and suddenly, everyone is a writer
everywhere you look someone is writing something you should have written first
and you think...damn
remember that skinny kid that wanted to be sent to her room
just so she could read and dream and write?
you had a diary by the time you were seven
when you still thought all boys were like your younger brother
and nobody was cooler than your mother.
whatever happened to that little pink book
with pink pages
and a gold padlock?
you can't even remember what it used to say
no that's a lie.
and here you are today
what do you have to show for it?
still a wannabe
clacking away on a computer
posting pieces of your mind that very few people read
putting yourself out there
but not enough to get noticed
not enough to get criticized.
that's always been your way.
Monday, January 12, 2009
november sunrise
We rise early and walk hand in hand to the seashore. There is a chill in the air but we have a blanket and each other's arms. We sit down and wait for the light to peek over the horizon, laughing and joking.
We have had so few of these moments lately. I want more of them. What most couples take ten years to experience we have spanned in ten months. It seems as though fifty years has gone by since we met and yet it still seems like only yesterday.
Here we are, it's beautiful here, with the sand, the sea, the sleepy sun yawning into the brightening sky. It's as though we've only just fallen in love, nothing to worry about, no billsbabydoctorsjobsfightsfamilygameschoreserrandsillnessaccidentschurchobligationssurprisesemptywalletsboringnightsgossipLIFE to get in the way.
It's just so...easy here. I relax into your chest and your chin rests on my hair. And I remember the first day I saw you.
It was like seeing the sun rise on a cold day.
We have had so few of these moments lately. I want more of them. What most couples take ten years to experience we have spanned in ten months. It seems as though fifty years has gone by since we met and yet it still seems like only yesterday.
Here we are, it's beautiful here, with the sand, the sea, the sleepy sun yawning into the brightening sky. It's as though we've only just fallen in love, nothing to worry about, no billsbabydoctorsjobsfightsfamilygameschoreserrandsillnessaccidentschurchobligationssurprisesemptywalletsboringnightsgossipLIFE to get in the way.
It's just so...easy here. I relax into your chest and your chin rests on my hair. And I remember the first day I saw you.
It was like seeing the sun rise on a cold day.
labor day
You were born on a Thursday.
Your doctor scheduled a labor induction for the early morning of October 9, 2008, at the hospital in Mount Pleasant. We were not alone. Your father was there, and your godmother and another old friend of mine were there too.
We waited for hours. It rained. I slept. I wasn't allowed to eat. I was given an epidural and the doctor ruptured my membranes. More hours passed. Eventually I was informed that you would be born via cesarean.
I was terrified. I cried. I said I wanted to go home. Phones were ringing like sirens. I cried, cried, cried. I yelled to turn the phones off. Nobody listened. I was in a panic. I knew I had to do it, to see you. But that didn't mean I wanted to.
They wheeled me in to the operating room. It was bright and cold, hopeless, like ice. I became sick. They prepped me; set up a blue paper barrier. It was almost time, they said.
I asked for your father. Where is he?
He's coming.
Where is he?
He's on his way.
Finally, just before they sliced into me, he was there at my side. He held my hand and kissed my forehead. I started to cry. He sang our special song in my ear. I closed my eyes.
I barely felt the knife on my belly. I could feel the pull of your body against mine, trying to break free.
She has hair, the doctor said.
For the first time that day I cried tears of joy. To know something about you after wondering for so long was all I needed to understand this was the right thing.
When they brought you to me, I couldn't hold you, I wasn't allowed. But I got to touch you, whisper that special song in your ear as your father had just done.
I love you a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck
And then you were gone and I was asleep.
When I awoke, your father brought you to me. You took right to my breast. It was a miracle. It was all I could have hoped for. I couldn't stop smiling. I swear it wasn't the morphine.
You have his hair, his eyes, his ears, his toes.
You have my nose, my mouth, my cheeks, my hands.
You weighed seven pounds, nine ounces.
You measured twenty-one inches long.
You hit a nine-point-nine on the APGAR scale.
You were born at six-oh-four in the evening, Eastern Standard Time.
You were born on October 9, 2008.
You were born on a Thursday.
Happy Birthday, Betsy.
Your doctor scheduled a labor induction for the early morning of October 9, 2008, at the hospital in Mount Pleasant. We were not alone. Your father was there, and your godmother and another old friend of mine were there too.
We waited for hours. It rained. I slept. I wasn't allowed to eat. I was given an epidural and the doctor ruptured my membranes. More hours passed. Eventually I was informed that you would be born via cesarean.
I was terrified. I cried. I said I wanted to go home. Phones were ringing like sirens. I cried, cried, cried. I yelled to turn the phones off. Nobody listened. I was in a panic. I knew I had to do it, to see you. But that didn't mean I wanted to.
They wheeled me in to the operating room. It was bright and cold, hopeless, like ice. I became sick. They prepped me; set up a blue paper barrier. It was almost time, they said.
I asked for your father. Where is he?
He's coming.
Where is he?
He's on his way.
Finally, just before they sliced into me, he was there at my side. He held my hand and kissed my forehead. I started to cry. He sang our special song in my ear. I closed my eyes.
I barely felt the knife on my belly. I could feel the pull of your body against mine, trying to break free.
She has hair, the doctor said.
For the first time that day I cried tears of joy. To know something about you after wondering for so long was all I needed to understand this was the right thing.
When they brought you to me, I couldn't hold you, I wasn't allowed. But I got to touch you, whisper that special song in your ear as your father had just done.
I love you a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck
And then you were gone and I was asleep.
When I awoke, your father brought you to me. You took right to my breast. It was a miracle. It was all I could have hoped for. I couldn't stop smiling. I swear it wasn't the morphine.
You have his hair, his eyes, his ears, his toes.
You have my nose, my mouth, my cheeks, my hands.
You weighed seven pounds, nine ounces.
You measured twenty-one inches long.
You hit a nine-point-nine on the APGAR scale.
You were born at six-oh-four in the evening, Eastern Standard Time.
You were born on October 9, 2008.
You were born on a Thursday.
Happy Birthday, Betsy.
two hearts
I imagine you curled tightly as a snail within me, a coil of hope and anticipation as you sleep in the cradle of my womb. When you move, I liken you to a little goldfish, twisting and shimmying in the sea of my belly. When you are removed from me, like the pulp of a pumpkin being hollowed out, it is my face that will light up like a jack o'lantern. When you cross the portal and are given to me, I will hold you tightly to my chest, a squirming poker hand. My smile will make it apparent to all that I've finally done something right in this game of life. I will kiss you, count your fingers and toes, tell you your name. I will be selfish in the matter of sharing you. I will not want to give you up. I will not want to let you down.
Your father cannot understand as I already do how it will be between you and I. We will fight. It will be a brutal, interminable war, one which we will fight until you are as old as me, and only then will it be clear that we are on the same side. He has already told me he cannot imagine you being as hostile with me as I was with my own mother. But I know. You're already a fighter and you already like to stir things up - my stomach moves with all the turbulence of a stormy sea; you're a tiny hurricane charging toward land. I know what's coming. I am as prepared as I can possibly be, but there will be damage. There always is. And each time, you will think it is the apocalypse. I am ready. I wish I could help you to be ready, too.
I hope as every mother does that you will grow up to have the best of your father and me. My memory; his patience. His hair and eyes and smile. My nose and my giggle. Of course I have dreams for you. I want you to love books. I want you to excel in math and science, as I never could. I want you to be kind, honest, and intuitive. I want to be there for everything. Your first laugh. When you start walking. When you say you own name for the first time. I want to teach you things, like how to throw and catch a baseball, and how to read, and how to find shapes in the clouds. I want to teach you how to do a cartwheel but I can't do one myself. Maybe you'll be the one who teaches me.
When you no longer move within me, I will have already begun the painful process of letting you go. The world will all at once close and open upon you and you will be instantly fixated on dominating it. I will miss you, and I am acutely aware that joy and pain cohabitate inside a mother's heart as she watches her child grow up - a bittersweet experience. Yes, I will miss you, but I will hold on to the hope that one day, you will turn to me and understand everything about us. You will run headlong into my arms, pressing your weight against my belly, reminding us both of a time when we were one.
Your father cannot understand as I already do how it will be between you and I. We will fight. It will be a brutal, interminable war, one which we will fight until you are as old as me, and only then will it be clear that we are on the same side. He has already told me he cannot imagine you being as hostile with me as I was with my own mother. But I know. You're already a fighter and you already like to stir things up - my stomach moves with all the turbulence of a stormy sea; you're a tiny hurricane charging toward land. I know what's coming. I am as prepared as I can possibly be, but there will be damage. There always is. And each time, you will think it is the apocalypse. I am ready. I wish I could help you to be ready, too.
I hope as every mother does that you will grow up to have the best of your father and me. My memory; his patience. His hair and eyes and smile. My nose and my giggle. Of course I have dreams for you. I want you to love books. I want you to excel in math and science, as I never could. I want you to be kind, honest, and intuitive. I want to be there for everything. Your first laugh. When you start walking. When you say you own name for the first time. I want to teach you things, like how to throw and catch a baseball, and how to read, and how to find shapes in the clouds. I want to teach you how to do a cartwheel but I can't do one myself. Maybe you'll be the one who teaches me.
When you no longer move within me, I will have already begun the painful process of letting you go. The world will all at once close and open upon you and you will be instantly fixated on dominating it. I will miss you, and I am acutely aware that joy and pain cohabitate inside a mother's heart as she watches her child grow up - a bittersweet experience. Yes, I will miss you, but I will hold on to the hope that one day, you will turn to me and understand everything about us. You will run headlong into my arms, pressing your weight against my belly, reminding us both of a time when we were one.
the gift
I believe God has a purpose for each of us while we are on this planet. Finding it isn't difficult; it is, however, difficult for us to accept it when our purpose is presented to us. Just like anything else in life that God hands to us that may take a little work, oftentimes we want nothing to do with it.
So it goes without saying that my calling, though slammed into my face constantly over the course of my young life, was until recently refused by me. My calling is to teach and to guide others. Whether that be a group of high schoolers, or a handful of toddlers, this is my purpose in life. With my becoming "accidentally" pregnant - I emphasize the adjective because I don't believe anything is accidental in God's eyes - I have come to realize that my latest teaching endeavor will be presented in my role as a mother. It will be up to myself, and my husband, to guide our daughter through life and raise her to be an individual of strong character and faith.
I was told as a young teenager that it would be unwise to become a housewife, as though being a housewife and mother would classify me as uneducated. Certainly, this is the stigma that comes along with leading this kind of life. However, if it brings me peace, who is anyone to judge? Being pregnant changes alot of things, most especially one's outlook on life. Becoming a mother - I can only imagine how that will further transform my existence. Sacrifice is part of the package, but martyrdom is not what I seek. I want respect for my choice, but I am willing to accept that any type of motherhood is a catch-22. If I returned to work, I would be labeled as selfish and neglectful. And since I choose to stay with my child at home, I will be labeled unintelligent and overprotective.
This does sound like a losing situation no matter how you slice it. But I believe God is speaking to me. There is a reason my daughter is coming. She is the best surprise I could ever have been given. And I am going to strive to be the best mother she can ever know.
This is my calling.
This is my purpose.
My life is her life.
So it goes without saying that my calling, though slammed into my face constantly over the course of my young life, was until recently refused by me. My calling is to teach and to guide others. Whether that be a group of high schoolers, or a handful of toddlers, this is my purpose in life. With my becoming "accidentally" pregnant - I emphasize the adjective because I don't believe anything is accidental in God's eyes - I have come to realize that my latest teaching endeavor will be presented in my role as a mother. It will be up to myself, and my husband, to guide our daughter through life and raise her to be an individual of strong character and faith.
I was told as a young teenager that it would be unwise to become a housewife, as though being a housewife and mother would classify me as uneducated. Certainly, this is the stigma that comes along with leading this kind of life. However, if it brings me peace, who is anyone to judge? Being pregnant changes alot of things, most especially one's outlook on life. Becoming a mother - I can only imagine how that will further transform my existence. Sacrifice is part of the package, but martyrdom is not what I seek. I want respect for my choice, but I am willing to accept that any type of motherhood is a catch-22. If I returned to work, I would be labeled as selfish and neglectful. And since I choose to stay with my child at home, I will be labeled unintelligent and overprotective.
This does sound like a losing situation no matter how you slice it. But I believe God is speaking to me. There is a reason my daughter is coming. She is the best surprise I could ever have been given. And I am going to strive to be the best mother she can ever know.
This is my calling.
This is my purpose.
My life is her life.
hammock
Family is most likely the strangest social group our culture embraces. And I do mean, AMERICAN culture. We are already selfish, self-centered, self-indulgent people as a whole - in fact, we are self-named these things. That's right, we know we are and we are disgustingly proud of it. We continue to breed more selfish Americans by the millisecond. And then we get the idea that we can all come together and get along.
In a culture where everyone is taught they are unique and what they have to say matters, nobody actually listens to what another person has to say. It is especially true in the American home.
I love my brothers. They love me. That's not to say we don't have harbored resentment toward one another. For the longest time they thought I was stuck-up, snobby, a stick in the mud. Then suddenly I was a silly slut. I don't know what the older one thinks of me now; I do know we're back to where we were when we were little kids, friends. The younger one of course just thinks I'm old. And I am old, older than him anyway, and old enough to have a child of my own. I've thought many of the same things of them, maybe because they are boys: They were both troublemakers, rude, loud, annoying, dirty, into illegal activities, smelly, irresponsible. Okay, so one of them is still like that. The other one, I respect and admire, he turned out really well. Sometimes I even envy him, but mostly I miss him because he's always working.
Now let's throw in stepsiblings. Officially, legally, they aren't my steps, but they have been a part of my life now since I was eighteen. They have thought many of the same things of me that my brothers have, and I of them. There is a girl, my stepsister. We are both the eldest in our biological families, and I am older than her by about eighteen months. We have a strong bond now, but that's only because we went through the "hatin' stage" with each other. We did the REAL growing up together. And you know what - we're very different, she and I. In our details. But when it comes right to it, we value the same things.
I have often harbored the suspicion that my family - certain members of them - believe me to be the following things: humorless, ambitionless, flaky, irresponsible, dishonest, a follower, of less than average intelligence. Talk gets around in a family. This is why gossip in high school is as cruel as it is - we learn the rumor system from our elders in our home lives. It's worse with family, though. You have to LIVE with them. You have to see them and wonder if that's how they really feel about you for the rest of your life.
Time for in-laws! I love my in-laws. I truly do. But mixed with my family, it was like a landmine field. Every five seconds someone was stepping on a mine and it was exploding while they were here - be it me, them, my father, my mother, my grandparents, my siblings. It was a very hard time for everyone, when it was meant to be a joyous one, and I often worry that they came away from it thinking: OUR SON MARRIED THE BITCH QUEEN OF FAKE.
For some reason it isn't enough for me to know that I'm really pretty awesome. Just because I know that, doesn't mean everyone else does. I generally like people, and they generally like me. Sure there are some people I'd love to slap into the next Ice Age...but then I step back and realize there are people who think that same thought when they think of me. Kinda sucks, doesn't it? Especially when some of those people are members of your family. Trust me. It isn't only me. You've got that problem in your family too.
Sometimes I feel like I'm all twisted and tangled in this ridiculous net of family ties and I'll never get out. I'm knotted up tight and anxiety gets the better of me, and suddenly I'm fighting, straining to prove myself to these people. These People. Who they hell are they anyway? Where did they come from? Where are the ones who loved and protected me? Sure I'm an adult now. But sometimes I really feel as if I'm facing off with my family.
And then there are, increasingly now, more times than others when the net is like a gently swinging hammock, and all the ones I love are nestled in it with me. Because when it comes right down to it, I DO love every one of them. Everything is full of life and light. We're quiet and happy because we're together. I understand that the best thing about embracing yourself is looking at those you love and seeing yourself in them, that maybe being a little engrossed with who you are isn't such a selfish thing after all. We're all in this hammock, this life, together. And I look up at the sky, and all I can see is blue.
In a culture where everyone is taught they are unique and what they have to say matters, nobody actually listens to what another person has to say. It is especially true in the American home.
I love my brothers. They love me. That's not to say we don't have harbored resentment toward one another. For the longest time they thought I was stuck-up, snobby, a stick in the mud. Then suddenly I was a silly slut. I don't know what the older one thinks of me now; I do know we're back to where we were when we were little kids, friends. The younger one of course just thinks I'm old. And I am old, older than him anyway, and old enough to have a child of my own. I've thought many of the same things of them, maybe because they are boys: They were both troublemakers, rude, loud, annoying, dirty, into illegal activities, smelly, irresponsible. Okay, so one of them is still like that. The other one, I respect and admire, he turned out really well. Sometimes I even envy him, but mostly I miss him because he's always working.
Now let's throw in stepsiblings. Officially, legally, they aren't my steps, but they have been a part of my life now since I was eighteen. They have thought many of the same things of me that my brothers have, and I of them. There is a girl, my stepsister. We are both the eldest in our biological families, and I am older than her by about eighteen months. We have a strong bond now, but that's only because we went through the "hatin' stage" with each other. We did the REAL growing up together. And you know what - we're very different, she and I. In our details. But when it comes right to it, we value the same things.
I have often harbored the suspicion that my family - certain members of them - believe me to be the following things: humorless, ambitionless, flaky, irresponsible, dishonest, a follower, of less than average intelligence. Talk gets around in a family. This is why gossip in high school is as cruel as it is - we learn the rumor system from our elders in our home lives. It's worse with family, though. You have to LIVE with them. You have to see them and wonder if that's how they really feel about you for the rest of your life.
Time for in-laws! I love my in-laws. I truly do. But mixed with my family, it was like a landmine field. Every five seconds someone was stepping on a mine and it was exploding while they were here - be it me, them, my father, my mother, my grandparents, my siblings. It was a very hard time for everyone, when it was meant to be a joyous one, and I often worry that they came away from it thinking: OUR SON MARRIED THE BITCH QUEEN OF FAKE.
For some reason it isn't enough for me to know that I'm really pretty awesome. Just because I know that, doesn't mean everyone else does. I generally like people, and they generally like me. Sure there are some people I'd love to slap into the next Ice Age...but then I step back and realize there are people who think that same thought when they think of me. Kinda sucks, doesn't it? Especially when some of those people are members of your family. Trust me. It isn't only me. You've got that problem in your family too.
Sometimes I feel like I'm all twisted and tangled in this ridiculous net of family ties and I'll never get out. I'm knotted up tight and anxiety gets the better of me, and suddenly I'm fighting, straining to prove myself to these people. These People. Who they hell are they anyway? Where did they come from? Where are the ones who loved and protected me? Sure I'm an adult now. But sometimes I really feel as if I'm facing off with my family.
And then there are, increasingly now, more times than others when the net is like a gently swinging hammock, and all the ones I love are nestled in it with me. Because when it comes right down to it, I DO love every one of them. Everything is full of life and light. We're quiet and happy because we're together. I understand that the best thing about embracing yourself is looking at those you love and seeing yourself in them, that maybe being a little engrossed with who you are isn't such a selfish thing after all. We're all in this hammock, this life, together. And I look up at the sky, and all I can see is blue.
pre-parenting
You're missing it all.
You're missing their first leap off the swing, the first time they write and spell their name on their own, the first time they use the bathroom without someone having to remind them.
Yesterday I taught your son how to throw a Frisbee. Me, someone who technically isn't a part of his world, but actually I am part of his world. For six hours a day and five days a week we are together. Your kid and me, and I'm showing him how to grow and watching him do it.
Where are you? For the most part you're at home, or out shopping, or at a yoga seminar. You're planning a ski trip with the family but you have to bring in an outsider to keep your children out of your hair. You're missing it all.
Your little girl calls me Mommy. I tell her constantly who I actually am, she won't listen to me. All day, every day, any time she sees me, her arms fly up to my waist and she smiles and says, "Hi Mommy." Where are you? Who else does she confuse with maternal obligation concerning her little self? I'm there to see her be a little monster, biting and kicking at her friends, most likely her way of showing her confusion. Not where is Mommy - who is Mommy.
You're missing it all.
Do you even notice it?
If you did, would you change?
You're missing their first leap off the swing, the first time they write and spell their name on their own, the first time they use the bathroom without someone having to remind them.
Yesterday I taught your son how to throw a Frisbee. Me, someone who technically isn't a part of his world, but actually I am part of his world. For six hours a day and five days a week we are together. Your kid and me, and I'm showing him how to grow and watching him do it.
Where are you? For the most part you're at home, or out shopping, or at a yoga seminar. You're planning a ski trip with the family but you have to bring in an outsider to keep your children out of your hair. You're missing it all.
Your little girl calls me Mommy. I tell her constantly who I actually am, she won't listen to me. All day, every day, any time she sees me, her arms fly up to my waist and she smiles and says, "Hi Mommy." Where are you? Who else does she confuse with maternal obligation concerning her little self? I'm there to see her be a little monster, biting and kicking at her friends, most likely her way of showing her confusion. Not where is Mommy - who is Mommy.
You're missing it all.
Do you even notice it?
If you did, would you change?
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