Downward

I'll pick you up. 

Your tiny tears.

Your chubby cheeks.

Glistening. 

I'll hold you.

Rock and sway.

I'll sing. 

Offer my breast.

Later, I will offer band-aids.

Kiss.

Magic touches.

Made up words.

I'll love you. 

Soothe you.

But you'll have to pick yourself up.

Someday.

You'll have to learn to lift your legs.

You'll be angry.

Because I won't carry you.

But I can't.

And someday, you'll understand. 

Little People, Big Falls

When I first had my son, I was scared I would drop him. Like some entity would take over my body and force me to let go of his tiny body and watch him fall to the floor. Lucky for me, this never happened. He did squirm out the bottom of a stroller once (it was more of a carriage with no leg holes, just an open space), while my back was turned for what couldn't have been more that 2 seconds. He hit my moms tile foyer floor and I am pretty sure I cried more than he did.

As a toddler he ran into and fell over any number of things. Giant purple forehead knots were par for the course. Sometimes I had irrational fears that he would be that one kid, you know the one you hear about every now and then, who got a seemingly innocent bump on the head and then died of a brain bleed a few hours later. Again, this never happened.

Getting older he got a little less clumsy, and falls became less frequent. At least, the skinned knees, bumped heads kind. Physically falling down is less likely the more sturdy you become on your feet, but mentally and emotionally, the sturdier you are on your feet, the more life you experience and with that comes a whole new sort of tripping, falling and bumping; a sort that takes a much larger toll than bloody palms or goose egged noggins.

First Real Fall #1 - Diagnosis OCD/Generalized Anxiety

Jesiah was around 5 when he started obsessing over things . He would have a thought that he considered "bad" and rather than let it pass over his psyche like most kids or people, he sat in it. Stuck on it. Allowing that one thought to saturate his mind (obsession). This would lead to anxiousness, a feeling that something was wrong with him and the helpless desire to turn whatever the thought was off. The only thing that seemed to help him was to tell me what he was thinking (compulsion). Every. Single. Time. So this translated to a constant dialog between myself and my 5 year old where I was trying to explain to him that it was okay to have a thought he didn't like, that it is what you DO with the thought, and him in no way understanding that he was okay. That it was all okay. I am sure you can imagine how draining this was for both of us.

So we put him in play therapy, which I didn't ever really understand, but it worked. He figured out how to work through stuff with the help of a very eccentric middle aged woman and her one room office full of toys from up to 6 decades ago. After every session she would explain to me what was going on in his little brain, all of which was learned by watching him create kingdoms with turtle knights riding mythical creatures and hedgehog sisters eating pretend spaghetti. Like I said, I never understood it but it helped so we drove the hour out of town once a week for a year to see her. The diagnosis was as stated above and this wouldn't be the last time it reared its ugly head, in fact it really was only the beginning, but it was proof that he could and would continue to work through it without any sort of medical treatment.

First Real Fall #2- Not Meeting Academic Standards

Jesiah was late to do everything. The kid didn't talk till he was 3. At the end of his kindergarten year we were given the option to either move him on or keep him back. His teacher said she wasn't sure he would do terribly in the first grade, but she also knew he was not meeting criteria to not struggle. We decided the best thing was to move him up and see how he did. He did not do well. His kindergarten teachers failed to fully explain exactly how far he was behind. Going into the first grade he barely knew his alphabet and didn't understand anything about phonetic sounds. Immediately the school let us know he would need to be in whatever program they offered for kids in his situation which was less than a few hours a week. I decided the only way to catch him up was to home school him for that year. He was reading within the first week being home, but we were both also doing a lot of crying and yelling at each other trying to figure out what we were doing. I never did figure out the mom/teacher combo and it was certainly to his detriment. Hardest. 9 Months. Ever- in the mom department. But, he got it and went into second grade no problemo. He still struggles with difficult concepts and it does take him longer to catch on to certain things, but again, his resiliency proved more than adequate and he is a pretty average 5th grader academically speaking.

First Real Fall #3- Bullies and Stuff

My kid is eccentric. He wanted both his ears pierced at 5 and has on his own accord rocked a really tall mohawk in numerous colors on numerous occasions. He is a clown, a total goon with questionably inappropriate dance skills. He isn't uber athletic, doesn't care too much for professional sports, but kills it in the drama department. All that to say, he has been, for most of his boy/kid life, a bit of an easy target. We have had to go to the school admin at least once every year since 2nd grade because of the word "gay". At one point there was physical violence against him on the play ground. He has had to ask what the word "fag" means and come home from school crying more times than I can count. And like I said, he is only a 5th grader. Unfortunately for potential friends, he has a hard time making friends. He is pretty sensitive and does seem to attract people who take advantage of that. Don't get me wrong, he can be stubborn and has said some mean things to people every now and then, but generally the elementary school world is really missing out on the amazingness that is Jesiah Brady. Realizing this stuff might be a little more for him than what the average kid is dealing with we got him into his second round of therapy, this time to help with social skills and what not. He was blessed to end up with one the most kind and amazing people I have ever met, who adored him and the hour she spent with him every week for another year, and will always have a special place in my heart. Again, this kid at 10 has proved resilient in a way that blows my mind.

Big falls can happen to little people. Don't make them feel like what they think is HUGE isn't, and don't let them stay down.

Appx.8 in the Grandparent Department.

The most difficult part about being a military family is never knowing where you will end up. I remember when I first got married it seemed so exciting, the idea that every 4 years we would get to go somewhere new. I spent most of high school career jumping from school to school simply because I never wanted to stay any one place too long. Admittedly, I have for most of my life been a bit of a "runner". I feel overwhelmed or bored and just go somewhere else. Not a healthy way to handle business. I lived in the same home from around 3 to 9, but at 9 I not only moved to a new house, but a new country. From there we hopped from house to house a handful of times and then eventually back to the states and into a house that would be my mom and step-dads home till I got married. I moved out early and then went back and then out and then back- you see the pattern. All of this to say I don't feel like I can blame some constant shifting of life on my becoming a runner. Maybe you are reading this and live in the same city you grew up in with your parents in your childhood home right down the street and you think my story certainly has the potential to cause a runner. Maybe you are right, I am sure I don't know, what I DO know is the constant moving of a military lifestyle was greatly appealing to me.

So here I am 11 years and 3 states later and ALL I WANT IN THE WORLD IS TO GO HOME. The moving has been an experience. We have made some AMAZING friends and had both great years and less than great years. There is real heartbreak though. The heartbreak is that aside from my mom and her husband, who we were stationed near for 4 years, my kids haven't had to opportunity to really know their grandparents. Both fortunately and unfortunately, they just so happen to have REALLY AMAZING grandparents.

Our family is what some people would think of as something along the lines of "The New American Family". I don't really like that term, but I say it because both my dad and my husbands mom are in same sex relationships. My mom is remarried and my husbands dad is currently unmarried, but he was married and even she was great. Every man and woman my kids could technically call grandma/pa is really a unique, loving, self sacrificing, awesome human who certainly has the ability to pour greatly into the lives of my kids.

A couple weeks in the summer is only a couple weeks in the summer. All of these people work very hard and I don't know the last time you looked at airfare, but it is OUTRAGEOUS (especially flying all the way across the country). Because of work and money and lack of much vacation we simply don't see each other nearly as often as any of us would like which means my kids are MISSING OUT.

They are missing out on my dads never ending patience and desire to sit on the floor with them for hours building blocks or chasing butterflies. They are missing his partner Clays contagious positive outlook and motivation to get out and see the world. They are missing out on their Mimi Trina's creativity and the ability she has to see amazing potential in less than amazing things. They are missing out on their Yaya Stacy's work ethic, contagious laugh and stellar sense of humor. They are missing out on their grandpa John's laid back, good timing, never ending bucket of car knowledge.

Despite all this missing out- we as a family have been BEYOND BLESSED to have my mom and step-dad David within reach these past 7 years. They have been the sort of grandparents that everyone hopes thier kids will get to have. They are selfless, unconditionally loving, mountain moving, candy fountains and my kids adore them. I have never seen love so blatant as I have been able to witness watching these two with my children.

Lucky for us, we ARE headed home in a few months and I will have the opportunity to witness not only that crazy love, but also all the little things everyone has to bring to the table, get to work inside my kids. You don't get to pick your family, and you barely get to pick your in-laws so I consider myself BLESSED TO DEATH to have so much of what I desire and enjoy on both sides of that fence.

Grandma.

My kids are lucky to have two amazing, yet very different, grandmothers. And from September 2013-present, their grandmothers have taken a very active role in their lives.

In September 2013, I left. I was gone basically the whole year. Dave was alone and he was the sole caretaker and guardian. During this time, my mom and his mom stepped up admirably. 

They babysat, sent him home with endless leftovers, and supported him in any way that they could. I can't speak for Dave, but I will never forget what they did for him and for my kids. 

Grandmas are amazing. They fill a role that no one else can and they give a brand of unconditional, self-sacrificing love that even mothers can't quite achieve. They do this while not having the same rights and privileges that parents do and usually when they're at an age where they've earned the right to some rest. 

My mother in law, in particular, still works full time and she's back in colleges. And she still had time to pick up the ball when I dropped its my own mother, while retired, has a ton of health problems and she takes care of her own mother. 

I can't imagine that helping Dave last year was easy. Moreover, I can't imagine it's been easy to say goodbye to the boys and watch me step back into their lives. I won't pretend to know the hearts of these two women. I won't pretend to understand them. I don't. I've never been able to understand either of them. But I love them. 

I love them because of the women that they are and the women that they've helped me to become. Both of them have had a profound influence on my adulthood and my sobriety. But most of all, I love them for loving my boys when I failed them. I love them for holding my family and then handing them back to me, graciously. 

There's no love like the love of a grandmother. 

But By Grace Your Husband Is Free.

Disclaimer: You will either love this or hate it. I don't know what to tell you

Men are a strange sort. I don't claim to understand much more than they mostly just need food, sex and to be appreciated. I said strange, not complicated. Problem is, Disney isn't creating a Prince Charming who mostly just eats, tinkers with whatever hobby suits him, looks for booty as often as he can get it and then wants his Princess to swoon when he performs some basic task that is outside of his interest, (this task is generally something his Princess does on any given day without any expectation of praise). Don't get me wrong, men are of crucial importance both in a relationship and in the world and there isn't anything wrong with their general simplicity, and all that comes along with it. I thank God that my husband is pretty basic. If he wasn't I would have no one to bring me down from whatever ledge I land on at any given moment. Us women love ledges.

So that's it?

No. Of course not. I am not NEARLY that short winded. There is a problem.

There is always a problem.

The problem is that Disney isn't drawing a real Prince and niether is any other source of information as to what men, or husbands, should be. The Bible has some pretty legit stuff to say about it. Something along the lines of, "Men love your wives as Christ loves the church..." (Which is a REALLY heavy statement). It goes on to say, "Women submit to your husbands..." Women usually have no problem with that first part but then get really panty twisted about the rest because "How totally sexist of God..."

First off, don't miss the point. If your husband was really working to love you as Christ loves the church, (which in case you are wondering is in complete selflessness and ultimate sacrifice), it would be second nature to submit to him. You would WANT to submit to Him because you would know everything he did, everything he asks, is in your best interest. SO, by bucking submission you would really just be bucking what is best for you.

Unfortunately, so many of us don't feel as though our husbands are working to love us that way. Maybe our husbands have taken the second part of that scripture and totally taken advantage of it (many men have and do, no doubt). Maybe our husbands don't even believe the Bible. Maybe they just don't care to work that hard at selflessness whether they believe in God or not. Maybe WE don't even understand selflessness but expect it from them.

Here is the thing.

What I said about men up top, about how they really just want food (to be taken care of in a sense), sex (to feel wanted) and to be appreciated (in their minds they really are trying even if you don't see it that way)- I FULLY BELIEVE THIS. If you have issue with this theory, stop reading cause you just aren't going to like where I am going. Women are always looking for what is generally an unrealistic expectation. We want someone whose like, a bad boy, but like, loves babies and holds doors open, but like works really hard and also totally puts his life on hold at all times to engage us at our every whim. We want a movie character. The same can be said for dudes. They want some timeless beautiful bright eyed epitome of woman with no need to ask where he is going or how long he will be, may or may not want to have babies ever and just so happens to love whatever team/car/beer he is into and cannot keep her hands off him. Again, the expectation is RIDICULOUS.

We expect.

Culture tells us we should have all kinds of expectations. Big ones. And I think some of this is okay, when you are dating in particular. You really can weed out all sorts of what you would find to be "no thank yous" by having genuine deal breakers in terms of a partner. Thus, the importance of ACTUALLY dating and getting to know someone and what they believe and how their mind works, rather than just having sex with whatever hot guy/girl rolls your way and hoping that something else will click too. However, if you don't do this....and even if you do, and you end up married and appalled that your husband/wife just isn't up to par....

CHECK YOURSELF.

The answer is always "Lord change ME." It is UNFAIR. I FREAKING KNOW. I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW- YOU DON'T HAVE TO TELL ME I FREAKING KNOW. Life is unfair. But something really cool happens when you start working on you rather than trying to fix other people or sit bitterly waiting on them to fix themselves....YOU ACTUALLY GROW AND CHANGE, which in turn, by way of shifting your focus, makes everyone else less monstrous. When you start practicing GRACE and stop getting pissed because your husband simply cannot take out the trash without being told, or better yet drinks a few more beers than YOU would prefer on a more regular basis than YOU think is necessary, then you can appreciate what he DOES do, enjoy that he is simply present, and maybe even WANT to have sex regularly. Working on yourself, when God is part of the equation, cannot be separated from extending the same grace to others that has been so lavishly and completely extended to you.

Because chances are, YOU, girlfriend, are not up to par either. You miss the mark. You get pissy for no reason and then tell him nothing is wrong and then get mad because he didn't ask again after the first time. And even if you aren't that way, as good a wife as you could EVER be, you will still fall short, not only because he probably has a lifetime of unrealistic expectations too, but also because YOU ARE HUMAN.

Husbands are men. Men are human. The secret to marriage is "Lord change ME."

I just fixed your life. For free.

You're welcome.

PS. I get that not everyone understands or agrees with this "grace" thing or cares to adopt that "life is unfair therefor bloom where you are planted" stuff. Maybe you don't care about maintaining a marriage or relationship and that is totally your prerogative but clearly this blog is not for you and that does not make you any less anything as far as I am concerned.

Grace

I'm sorry.

Repeated.

I failed. 

Again and again

I ran away.

I didn't stay,

Didn't fight for you.

You were worth it.

So was I.

We were worth it.

The beginning and middle were beautiful.

There were laughter and dancing.

And lots of costumes.

The end was ugly. 

Booze soaked.

Covered in stains.

Slurred and blurred.

Empty and soiled.

We could have had today.

Waking up. 

Eyes Clear.

We could've had the daytime.

The clean.

The pretty.

Laughter would have reemerged.

But we don't.

We have friendship.

Memories.

Anger.

Resentment.

Entitlement. 

We have possibility. 

We can close our eyes.

We can just be.

Separately. 

Drift

Your eyes. 

Mine.

Your body. 

Mine.

The lashes. 

The fingers. 

The breath.

The darkness.

Together.

We sleep.

Drift.

And I promise to be

Where you are. 

Adrift or alert.

Forever.

Us. 

Expectations Unmet.

I have grand dreams (expectations) of what bedtime should look like. It involves a clean room, decorated in a way that fancies whimsy and happily-ever-after’s. There are my children, freshly bathed (with no arguments having occurred about said activity, in a clean bathtub where they played imaginatively until I forced them out of the now cold water in fear of them becoming a permanent raisin), in perfectly pressed pajamas. My girl in her flower and lace collared night gown and my son in a two pieced striped set. All four of us, them and myself and my husband, gather into and around the bed to read another chapter of whatever glorious and magical classic we happen to be in the middle of. The whole thing is so lovely we practically lose ourselves and the time to the characters and before we know it the children have long since fallen asleep to the sound of our voices. We kiss their soft rosy cheeks, make sure they are securely tucked under their impossibly soft and plush comforters, and tip toe out of the room whispering about how blessed we are.

I want this to be possible. I know some of it is. I know we could be doing more reading and tucking even if the room is a total disaster and I just finished convincing one of them to stop crying because the other called them a baby and they accidentally spit their toothpaste on the counter instead of in the sink and my girls hair is so ratted from the day it gets caught in her shirt as I try to lift it over her head. Not to mention their juice stained lips and smelly “I refuse to wear socks” toes and now it’s too late to think about a bath because Mom wasn’t paying attention to time once she finally sat down and attempted to check out somewhere on the interwebs.

And that’s the real problem isn’t it? The Mom checking out. Needing to check out. Being so consumed with errands and drop offs and pick-ups and lunch packing and dinner making and homework helping and fight refereeing (all on top of whatever job or other personal pursuits of her own), that come time to sit all she has the energy left to do is drown out everything with status updates and strangers Instagram selfies and pseudo news reports from the Huffington Post.

Life robs us of bedtimes. It robs us of the one time in the whole day where our kids are still and might actually HEAR, really HEAR, what we are saying to them. It robs us of the opportunity to lay down next to them and simply breathe in their existence as they drift to sleep. Life makes us too tired to just be present when they are FINALLY tired and I find this to be such a shame. I try not to feel guilty for all of the above, because I do check out and I do want to read mindless updates from people who aren’t actually really even my friends. I want to do it because I see false connection in what is so honestly a disconnect and some days, outside of my husband, that false connection is the only one I have to the outside adult world.

It’s all so terribly complicated and I try not to feel guilty for the quick and easy and disconnected bedtimes I so typically give my children. I pray the same prayer I have prayed over them since they were babies, sometimes with my eyes closed working at genuine focus and other times I am literally pulling a dirty shirt over my kids head and picking toys up off the floor as I recite it.   I tell myself it’s alright, and it isn’t a big deal because I pour into other areas with more ease. Unfortunately for me, I simply don’t believe my own argument. I can’t because I DO disconnect more than I should at ANY given time. I like to say knowing is half the battle, and maybe it is, but it also feels like the easiest part of the battle and until I actually pick up my sword I haven’t done much at all.

Hush

Hush little baby, don't say a word. Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird.

Except that I couldn't. All I had to give was a towel for a diaper and watered down formula.

And if that mockingbird don't sing, mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring.

Except I didn't know you, didn't care much for you, and turned away from you.

And if that diamond ring turns brass, mama's gonna buy you a looking glass.

And you cracked me open, slowly, and surely, and deliberately.

And if that looking glass gets broke, mamas gonna buy you a billy goat.

Until all of you had my heart, every last broken shard. Until everything before you meant nothing, and everything after you unfolded into the most difficult, and most authentic days of my life.

Well, it's not as good as finding Jesus.

When I found out that I was pregnant with Archer, Dave promptly freaked out and decided that the only way that he could adequately provide for our growing family was to enlist. The man was like eighteen credits from finishing his bachelor's degree, but he enlisted anyways.

What this meant was that I spent a significant portion of my pregnancy alone, although we did think he was going to be able to make it home for the birth. I found out many things about myself during this time. One was that I love my mom and I actually enjoy her company. I sat at her hospital bedside for hours each day while I was pregnant. Another thing that I found out is that when you remove alcohol and partying from the equation, I am pretty good student. This was the point when I realized that I would be able to finishing my degree.

I found out that I am willing and able to eat the same casserole for several days on end. I am willing to spoon with a dog if I am cold enough. I am more than capable of getting stuck in a tiny shower stall. I found out that dragging around a ninety-pound pit bull can be physically painful when you are six months pregnant. I learned that I can scoop dog poop while in active labor.

I also found out that Capzasin reactivates when it comes in contact with water and it gets even hotter the second time around. I learned this in tandem to learning that I can get stuck in a tiny shower stall. This also happened while in active labor. I learned that ice is slippery on cement steps. I learned that my heavily tattooed, homeboy of a neighbor can move really quickly when he sees a pregnant lady slip and fall on her front porch.

I learned that I can entertain myself and take care of myself on a day to day basis. I learned that I can be pretty just to be pretty. I learned that I don't mind sleeping alone. I learned how proud I was of Dave and to be his wife.

I later learned that I could give birth alone. I  learned that I could figure out breastfeeding without his help. I learned that I didn't need Dave around to manage the sleepless nights and the endless crying. I learned to fall in love with my baby boy. I also learned that love isn't diminished by distance and that family dynamics all work differently.

I kind of learned to be a grown up when I was alone and pregnant. Well, at least I started to learn.

Finding Jesus.

Plenty of weird things happen while you are pregnant, the least of which is GROWING AN ENTIRE HUMAN INSIDE OF YOU. This whole process causes all kinds of mental and physical changes. For me, it wasn't my heightened sense of smell or Mini Wheat addiction that were the weirdest of all, but that while pregnant, I found Jesus, and He wasn't behind my sofa.

To be fair I knew where He was. I had found him once before in the 8th grade. I even dumped my hottie high school boyfriend for Him back then. Shortly thereafter He got lost again, probably buried under a pile of dirty Nine Inch Nails shirts, empty Camel Light packs, steel toe combat boots and a bottle of angst and overwhelming sadness. My mom kept telling me I would find Him again someday, and I kept getting pissed off that she was so sure of anything I might do.

Turns out she was right, though.

It was at the ripe age of 20 that I found myself pregnant and married to a guy I had "dated" (code for had been having sex with) for 3 months, most of which was long distance. I reluctantly walked away from a solid job at Petco and a room at my moms house, (harhar) to venture into grow-up-dom with this stranger whose genes were working like Legos with mine, building what would be my first and only boy.

It only took a few days, (literally I vividly remember the situation that occurred ONE day after my courthouse "I do's") to realize what a minefield I had stepped onto. I had a lot of problems. I had baggage that needed a cart to be moved all at once, and some that had even been lost in translation and wouldn't show up till later. I was no Betty Homemaker, "this man is blessed to have me", bout to be human of the year. He was just as bad, maybe even worse because there was a lot of alcohol in his system a lot of the time. Needless to say, here we were, these two terribly young and terribly broken people, about to bring another life into the world. What. A. Disaster.

Part of dealing with my problems back then included cutting. I got hurt, shut down and then physically inflicted pain in order to, I don't know, feel alive? Feel connected to something? Hurt myself because I felt so useless? All of the above I suppose.

I don't remember exactly what happened, I think I was maybe 6 or 7 months pregnant. I know Travis and I must have gotten into it something fierce, and I had cut my legs all up. I know I was sitting at our reproduction diner style kitchen table in our blindingly sky blue dining room at our first apartment, nestled in the heart of the ghetto. I think I was drawing, and it suddenly occurred to me that I simply couldn't do this. I couldn't continue on in the way I had been and make it out with any shred of life left inside of me.

I broke.

And I knew the only way I could begin to heal was back in the same spot I dumped my boyfriend in the 8th grade. The same spot my mom kept telling me I would find my way back to because that was His promise to her. I, in that moment, sitting at that table told God I had made a terrible mess. I told Him I didn't know what I was doing anymore, but I certainly wasn't capable of keeping up the miserable and vicious cycle that was my life. I told Him I needed Him back.

Because I had this bean inside me. The purest example of new beginnings and hope. And I loved him so enormously already and I wanted to be more than I was- for him. I didn't know enough yet to know I should have wanted those things for me, but I knew they were ALL I wanted for him and that was a good place to start. I knew I couldn't be better than my parents, better than what I knew, if something on the inside didn't change and I knew that God could do it because He had done it before. I certainly knew I couldn't continue to walk in my marriage without supernatural help and perhaps it was that, being able to give my child BOTH parents- solid and happy, that I wanted more than anything.

So, much to my mother (and fathers) delight, the weirdest thing that happened to me while I was pregnant, was Gods fulfillment of their never ceasing prayers.

"Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours."

-Mark 11:24

The Song of Love

Her hands have been knobby and wrinkled the entire time I have known her and her hair was grey when we first met. She has known me since the day that I was born and I know she has loved me for that length of time.

I remember calling my grandma in the middle of the night when my mom was too drunk to take care of me. I remember her coming to get me and I remember her telling me that it was going to be okay. I remember my mom dropping me off every morning and my grandma would make me breakfast and take me to school.

She indulged my every whim. She served me Corn Pops for weeks on end and then bread with brown sugar when I was on to that. She walked me in to my first day of middle school and she recorded the Justin Timberlake concert.

My grandma let me carry around her plastic Jesus for a year, and she was proud that I called him Jesus Masias. She piled stuffed animals around me when I wanted to play nativity in her living room. She never once yelled at me for leaving her phone off the hook when I wanted to call "cockanock." I am pretty sure that she even prepared meals for my imaginary brothers from time to time.

My grandma later took me shopping for hours on end. She kept me company when my mom got sober and was too busy staying that way to spend time with me. My grandma supported me every time my interests changed. She never condemned me for being flaky.  When I changed my major for the fifth time, she smiled and asked me when I would graduate.

My grandma has loved me unconditionally since the moment I was born. She has always been the most supportive member of my team. My grandmother never doubted me. She always knew what I was capable of and she was always clear about her beliefs and expectations for me.

Now, her hands are still wrinkled. Her knuckles are knobbly and her hair lays flat. My grandma sometimes doesn't remember who I am. She barely knows my kids. She doesn't remember that I was married and she doesn't understand that I don't live nearby anymore. My grandma has Alzheimer's disease.

She sits at her table for hours on end, looking at the answers to crossword puzzles and filling them in. She has a nurse who takes care of her. My mom takes her to and from appointments. My grandma doesn't live in her own body any more. Every day, she slips further and further away.

But some things have not changed. My grandma lights up when I walk into the room. She tells me that I am beautiful and she tells me that she loves me. My grandma asks me about my day and she asks me about my life. And once, recently, my grandma remembered my favorite lullaby and she sang it to me. I sing that lullaby to my children. That lullaby to me is pure love.

The song of love is a sad song,

My grandma's life is the song of love. My grandma is love. I cannot think of lullabies without thinking of my grandma.

My Father's Hymns.

I imagine I sang to my children here and there, never as a routine or with consistency. I am sure at times I meant to make this more of a "thing", but like so many other good intentions we have as mothers, sleep and bottles and diapers and doorknob safety latches simply trumped so many of my good intentions.

But my dad sings.

I don't remember him singing to me a lot as a child, I am sure simply because my childhood was complicated to say the very least. But I know as I got older, when I was sick or struggling and he was there he sang or hummed quietly. He has this uncanny ability to create a completely non awkward silence in the face of despair, the sort of silence that allows you to just exist in it, while at the same time being reassuring without ever actually saying anything.

I know there have been terrible moments that he was present for, and the most memorable of all his responses have been him sitting over me, running his fingers through my hair and humming some melodic ancient hymn.

Or sometimes "Somewhere Over the Rainbow", because he loves the story of friendship and hope and perseverance found in The Wizard of Oz.

I know when my babies where actual babies and he had the opportunity to rock and sing with them, he did. I wish there had more opportunity for that, because his peace at times, is contagious. I wish every time I struggled or hurt or felt alone that I could find myself again, rested against his shoulder with the quiet vibrations of song lulling me away.

S-E-X

Sometimes, when my mind wanders, I close my eyes, and I think of his lips. I think about them brushing against mine, so soft I can barely feel it. The want and the ache and just enough self control to let it just be that--his lips against mine, until one of us breaks, and all at once there is hunger, a starving type of hunger that neither of us have ever felt before. And all of the sudden, his tongue is in my mouth, exploring, and I'm pulling away for breath and coming back in for more, sucking on his lower lip and gently biting and pulling and silently begging him to keep going, I think about his eyes, and being so close that I can see his irises, his lashes, every secret he's ever kept hidden away. I think about seeing him like that, vulnerable bare and stripped down to his very core, and the way I will look back at him, shyly, knowing that he can see me in the same way.

I think about his hands on my face, and then softly stroking the line of my jaw until he is so full of desire that he is gripping the back of my head, his fist full of my hair.

I think about my skin pressed against his, both of us flushed and hot with fever, as he traces an imaginary line down my neck with his lips, down to my collarbone.

I think about his hands, rough and strong, both delicately handling my fragile parts, my soft untouched skin, and then gripping and squeezing it firmly between his fingers, just hard enough to make me inhale sharply and exhale a moan.

I think about his collarbone that I want to kiss the entire length of, his hip bones grinding against mine, with nothing but pure want, and an unspoken beg.

I think about him spreading me open wide, and his mouth between my legs, and the immediate gasp I will make when his tongue finds exactly where it needs to be,

I think about him sliding inside of my body, slowly, a perfect fit---something that was always meant to happen, and our bodies rocking and gasping and whispering and moaning until nothing else exists except him, and I, and an uncontrollable climax and release.

I think about the moment when my hips are bucking, and I find myself desperately looking for that fix, until there is a moment where everything freezes, and I reach an ecstasy so intense that my eyes rolls backwards and I hurt him with the clenching of my fingernails against his skin.

I think about the sounds from my own mouth, and the rush of words, and his responses in my ear as the peak of my orgasm begins to die down. I think about the aftershocks, the glorious shudder, and then the long exhalation before his body settles into mine.

And  suddenly, I shake. I shake it off, because that shit ain't real and  this blog prompt sucks! I hate your rules so much, Brooks!

Sex.

At first, there is writhing.
Churning and burning.
Desire.

Later, there is routine.
Boredom.
Wandering minds.

There are kids.
Exhaustion.
Dirty hair and clothes.

Later, there is alcohol.
More fun, for a while.
Disgusting and unappealing later.

Then, there is nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.

But when it is gone,
Really gone,
You realize that it doesn't matter.

It was broken, yes.
But it broke because you were broken.
You should have refused to break.

Sought healing.
Sought serenity.
Sought yourself.

You will not find it again,
Unless you know,
Exactly where to look. 

Sex and other things.

I have been having sex with the same person for 11 years. While I realize this is not THAT long when compared with people who have been having sex with the same person for 20, 30, 40 plus years, I have to acknowledge that it is a pretty long time considering infidelity statistics. Not only that, but I was only 20 when I started having sex with this guy, so technically I have spent what some would consider to be my "wildest, most self-explorative, drunken" years in bed with the same man.

Don't get it twisted, I had more experience than I care to divulge here prior to my husband, but still, I was practically a child then and whatever I was doing certainly wasn't any good. All that came before, and initially even with my now husband was a sad attempt at keeping the attention of someone long enough to feel like I mattered. That to say, it didn't even matter if the sex itself was good, just that it was happening and for whatever amount of time it lasted I meant something. I realized this is backwards and awful and terribly sad really but I prefer to be nothing less than totally honest so there you have it.

Mostly our culture at this point seems to be on the fence or generally against the idea of lifetime monogamy. Divorce rates seem to soar higher every year and even scientists are trying to figure out why we sought after monogamy to begin with. People who are getting married are doing so with the known out of divorce dancing in their subconscious, should something not go their way, or someone else tickle their fancy.

That to say, it isn't EASY. There is nothing simple about ignoring everything around me that says NEW is what is interesting and best and most satisfying. I exist in a culture where not only are new things the best things, but what is new is changing CONSTANTLY. You can barely get a new phone without the next newest one coming out. And newer is faster. My attention span is being shortened with every downloaded, time wasting, flying fish, candy crushing app. Nothing stays. Nothing is solid ground. Nothing is dependable or teaching me to be patient and persevere. Everything around me is a screaming toddler whose sucker simply doesn't taste enough like strawberries anymore and therefor demands a new one.

Boredom in anything is a part of everything. Sometimes I look at my husband and shrug my shoulders. I love him, enormously, but he bores me, and he could say the same about me. Sometimes, in the right pair of jeans while he's tinkering in his garage or sitting outside smoking, I feel more attracted to him than I ever did at 20. Sometimes his jokes are really funny and sometimes he fails to impress. Sometimes he does amazingly sweet and thoughtful things and sometimes, (okay, only once), he forgets my birthday. Sometimes sex is AWESOME (bold and italics there for emphasis), and sometimes it's just a means to an end.

What it, sex and all of the above, always is though, is with purpose. It is sharing life and all that comes along with it. It is learning to bend and not break. It is fully enjoying the best times and pushing through the worst ones. It is someone who KNOWS me, sometimes better than I do. Someone who has and does and will love me at my very worst. Someone who KNOWS my body in a way that whatever exciting, new, first kiss guy from wherever hasn't had NEARLY enough time to know and therefor cannot act accordingly.

I get it. I get monogamy no matter how tempted I may feel to indulge a "grass is greener" philosophy. Life is experiences and what you can gain from them and I don't think the best gains come from failed relationship after meaningless sexual experience after failed relationship. You want experience? Hunker down in the same bed, with the same dude year after year. You'll learn all sorts of things you didn't know about him, yourself, and maybe even your vagina.

My Baby's Cry

He almost never cried.  Never.  He never woke me in the night—slept twelve hour stretches from the day I brought him home.  For awhile, I wasn’t even sure he could cry, but I didn’t find myself concerned.  I only found myself disinterested.  My apathy didn’t even seem strange, at the time.

 

He grew, bottles propped up with a rolled blanket while I sat on the couch staring at a television screen.  His head flattened to the shape of bouncy chairs and car seats and swings because there were no cries of discontent to rouse me from my depression and investigate.  He was a fixture, moved from room to room in a container.

 

“Does that baby ever stop smiling?” People asked me this constantly.  I’d glance at him and respond, politely.  Flatly.  “No.”

 

He was 18 months old before I looked at him deeply, and his bubbling laugh and his unconditional love and his forgiveness and his amazing little spirit reached inside of me and twisted my heart so hard I could barely breathe.  It was a sudden and startling revelation.  I loved him.  I actually loved him.

 

I called him My Sunshine.  His birth had pushed me into darkness and he was the light that pulled me out of it.  It nearly killed me. I nearly killed me.

 

More than a decade passed and his tears were so rare that in the moments they would appear, alarm bells would sound off in my head, terrifying me.  Guilt grew into something bigger than myself, has swallowed me whole as punishment for that year and a half of emotional neglect.  It has doubled, tripled, multiplied rapidly like the cancer cells that would eventually consume his teenage-boy lungs. 

 

Every single day of my life I see him wrapped in blankets, in a hospital bed that he never deserved to be in, violently ill, with tears running down his cheeks.  I hear his voice, broken and weak, telling me that he is done, while I clench his hand in mine.  He doesn’t want to do this anymore.  He wants it to stop.  And there is absolutely nothing I can do.  Nothing but listen to the IV pump filling his veins with poison that is supposed to make him better.  Make him live.  Make him stay.

 

I wait for him to drift into sleep before I silently leave the room.  And then I run, down the hallway, into the elevator, with a lump in my throat so big that I cannot swallow it away and through another corridor where I find a bathroom stall and I lock it behind me and drown myself in heavy, racking sobs.  I do it until I can’t do it anymore, and I splash water on my face and I walk back up to his room, quietly facing him with the bravest smile I’ve ever known.

Be Not Well Traveled, Baby

I saw you, baby
I saw you sitting
Happily in your stroller
Shoving quickly dissolving
Star shaped treats
In your glossy, wet, toothless
Mouth

I watched as your mommy
Pointed out the airplanes
Taking off and landing
I listened as she made
Completely incorrect plane noises
As she moved your ratty
Slobber covered beanie dog
Back and forth
Into and away from
Your face

You caught me
Staring
Clutching my carry on
Wide eyed and uncomfortable
And you smiled

But I knew

I knew that come time
To batten down the hatches
Come time
To watch the emergency exit tutorial
When the seat belt signs are on
Come time for lift off
Your face would change

It would become
Wide
Open
Red
And angry
No longer would
Freeze dried strawberries
Or the wet dog
Or any other form
Of distraction
Make you happy
Or even content

Your screams would be heard
Across isles and rows
From first class
To the little
Drink station in back
With the fold down seats
For airline employees 

I knew

They would be
The only thing on the plane
That didn't sound mufffled
And flat
By the popping of ears everywhere
And that short of
Screaming yourself to sleep
We were all doomed
To listen as you wailed
And as your mother
Panicked and embarrassed
Tried effortlessly to calm you down

I know you, baby
You are a passengers
Worst nightmare
And I will not be swayed
By your pre-flight smile

Cry.

The mouth is gaping.

I'm rocking. 

Swaying.

Back aching. 

I sit.

Back and forth.

My head nods. 

I jerk back to reality. 

The screams continue.

I am numb.

I want my mother.

I've given it my all.

Milk pours down my stomach. 

It drips to the floor.

Still, I rock.

Still, he cries. 

Still, his mouth gapes at me.

I feel defeat. 

Dread.

I contemplate the ice cold water.

If I just jumped no one would find me.

I stay. 

He cries. 

Birth (4x)

Nineteen

and I was too young, my body barely filling out into the form of a grown woman. It had been an accident. A careless one, but an accident at that.

There was a surprising gush of fluid in the middle of the night, and then seven hours of blurred chaos. There were IV's and Pitocin and a catheter and narcotics and an epidural that paralyzed me from breastbone to toes and constrictive fetal monitoring belts and a cold bed and stirrups and a nurse telling me "there's no use in crying. This is nothing. It's going to get SO much worse." There was blood everywhere and meconium and the sockets of my teeth were bruised and the blood vessels in my eyes had popped from the forceful pushing. There were heart decelerations and a NICU team on hand, and so many strangers packed into one little room.

And when it was all over, and we were both declared "safe", I felt like I had just been through a war zone. I glanced at him and thought, "well that's a nice looking baby, but can I eat and sleep now?"

Twenty

and I was still too young. But there had been another careless accident, and it had happened because I had not yet lived long enough to learn my lessons without doing it the hard way. Twice. I didn't want another baby and I was bitter and deeply depressed about it. The previous birth had disconnected me from my body. I saw nothing miraculous or amazing about any of it. I was miserable, physically and mentally, and 18 months after the first was born, I walked right back into that hospital and I let all of the same things happen to me, and to my baby. Because I didn't know then, that it could ever be any different, and frankly, I didn't care.

And when this little one appeared, my mind sat blank. Utterly and completely blank.

Twenty Six

and I was fiercely determined that this time, everything would be different. There was a homebirth plan in place, and a gentle midwife who answered my every call, day or night, and mentored me right into authentic motherhood. There was a birth that happened so lightning fast that I stood at the edge of my bed, completely incapacitated by a head barreling through my pelvis. It was a train I couldn't get off of, and couldn't even manage to slow down. I was afraid.

But after I had screamed him out, and he appeared, quiet, and pink, the only thought in my head was: "I can't believe I just DID that." It was a transformative moment--the first time I ever felt an inkling of awe at my own body--of its strength and its resiliency and its power.

Twenty Nine

and it would be my last. My last chance at having a daughter, my last birth, my last baby.

I relished his birth. It was one inhalation and exhalation after another, and it just quietly unfolded. There was no resistance whatsoever. It was a time of complete awareness, complete presence, and a peaceful and confident trust in my body. I needed no one. Just the sounds of my own breath, and then, towards the end, the feeling of his legs kicking himself downward. I coaxed his body out, and I cooed to him when his head appeared, under a blanket of warm water. "Baby...oh...my baby." There was no fear present. Not inside of myself, and not in a bedroom full of silent observers.

And when he slipped out of my body, and I lifted him out of the water and held him in my hands, and stared into his brand new face, the first thought that ran through my head was: "That was so fucking awesome."

Birth.

I gained close to 100 lbs when I was pregnant with my son. I ate pizza and Chinese buffet and enormous bowls of Kellogg Mini Wheats. I ate everything, and no one was going to tell me I couldn't because I was feeding TWO. Unfortunately, my enormous weight gain led to preeclampsia. For those of you who don't know, this is pregnancy induced high blood pressure. If you have ever seen one of those baby having reality shows, if the mother has this and is within a few weeks of birth they generally just take the baby out because the only cure is birth. Yes that is what GOOD MEDICAL PROFESSIONALS do. I however, am a military dependent and therefor have yet in my time as such received quality medical care. In fact, they had me take a 24 hour pee test to check for preeclampsia and then didn't even call me to let me know it was positive and that I needed to be admitted. I just happened to take my blood pressure at Walmart and it just happened to be triple digits top and bottom and my mother forced me to go to the hospital.

Once there, instead of taking the baby out immediately in protection of my own life (I was only a few days out from my due date), they started me on a magnesium drip in order to prevent seizures as well as a labor inducing drug. They left me like that for 72 hours with no progress in labor and dangerously high blood pressure. I just remember being so scared. I felt so ill and the magnesium gave me a headache and left me in a haze. The nurses kept saying things like "I can't believe your blood pressure is this high" and would look at me with these worried faces before quickly retreating to giggle at the nurses station. I don't remember days becoming nights or who was in and out of the room in that 72 hours. I remember Travis, constantly leaving to smoke and driving home to eat and sleep. I know I kept asking my mom to pray for me and I remember when my dad finally arrived shortly before they took me for an emergency C-section he sat down beside my bed, took my hand and just told me I didn't have to talk.

And then a spinal block and hair covering. Travis covered in hospital blue with only his eyes peeking out at me and the curtain separating us from my open belly and our baby. He was healthy and I know there is a picture of me, still on the table, looking at him wrapped all up in one of those little blankets, but I don't remember really seeing him other than recognizing he looked just like his father. I was still on magnesium and my mind was pure fog. Afterwards in recovery everyone came in, my parents and Travis' parents. I sat up and projectile vomited.

I couldn't go home because my blood pressure wouldn't regulate. I laid in the hospital bed, naked except for the white fishnet underwear they provide you with after your stomach or vagina has been split open with no care as to how I must have looked and who saw me. I don't remember holding my son except for when someone made me. My mom stayed beside my bed and tended to everything concerning him. She formula fed him with a tiny tube attached to a bottle and her finger to try and prevent him from wanting a bottle until I could nurse. I never did, and I didn't leave that hospital for a week and only after being prescribed blood pressure medication because they could not regulate mine.

The whole thing was one of the worst experiences of my life.

Pregnancy with my daughter was easy. I was careful about what I ate, worked out the whole time. I was forced to have a second C-section (which I guess I didn't care enough about to switch Dr's), which really just meant I got to pick a date and a time, wake up, flat iron my then long hair, and go have a baby. That is pretty much how it went. I do remember being walked into the operating room and before me were 2 very attractive corpsman (we are still doing the military thing remember), and thinking to myself, "OF COURSE two attractive early 20 something DUDES are about to put in my catheter and assist in cutting me open." However considering my previous experience this issue was minimal. Travis was on deployment so it was my mom in the hospital blue surgical suit this time. They pulled out another healthy baby, a girl, and the first thing my mom did between gasps and tears was say, "SHE HAS RED HAIR!" and "SHE LOOKS LIKE US!". My camera battery died the moment she was pulled from me so a nurse took a picture on his cell phone.

In recovery I nursed her. She latched on immediately. We Skyped Travis the next day and I was on my way home within 72 hours.

I feel like the births of my children have set the stage for their personalities. I have this son, who is amazing and funny, thoughtful and compassionate but SO difficult sometimes. He is stubborn and argumentative. He can be anxious and obsessive. And then I have this daughter who sings and the birds and squirrels come to her window. She is agreeable and easily pleased. There are an equal amount of blessings found in both and I suppose only time will tell if it's coincidence.

I Remember.

Toothless.
I remember her mouth agape.
I remember being surprised that she didn't have teeth, even though I knew that babies weren't supposed to have them.
I remember waiting for my mom, who showed up at her convenience, late in the afternoon.
I remember realizing I was alone, with a baby.
I remember being told over and over that I was not truly in labor, even though I was.
I remember laboring alone in the bathroom, because I was afraid to wake anyone up and have it be a false alarm.
I remember, vividly.


Grandpa.
I remember my grandfather walking in when I was pushing. I remember yelling at him to get out.
I remember being forced to wear an oxygen mask and I remember being afraid.
I remember that there were half a dozen student nurses in the room, talking and not working.
I remember the feeling of relief when my doula arrived. I remember finally having an advocate in the room.
I remember Molly cutting the cord.
I remember my sister, smiling and laughing. I remember being excited that my big sister showed up.
I remember Dave crying, because he wasn't there.
I remember the look on Dave's face the first time he saw and touched Archer.
I remember the first moment I held my baby boy and realized that he was the mirror image of his father.
I remember realizing that his eyes were going to stay blue, immediately.
I remember, perfectly.

Bliss.
I remember calling Monessa and crying because I thought he would never come.
I remember the gentle rhythm of my hand tapping the entertainment center as a went through contractions.
I remember the soft click of the camera, as Cara caught every moment.
I remember Dave's hands and Monessa's voice.
I remember Amos Lee.
I remember water.
I remember the absolute tranquility of laboring in my living room.
I remember the feeling of relief as my baby boy emerged from my body.
I remember crying out that his eyes were brown.
I remember, divinely.