a full time student. My mom was going from a part time student-aid to a full time teacher. Their income was cut considerably (as most of you teachers can imagine) and their time together practically nonexistent. But this is the beauty of my parents.

We didn't feel a thing.


My mom spent 10-12 hours a day wrestling 7th graders, doing anything and everything she could to spark some interest in our nation's history (up to and including staging a "sit in" in the principals office) and then came home to a heap of adolescent drama under her own roof. I'm not sure how she ever resisted the urge to pull a "Marie Osmond" and leave us kids to fend for ourselves, taking off in our minivan down the AZ highway and never looking back. If anything she did the opposite, never making us feel secondary to her pressing demands as a working mother. Whether it was helping us perfect an essay for a DAR scholarship or whipping up a fabulous, themed-out birthday party, we knew we were her number one priority.


And my dapper dad? He somehow managed to juggle school, work, church, husband and daddy duties without even so much as a study hall. He even included us in his education, convincing me to take freshman Japanese so that we could study together since he was taking Japaneses courses as well. (FYI- My dad has the gift of tongues-for reals! He can speak German, Portuguese, Japanese, French, Spanish, and bits and pieces of a whole slew of other languages. Have you heard of "Op Talk?" Yeah, well my dad has, and he can speak it!) It was fun having our own secret language. We could ask each other fun things like, "Where is your closest toilet?" and "Shall we go to karaoke together?" and the rest of the fam was none the wiser. I liked being a part of his world.


My dad worked hard and soaked up every ounce of school. He's one of the smartest men I know. I don't know how a giant corporation didn't scoop him up and put him to work immediately, but they didn't. A lesser man would've have dug his heels in and thrown a tantrum, scoffing at the sub par offers that came his way. He was worth so much more. We all knew it. Even the people offering the jobs knew it. But like my mom, who pushed through her exhaustion to make sure we all had the attention we needed,

my dad put us first.


And when it became apparent that student loans and everyday living expenses of a family of six were becoming a drain on our family budget, he got a second job. On Sunday evenings, after a full day of church responsibilities and helping kids with last minute homework assignments, my dad would kiss us goodbye and head off to work at the post office.

Every so often on my way home from a late night church activity I would see my dad walking home, suit coat draped over his arm, back lit by the flickering street lights. He made that walk alone, to and from work every Sunday all in the name of supporting his beloved family. I searched his face for some trace of bitterness or anger. I was always surprised at the genuine contentment he reflected back.


One day during a conversation with my mom I asked her if he regretted leaving his corporate job in Florida considering the trials they had faced in our new home.

"We've talked about that," she said, resting her hands thoughtfully on her hands. "You know what he always says? That he's certain the reason we came here was to give you guys a better life, and because of that he doesn't regret it for a second."

I thought about our blissful childhood filled with good friends and happy memories. I thought about my husband, who I never would've met if we had stayed in The Sunshine State. I thought about how content I am to be here, in the land of dirt, and how I don't even want to think about leaving.

Contrary to what I believed at the time of our move, my dad had so much more in mind for his family than just his career ambitions. The move was for us.


There's a line in one of my favorite "whenever it's on I have to stop and watch it" movies, Little Women. A fellow teacher, Mr. Mayer, had just complemented Jo March's keen debating skills, stating  that she "should've been a lawyer" to which she replied:

"I should've been a great many things, Mr. Mayer."

My dad should've been a great many things, but instead he chose to sacrifice the glory and splendor of chasing down a high profile career for the opportunity to be great at one thing:

A father.


He has walked down many a road alone without any hope of worldly recognition all in support of the family he cherishes. This was never more apparent to me than at the end of my 17 mile/28 hour relay race last summer.

I was running my last mile. It was raining. I was soaked to the bone and exhausted.

I slowed to a brisk walk, praying that I would find the strength to pick up my legs and continue running, but the only thing running quickly were the tears from the corner of my eyes down my already glistening face.

I couldn't go on.

I had reached a turn in the road leading to the final stretch, when I saw him.


My dad.


Our eyes met and a giant smile spread across his rain soaked face. "Alright Chris!!" he jogged over to meet me holding a "Go Christy" sign above his head. "You're almost there!"

"I-I'm so tired" I sputtered, my sobs swallowing most of my words. "I just need to walk a minute."


Without saying a thing, my dad slowed his pace and walked right beside me.

Though we walked in silence, his presence warmed my tired soul and filled up what I had lost along my grueling journey. He gave me the endurance I needed to finish the race. My feet picked up and his strength carried me across the finish line.

(Yes. I felt as bad as I looked.)

My dad has been down many a road, ready and waiting if we should ever turn the corner and find ourselves unable to run.

And he has walked beside us, cheering us on when we didn't believe we could take another step.

He moves quietly through life, making sacrifices that go unnoticed by many, so that his children will have the tools to finish the race.

He gave us so much.

He gave us a home.

He is home.

(PS. My Bandit topic for next week: "Touching on a Topic I Love". Hmmmm, is writing about cake appropriate?)

LOVE/HATE

So sorry I don't have a BANDIT post for you today! Natty's sweet Gram passed away which had her traveling last week and our best intentions were foiled by that unpredictable beast we call " Life".   But, you can see her Bandit post on the topic from last week here.

And next Wednesday I will a have post on my new BB topic from Natalie, which is, drum roll please.....


"My Dad is a Dapper Man".


*blink*


Are you imagining my Dad as this guy too?

Isn't he fancy?

Well, rules are rules. Whatever topic I'm given, of that I must write. So get out your top hat and shine up your monocle. We're about to get dapper up in here!

***************************

Since you're already here, and I've warmed up my chair and I have a few of these to keep me company, I wanted to record a few thoughts I've been having, well pangs really, about my little girls.

They've been naughty.

I find myself having to continually give them the same instructions over and over and yet, they completely disregard them. I'm not asking for the moon or my pre-baby body back, just a very simple request:

STOP GROWING.

For some reason they think it's hilarious, dissolving into a fit of giggles,  anytime I make this demand. I don't think they realize that I am quite serious. That I died a little when Mia just couldn't squeeze her feet into her first pair of ballet shoes anymore and  when didn't want me to hold her hand at preschool drop off. That my heart felt like it could very well burst as I watched Ava walking off to first grade, not a speck of concern that I wouldn't be with her the entire day.

I'm trying not to panic. I'm resisting the urge to shout, "Just kidding!" at their teachers and take them immediately home so I won't miss a second of their fleeting childhood. I want to resist the inevitable,

but I also want to enjoy every stage of their lives.

I have what you would call  a love/hate relationship with those little girls getting less and less little.  And I'm pretty sure I'm not alone.

Love: That my girls are getting tall enough to cover most of my flab (caused from having them and maintained by eating these) in pictures. I'm pretty sure in every family picture since Ava reached 3 feet I've "coincidentally"  maneuvered myself to be right behind her, my white knuckles grasping her shoulders, whispering, "Don't move!" through a clenched smile.

Hate: That they're getting tall! Their limbs have quadrupled in size and seem to resist being cradled and rocked at all hours of the day. They much prefer running, jumping, dancing and twirling.......naughty limbs.

Love: That they have their own ideas, thoughts and opinions. That they tell jokes that make no sense to anyone but them, and laugh harder because of it. That they sing at the top of their lungs to a melody only they know.

Hate: That I don't have as much control over what fills those little minds. That they might listen to someone else who may tell them they are "less than", or "not enough". That there is any chance of them losing an ounce of their shine to a "Spindle".

Love: That they are becoming aware of all the fabulous music in the world. That they can sing songs ranging  from ABBA to The Frames, and a dozen musicals in between. I can't help but smile when those sweet voices cut through the music and wander up to the front of the car.

Hate: They are becoming very aware of music. Even the "not so appropriate for their age group" kind. Like, for example, when Mia was asked by her Sunday School teacher what her favorite church song was and she belted out, "Bad Romance" by Lady Gaga.

*sigh* 

I blame Glee.

Love: That they are discovering how to build new relationships. Our rides home are filled with chatter about who shared a toy with them, who played with them at recess, who invited them to a birthday party. It's amazing to see them sharpen their social skills and seek out the personalities they are drawn to. And let's be honest, no one wants their kid eating lunch alone, or heaven forbid,  picked last for freeze tag. (Do kids still play freeze tag?) So it does my heart good when I hear little voices cheer and excitedly greet my girls as they walk up to school.

So far we've avoided wedgies and slam books and girls named "Heather" telling them to "Beat it, you Dweeb!"..........so far.   (I just made it sound like my girls go to school in a 1985 Teen Wolff movie, didn't I?)

Hate: Knowing that the drama can't be prevented, especially for girls, and that one day there will be a "Heather".

Love: How one teaches the other.

Mia: "Mom, what does 'creepy' mean?"

Ava: (before I could answer) "Creepy means....like, when you see a Big Foot." (??)

Ava: "Mia, you can tell someone was good when they were little because they are pretty when they are big."

Mia: (her eyes wide, contemplating her 3 years of rascally behavior) "Ohhhhh!"

Ava: "Mommy must've been a really good little girl."

Me: (Not saying a word, just giving Ava the biggest hug EVER!)

Hate: The thought of the little girl magic fading away, leaving them to see how flawed and unfinished I am.

Hate: That Back to the Future wasn't based on a true story. That I can't hop in Doc Brown's time machine and revisit every blessed stage of their sweet lives.

Love: Them.

*picture by the amazing Danielle Paynter

Sleep Walking

It wasn't a fairytale.


Although, to look at the infant dressed in a long, white gown, a crisp bonnet adorning her head, it surely seemed fitting of a princess.


And if you squinted your eyes and tilted your head up to the ceiling, the modest church had an ever so slight resemblance to the cathedrals of yesterday, many of whom were frequented by the regal and royal set.


Certainly if you closed your eyes completely and listened as the haunting melodies of the organ music drifted just above the quiet conversations in the crowded chapel, you would feel akin to the noble men and women who long ago witnessed the prince and princess sealing their new marriage with a kiss.


It seemed to emulate some fable lifted from a story book as an array of guests arrived from near and far to see the infant.


But, those who had encircled the newborn babe were not a ring of fairies waiting to present their magical gift, but rather a gathering of men- father, grandfather, brothers, uncles, friends- not one of whom had a sparkling wand in their possession. And in place of the magic spell cast by a winged pixie, was a pure and powerful prayer.


A blessing.


The father, not a King or imperial figure, but noble in every sense of the word, reverently spoke of the gifts he wished for his daughter. He blessed the child to walk in faith.  To recognize that she was born to goodly parents who would never lead her astray. To always remember the truths she had been taught. To know her value, her infinite worth. It was a blessing meant to instill the knowledge that her nature, though lacking any evidence of royal blood, truly was divine.

There was another purpose to the benediction. A request for the safe keeping of their beloved girl. For the parents of the young child knew that the witches and warlocks of bedtime stories were no match for the dangers of the real world. They would do their best to create a "castle" of love and encouragement, but there would still come a day when their daughter would need to venture out on her own and encounter the spindles of life...

I can see it clear as day.

The colorful array of plastic chairs. The pea green chalkboard covered with the painted masterpieces of juvenile artists. The "naughty word" some punk sixth grader had carved into my desk.

It was fourth grade art class.

And it was the day I would encounter my first Spindle.

The assignment was simple. For weeks we had been studying the beauty of experimentation and free form expression while learning the history of Modern art. We watched as our teacher, who consequently, jingled while she walked thanks to her love of silver bangle bracelets and dangle earrings, passionately described the movements that contributed to the Modern trend: Cubism, Surrealism, Abstract Expressionism!  We could barely separate one from the other but her enthusiasm was contagious. And now it was our turn. We would be part of our own movement! Each of us were given a large piece of poster board and an array of paints and supplies. For the next hour we would be artists,

or maybe even artistes! (ooh la la)


I opted for several containers of fluorescent paint and several giant paintbrushes. The crisp, black bristles turned to a lovely shade off fuchsia as I lowered them into the thick stain. A tingle ran across my shoulders as I watched my plain, white paper come alive with purple swirls, turquoise squiggles and lime colored swooshes. It was only after I heard the familiar clinking and clanking of my teacher coming up behind me that I finally laid my brush to rest.

"Class, Class! Everyone look up here for a moment." I froze as one of her bedazzled hands reached out to grab my beloved creation. "I want you to see what a wonderful job Christy did on the assignment. You can tell that she painted with passion." The way she said the word passion, with a slight (horrible) French accent, made it seem so exciting, so....important.


I was beaming.

She loved it!

That had to mean something right? I mean, if you could've seen her long swishy skirts and kicky berets, they just screamed "Paris Underground". Surely she knew what she was talking about?


I carefully scrolled my name across the top of my painting and set it on a table to dry, lingering just a minute more on my pride and joy. I skipped on the short walk to my desk. Once settled I scanned the room looking for my ever present "posse". It was time to check out my fellow artists-in-training.


"Hey guys!" I whispered excitedly, waving to my two friends seated several rows over. "Did you finish your paintings yet?"


*silence*

Confused at the response, I leaned forward in my chair and tried again.


"H- Hey guys?!  Can I see what you painted?"


This time my question was met with two sets of squinty eyes and  a pair of upper lips raised to form a snarl. I  watched as one whispered to the other then laughed and quickly turned her head around showing me her back. The other followed suit, flipping her hair as she turned.


My heart sunk.


What just happened?

I risked humiliation and a possible "name on the board" situation as I walked across the room to their desks. I crouched behind a table so as not to be seen by the teacher and made a final attempt at reaching out to my two , er...best friends? (We'll call them "B" and "H".)

"What's wrong B?" I squeaked. The lump in my throat was threatening to blow my unaffected cover.


"You just think you're so great. We saw you. Do you think you're better than us because the teacher liked your picture??" She spoke as though she smelled something foul, her face twisted with disgust. I turned my gaze to H, hoping for some hint of  disagreement, but she just nodded, her eyes reflecting the same hostility.


I wracked my brain, trying to understand what I had done to give them the impression that I had felt at all superior to them. Sure, I had a lot of fun with the assignment and it was always nice to receive praise (I was the middle child after all) but at no time did I ever present myself as anything special.

As if she could somehow hear my inner monologue, B explained her reason for taking offense, "You thought you were a real artist or something, signing your work all proud: 'By Christy Gordon'. Why would you do that? It's just a bunch of lines and shapes."

That's when I felt it.

 A prick.

It started with a sharp pain in my heart and dissolved into a hundred little pin pricks traveling through my body.

Instantly tears trickled down my face and I sunk to a crumpled heap on the floor. That was how I felt right then, a crumpled heap of sadness. I had to get rid of this feeling.

"Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-" I was searching for the words to describe what I had done. I honestly had no idea. "...make you mad? I really don't even like my picture. Your pictures are way better."

It didn't matter that  my words burned like acid in my throat before they reached my lips, it seemed to fix the problem. And maybe they were right. Maybe it was a stupid picture unworthy of the signature proudly displayed in the top corner. Suddenly, their opinion of me seemed far more important than my own.


I walked over to the counter, grabbed my picture


and tossed it into the garbage can.




I glanced back at my two friends. Their scowls had turned into giggles. B waved me over. I quickly wiped my eyes and threw on a  plastic smile. It worked. My sacrifice had won back their friendship.

Talk of my art class soon turned to who would have the next sleep over and what we were going to be for Halloween. I happily joined in, grateful to be included again. The sharp pain was gone, but now a new sensation had taken it's place.

I was numb.

Asleep.

Not a physical sleep, but spiritual, emotional. A small part of my soul lay unresponsive where before it ran free and whispered to the greatness of my potential.


She shall prick her finger, on the spindle of a spinning wheel....


It was only the beginning of many Spindles to come.


..and come they did.


The relentless teasing  I received from boys on the playground.


The teacher who made light of my struggles with math.


The friends who gained self esteem by striping mine away.


The boy who carefully erased any trace of pride or dignity with his abuse.


Every prick sent me a little further into slumberland  and a little farther from loving the girl in the mirror.

We all have similar stories, I'm sure. Moments in our life where we felt the sting of a Spindle and relented to it's power. Many of us have let the opinions and insults of others slowly entrance our knowledge of who we are and what we stand for- clouding our self worth- until we find ourselves captive in a thorny tower of our own creation, unable to awake from the nightmare of self hatred.

I've been blessed to heal from the careless words of children unaware and people long since removed from my circle of loved ones. In this stage of life, it's my own self doubt and disgust that threatens to be a sleeping potion to my soul. There are days when I have become the villain in my own story.

I have slumbered in that very tower, longing for the valiant white knight to set me free. And while a handsome prince is always a blessing (having secured one of my very own I can assure you it's wonderful) he has no power over my release.

Because this isn't a fairytale.

Life isn't meant to be a fairytale. It may seem unfair that Sleeping Beauty's Prince did all of the work- hacking through the prickly gates and slaying the beast. The Princess was rescued, not a hair out of place or blemish to be seen. But what did she learn? What would we gain if our troubles were magically disappeared by a fairy godmother? (Besides The Pumpkin Mobile and really uncomfortable shoes?)

The many pricks and pokes that we experience may seem debilitating at the time, but our story is far from over. We are built to withstand these trials and a hundred more like them. It may be a messy fight and our skin may be torn and bruised, but with every swing of the sword our eyes will be opened and the whisperings of who we truly are will return.

You are of great worth.

You have a purpose.

You are loved.



One by one they will replace the drowsy thoughts of yesterday and the spell will be broken. The thorns will relent, the beast will surrender and the true beauty of the castle that encases our heart will shine through the once dismal fortress.


That is when our story truly takes flight....


and we begin the journey to


Happily Ever After.

**************************************

The Bandit's pick for next Wednesday's topic : TBA (My fellow Bandit is out of town for her Gramma's funeral.)

Cowboy Up

Lately I've been struggling with making the time to post consistently on this here blog.


I know what you're thinking:


"Christy, with all the floods, famine, wars and celebri-taunts heading off to jail,  posting on your blog is what you're 'struggling' with??"


And to that I say....


YES.


I'm just that clueless.



...and I'm even bigger into cliches. So I'm 'bout to drop a big one on you. Because, you see...



This blog is my journal. (BOOM!)


Did you feel that?




I know that is probably one of the most over-used descriptions of why it is so fetching (bringing back an oldie-but-goodie with that one. Holla at me Utah!) important for us to do "the blog", but also quite true. The idea of leaving honest snap shots of my life for my girls to go back to when I'm no longer here is very important to me. (Not too mention the warm fuzzies I get with every comment I receive, no matter how misguided the compliments are. You guys are waaay too nice to me. I'm sure that will change once you get to know me better.)


All of this very important thinking that I've been doing on the subject of blogging led me to having a conversation with one of my FLAVORITE bloggers (and people)  Natalicious. If you don't know her, picture the sassy spunk and tiny thighs of Tinkerbell mixed with the morals and wisdom (and tiny thighs) of Jiminy Cricket. She's Disney's dream come true. She's also a great motivator, which is why I found myself bouncing ideas off of her tiny thighs a few days ago:

"I want to post more, but I have no motivation," I whined, over the phone, while licking the wrapper of a Symphony chocolate bar.


"I think that would be possible if you didn't use up all of your energy feverishly licking every last ounce of chocolate from your candy bar wrappers," (I'm pretty sure) she thought to herself, concerned.


"I think you should. I'd like to as well. Maybe we can try something together?" she actually said, out loud, because she's way too nice and tiny thighed to ever say or think something like the above quote.


"That *slurp* would *snarf* be fun !" I warbled enthusiastically, in between licks of the runaway chocolate that made it's way to the phone's receiver and the crook of my arm.


"For heaven's sake! I'll buy you more chocolate! Please stop attacking those crumbs like a pig routing through garbage!" (I'm pretty sure) she thought to herself,  although she never really would because she lives by the acronym "WWJD", or "What Would Jiminy Do?"

No, no. That would've never crossed her mind. In fact, she's been enabling my chocolate habit for years. (Just the other night she sent me a text offering me "a fix" of Texas sheet cake. "The first one's free, Christy" Uh-huh.)



Instead my sweet friend sat there encouraging me until we came up with a plan to motivate each other. And since lately I've needed a "gun to my head" to keep me on track with writing, the idea was born:



BLOG BANDITS.

Once a week, each of us would "hand over" our blogs to each other (in true bandito style) and let the other choose the topic we would write about for that post. The bandit can choose to ask a question, post a quote for you to comment on, or simply give you a one word topic to write about.  The sky's the limit. No matter what the bandit says, you MUST write about their topic of choice and you MUST post it every Wednesday.


And for fun, I'm going to write every bandit post in character while wearing a handkerchief and chewin' tabacky.


So there you have it. Starting next Wednesday both Natalie and I will be taking each other's blog "by the horns" and forcing one another to write about the things we choose for topics.


While I begin work on a nicotine addiction.

 *spit* (clank!)





Y'all come back now, ya here??


***************************

THE BANDIT'S TOPIC of choice for my 9/15/10 post:

"Awakening Sleeping Beauty: We are the hero of our own story."


(I told you she is Disney's dream!!)

Trying (Part 2: Boxed In)

The worn edges of the photograph held the memory of a wispy haired, blue eyed toddler. She stood barely three feet tall, skinny as a rail, but when you hear the tales of this mighty tot fearlessly defending her freshly built fairy houses from the likes of several rough and tumble boys, you'd think twice before passing judgment on her tiny frame.

Another figure stood close to the child. She was beautiful and unpredictable- an imperfect mixture of grace and vitality. Your eyes couldn’t help but be drawn towards her legendary cheek bones- the frame that supported the world's softest cheeks, prompting you to come back two and three times for bedtime kisses. Those magnificent cheeks were noticeably pink, as they often were due to the fact that she would almost certainly blush any time the attention of the room was on her. Posing as the subject of a photograph was no different. They seemed to transform to their darkest shade of crimson if ever the lens of a camera happened to catch her unaware. (I often wondered if she harbored an undisclosed fear that the camera might reveal her innermost secrets, the way she habitually averted her eyes ever so slightly so as not to look directly at the "soul catcher’s" lens.) Practically every candid picture of her seemed to capture the moment just before she settled into a pose.

Regardless of her camera shy ways, here she stood, in this photograph, next to her pixie of a daughter. Her loose blouse covering an uncharacteristically swollen belly- the universal sign of new life to come.


If anyone else had happened upon this photo, they would’ve seen just that- an adorable little girl and an expectant mother. Even if they had lingered for a moment to comment on the mischievous sparkle in the child’s eyes or to take in the unassuming beauty of the woman next to her, the contents of the photo wouldn’t have held much significance for the viewer.


Unless you were this particular viewer.

On this particular day.....

There was a reverence in the room as she sat sorting through her father's belongings. It's what you do when a loved one passes away, no matter how deep the pain or heart wrenching the act.  But she was familiar with the task. It was only a year earlier that she had been in that very room packing up perfume bottles and worn down lipsticks with her father sitting silently at the kitchen table in the next room. And now, that image still fresh in her mind, she returned to the room, this final time, ceremoniously  folding up worn plaid shirts and placing them in boxes.

Memories flickered in and out of her mind like an old movie strip as she opened drawers and cleaned out closets. She forged ahead, doing her best to focus on the work in front of her- anything to avoid the emptiness of the room, which, only days earlier, had housed the warmth and comfort of her father. It was only after she came across a tattered shoe box, high on the closet shelf, filled with old photographs, that she allowed herself to succumb to the wave of emotions swirling around her. Her tears blurred the faded faces that looked back at her. She poured over the photos, smiling to herself  as she recalled the priceless moments each one captured.


At first glance she didn't notice anything unusual about the next picture. She probably marveled at her mother's beauty and admired her younger self's white-blond curls. Until she noticed her mother's flowing top was sheltering a round, protruding abdomen.


Her mother was pregnant.


This seemed impossible at first because, though there were three older siblings above her, there were none younger than her. She was the baby.


How could this be?


Her mind searched for answers but the confusion soon faded into sorrow as the situation became clear.

Her chest grew tight and she blinked back a fresh stream of tears as she slowly realized  the weight of what she was ultimately witnessing;


Her mother had been pregnant....

until she wasn't.


She lost the baby.




Years after my grandparents had passed away- somewhere in the middle of our trials with pregnancy- my mother shared this heartbreaking discovery with me. She also shared the flood of images that suddenly made their way into her conscience memory in the weeks following the unearthing of that precious picture.

....my grandmother packing for the hospital.

....my mom going to stay at her "Auntie's" house for a length of time.

....watching as my grandmother laundered and hung a basket of maternity clothes on the line to dry, packed them up, and sent them to the local thrift store while stating cooly:

"I won't be needing these anymore."


After that, she never spoke of it again.


My heart dropped to my stomach as I pictured my Grandma calmly boxing up her emotions, just as she had her clothes, and storing them on some abandoned shelf, behind a door she vowed  never to open again. I imagined there were days when an unexpected trigger led her right back to the dreaded door. When life sent her into a spiral of despair and those feelings she so carefully boxed up made an unwanted appearance, disrupting the numbed state that had become so comfortable to her, so necessary to continue.


And I wept for her.



Because this was not her only loss. In fact, no one knows the exact number of miscarriages she suffered. But what we do know, is that she struggled and she spent a great deal of her life trying to pick up the pieces of her broken and battered heart. Although she did her best never to speak the actual causes of her distress, they couldn't be contained. When she wasn't careful, it would seep slowly into her everyday, or sometimes, erupt-


with a BANG.



And I weep, because I know this all too well. Because I inherited this dangerous trait. Because, somewhere, down a dark hallway, stands a door to the closet where my most painful and uncomfortable memories sit. Each one delicately placed in it's own box, high on a shelf, meant for no one to see......and for me to forget.

But we never really forget.



I found myself exactly in this state of denial as I sat there, once again, fiddling with the crinkly paper liner of the exam table. Half  listening to our OB explain the progesterone treatments and blood thinners that he was certain were going to "do the trick" this time.


It hurt to be back here.


I had become such a pro at nodding and smiling during these discussions with Dr. F.  I had come to expect, well,  failure for lack of a better word and today was no exception. Strangely, I had become comfortable with defeat. But suddenly, with his guarantees of "effectiveness" and stories of past successes, a new emotion was trying to break free from it's box high on a shelf:


hope.


And with that one word, all the other feelings that I had so "cleverly" abandoned came rushing back as if I was feeling them for the first time.


It was the most terrifying sensation.


On the drive home I found myself purposefully staring straight ahead. I did my best to avoid the crisp, white packages I'd received from the pharmacist that lay on the passengers seat next to me. They had already done enough damage to my facade. I felt my protective outer shell weaken as our doctors words echoed in my mind.

This could work.

Once again I felt the familiar sting of emotions I had long since banished from my heart. I wasn't sure I had the strength to go back there.

Because in truth, my body had already begun rejecting this 8th pregnancy and I couldn't imagine that packages as small and seemingly worthless as these could contain the miracle I had been praying for.


I sat in front of my husband, discouraged, as I recounted my thoughts about taking this "new road" to fertility.


It was pointless.

We'll only get our hearts broken.


My sweet husband looked straight at me and held tightly to my quivering hands.


"Let's take this one chance. Please."



That was all it took.


There in his eyes, I saw enough strength for the both of us. He was the reason I could continue on. Because no matter what lie ahead, I had married the most beautiful safety net.


With doubts still firmly planted in my mind, we held hands



and jumped.



I'm pretty sure neither one of us took a deep breath for nine months straight.



At first, the familiar symptoms of miscarriage continued. I had been bleeding for weeks and was positive no amount of "magic pills" could save this fledgling pregnancy. However, after several weeks of  progesterone treatments, I began to notice a change.

The bleeding stopped.

The heartbeat continued.

......and I.felt.HORRIBLE.


You would think that last one would've sent me into a panic or at the very least,  cause a few curse words to escape from under my breath, but no. I was elated!! I was never so happy to throw up in my trash can at work or bless the existence of a Big Gulp cup in my car during the commute home. Every time my body rejected last night's spaghetti or an early morning bowl of cereal, it gave me further hope that it wouldn't reject our baby. (I don't think I've ever written something so gross yet so sweet in all my life.)


HOPE.

There it was again.



Only this time I chose to ran towards that dark hallway,

throw open the closet door

and stand on the tips of my toes to reach the dusty box that  Hope called home.


And I wept.


Because I had missed it so. Because I was empty without it. Because I was ashamed that it took me so long to get here.


It's not very brave, finding hope only after things start to go your way.  I was disappointed in my lack of faith, at how broken I had become.


I said a prayer of gratitude for my husband- my marvelous lifetime supply of  fortitude, all wrapped up in a handsome bow. His strength was the reason we were here. He chose to look for miracles. He was the reason I found hope.



It wasn't long after that we found ourselves driving down a familiar road to a familiar building. We had made it to the fourth month. I wouldn't have believed it if not for the soda crackers and apple juice I had stashed in my purse to stave off the nausea. We smiled nervously at each other as we made our way back to the ultra sound room.

As if the thrill of hearing that precious heartbeat wasn't enough, today we would find out the sex of our little miracle. Old habits seemed to die hard, as together we drew deep breaths and listened- hoping for the best, but secretly preparing for the opposite.


THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP


If a choir of angels had been in the room singing arias from heaven, I don't think they would've compared to the beauty of that sound.


We released what seemed like the longest breath in history and chose instead to cut off each other's circulation with a "hand hold" that rivaled the U.S. Arm Wrestling Championship while we turned our attention to the ultrasound monitor. This was it. We were about to give our baby a name.


"Alright, let's see...." 

Dr.F quietly hummed to himself as he examined the images on the screen, and then-


"It looks to me like you're gonna have to get used to pink......'cuz it's a girl!"


A GIRL!


It's a wonder our poor, weary hearts didn't explode with excitement.


I looked over at my beaming husband and wiped a tear from his cheek, ignoring the downpour of tears gushing from my own eyes. We had cried in this very room so many times before, but never these tears.

Oh how we relished in these tears of happiness, of relief and gratitude. If we had thought about it at the time, I'm pretty sure we would have bottled them up and set them on a shelf where we could see them everyday.


After a slew of ecstatic phone calls to loved ones, and hours of  playing "what will she look/act/think/talk/be like", the night turned quiet, making way for one last resolution.

"We've cried enough," Adam declared, more to himself than to me.

"I'm not going to cry again until our daughter is in my arms."


And he didn't.



Because thankfully, the next 5 months were filled with nothing but giddy anticipation and readying our home for the precious little rosebud. (Okay, there were quite a few dashes to the ladies room, restless nights, hormone induced freak outs and over flowing bladders as well-  but they far out weighed the alternative.) The anxiety didn't leave us completely. There were quite a few days I stood waiting for the other shoe to drop. But for the most part, we had a calm assurance that everything really would be


 just fine.



I was induced, so there wasn't any surprising "Oh my gosh! My water just broke in this taxi/grocery store/elevator!" moment, which I was slightly bummed about, seeing as how they always looked so exciting in the movies. No matter. We had plenty of excitement pulsing through our veins as we pushed through the   intimidatingly large double doors leading to the maternity ward. At one point, I couldn't stop shaking, thanks to my nerves, causing a pretty funny "c-can't get my pants off to p-put my gown on" moment. (Not as funny as the movies, but I did what I could.)

My nerves calmed a bit and we seemed to settle into a rythym that included ice chips, old movies, and cat naps (most of which were interupted when some random person in scrubs came to check out "the business".) It seemed an eternity before I felt a strange sensation and suddenly broke into a cold sweat. I felt nauseous and irritated. I had heard about this feeling from other mothers.

"Transistion"

or  in other words,

"The baby is COMING!"

I called for the nurses who immediately informed me that since this was my first baby, she was sure I still had a long way to go....

.....until she checked out "the business".


"Um, we're gonna need the doctor in here STAT!" 

("STAT?" I guess I did get my movie moment.)


The rest of the experience seemed to be a whirlwind of laytex gloves and people yelling " 1-2-3-PUSH!" (Which I did because I'm very obedient.) It wasn't until I saw the doctor holding up a bright pink, squirming/screaming angel that the chaos faded away.

 No, stopped.


I stared for a moment in disbelief. The doctor, seeing my state of shock, sweetly prompted me,

"Go ahead. Take your baby".  (Which, again, I did because of the whole "obedient" thing.)


I was trembling.


So was she.

A big, beautifully delicious vault of "mother's instinct" seemed to open up right then as I instinctively held her close and soflty "shh-shh-shh" and "it's okay-ed" my new baby girl.



"We've been wondering when you would get here,"  I whispered into her tiny ear.

"Welcome home."



The feelings that rush over you when you hold your baby for the first time are so overwhelming, so divine. It's quite impossible to put them into words. Your heart expands and fills up with so much love,  it's almost painful. You will never forget it, and yet, you can never quite reach that moment again. It's true description lies in a word that can never be defined.

While I sat, staring at our little rosebud- fresh from heaven, I heard the sound of stiffled sobs coming from the chair next to me.


He had kept his promise but now, the levy broke.


And he wept.


Because he didn't have to be strong anymore. Because the nurse called him "Daddy". Because he could hardly comprehend the love he had for our precious bunny. Because he was witnessing a miracle.


Our miracle.







It's hard to admit (mostly because that ending makes my heart do a happy dance) but our struggles did not end there. There was another loss after our sweet Ava and a very scary beginning to our second miracle, Miss Mia.  But that's just it- we were given a second miracle! They aren't rationed out like mashed potatoes from the lunch lady. Miracles can come to us over and over again- in all forms. The time table can be confusing and down right painful, but they will come. 


Even if you have to walk through fire to get to them.




We will always need the miracle of science and medicine to build our family. But, I know that I'm not alone in this struggle. I know and love many who have suffered similar losses, and many who have suffered losses I would never be strong enough to overcome. It's these unsung heros that give me strength, fill me up, and remind me of the gifts I've been given on the days when I almost forget.

Heros like my sweet Grandma.


I picture her now,  gathering up the little angels that have yet to come, cradling those who came and went to quickly.


..and the tears fall once more.


The good kind.


Because I can see her, basking in the sunlight where there used to be darkness.

Because I can hear her, rocking my little ones-to-be and whispering, "Not just yet."

Because I can feel her....




....and that gives me hope.