Toot Toot (the sound of my own horn)

 When I started this blog it was August 2016 and I was trying to figure out to how move forward from a time when my child had been mistreated abused for months by his daycare provider and I, a single mom, chose to quit my job and stay home with him.

Today it is June of 2025 and let me say: time flies whether you are having fun or not!

That 3 and a half year old little boy who was hurt and had huge trust issues and a penchant for striking out when scared (or running away) has become a 13 year old man-child, who excels at Karate, at musical instruments, who loves nature camp, who has a PLAN for high school and dual enrollment at WPI and a goal of attending MIT.  He has friends, teachers who value him, supportive and encouraging adults that show up for him, he can have a hard conversation and can stand up for himself.  He can mow a lawn, do laundry, clean a bathroom, and cook a meal.  He is ok. I repeat: He is OK. 

I had help of course - therapists and sacrifices and prayer, my friends who listened and loved, and his never faltering big sis - but I did it.  There were dicey moments, scary moments, so much worry and doubt and fear and some of that was recent but... he is ok, and I did that. I've had 6 different jobs since then, working around his needs, but I did it.  I kept us in our same apartment, kept him in the same school district, kept him with the same friends he's known since kindergarten, prioritized a routine to see his father regularly and include his father in every big moment, taught him to love and care for pets, encouraged his older siblings to stay close, and gave him every opportunity to explore his interests and to meet his needs.  I'm tooting my own horn cuz baby? No one else is gonna do it.

In the grand scheme of all that is 'life', there will be mountains to climb and valleys to traverse, and therapists to see still... but what was a terrified and locked down challenge of a hurt small boy has become an evolving and open and forward thinking young man... with a loving and dedicated and consistent momma.  

And now maybe it's time to approach life in the way everyday normal people do: with trepidation and caution and openness and hope instead of sweat and tears and painfully considered double guessed  choices.  Maybe now we can just... live?  No, not "maybe now" but... Now.  Now we can just go out there and live without a shadow over us, without over thinking and doubt and second guesses.  Because he is ok... He is OK... and I did that.  I made him ok after all.

This past weekend we went on a scenic train ride.  We rode outbound on a track to a specific stop, the engine unhooked, moved around or 'switched' position, rehooked, and we came back the same way we had come.  The scenery was different on the way back, the way the air came into the windows and ruffled our hair was different.  The sound of the train horn was different because all of it came from a different position, even though we traveled the same exact track.  Same train, same seats, same track, different view.  Toot Toot...

Listen; life is hard.  The challenges we face are different for each of us and the way we approach and overcome those challenges is going to be different.  Same train, same seats, same track, different view.  Toot your own horn when you need to.  Congratulate yourself.  Appreciate yourself and your efforts.  You did good... toot toot!

Dear Jenni; 2022

 Hey Lil Brev!

Hakuna matata!

Wassup!??

I can sign that question in ASL now, ‘Wassup’; ASL is something I always wanted to learn and now I am starting to: in small bits and pieces, courtesy of Tik-tok and you-tube.  It’s been a long time coming.   “I” have been a long time coming if that makes any sense… it’s been a long two years and I’m slowly starting to come out of it.

Some W1 peeps (and me!) are getting together on Monday at The “local place we go to” for a dinner, in honor of you.  It’ll be 2 years since you left us. (And I’m still pissed off about it!)

Believe it or not, it was “Marty” that reached out and asked if we could meet.  He’s such a good boi! Remember Martin used to be nervous of me? Me!! No one is ever really nervous about me!  But I yelled at him when he was brand new to W1, on a snowy night, when I followed him into the parking garage and he hadn’t cleared his suv of snow and it blew back onto the windshield of my little car - I was so mad and yelled at him like he was my own son - “dude! That’s literally illegal! You have to clear your roof of the snow cuz it’s dangerous for people behind you!”  He was shocked - not to mention it was just the beginning of Covid and he was a brand new baby nurse.  He turned out good Jenni - can you see him?  

You were the one that started calling him “Marty”…  no one else does - but I still think of him that way. Our boi… he actually gave me an attitude check recently - tables turned 100%!  He’s a good one Jenni.

Thomas was also nervous of me for awhile too.  He said it’s the quiet ones that are dangerous and because I was so quiet it made him nervous.  He’s not wrong - but I’m not scary, I’m a doormat! LOL - sometimes when I get all riled up tho, I say, “I’m channeling Jenni!”… no one ever stepped on you without a little comment! I’m working on my “inner-Jenni” lol!

You never made anyone nervous Jenni - scared maybe, lol, but not nervous! You were always out there, loud and up front and keeping your anxieties quietly deep inside.  I’m glad I got to see the inside of you, the whole of you, the real you.  You have some secrets of mine that I told you, and only you, because we had some shared experiences.  You took my secrets with you.  I’ll keep yours with me.  I promise.

I still have our last text - from that night you flew away.  I asked you if you needed a ride to work the next morning… you texted back: “nope! not working!”

I can’t delete it.  How true it ended up being….

Two years babe… no one asking, “so, lemme ask you a question..” in that special tone that said “I know I’m right but can you validate?”… no one to help me with these GD plants and the GD gnats.  No one to drive to or from work, no one to sing Hakuna Matata with, no one to gripe n bitch with… at least not in the same way as I could with you. I miss you Jenni. You know I’m not the only one.

As far as W1 goes, Covid is different.  Working on the floor is different.  All the newbies are different.  But hey - Jojo and Dot are the same!! That’s something I guess.

Since you’ve been gone I changed jobs twice.  Yep - I left W1.  Can you believe it??  Sometimes “I” can’t believe it.  

Donna lost her husband and her heart is shattered. And there is nothing anyone can do to heal her heart…but we try.  Britt died too… as Donna said, “now THATS bullshit!”

Nick left… and there is no one original left on the desk but Donna.  It’s so weird and foreign, the way life just keeps going on even when people are crashing and burning, or taking flight and thriving… life and living is all just so mind-boggling!!

Sometimes I think you are cheering us on in your own way: “dude, wh’the  fuck!” And “Get over it!” And “lemme ask you a question.,, do ya really think that’s ok?”

I hope I always hear you lil brev…  in my own way, in OUR own way… and every time I spill ice cream on your hoodie I will know it’s you.

2 years babe… gone but not forgotten… 

Love,

D

It’s Been 6 months…

 The organization that I work for has a “6 month” policy wherein if you change positions, you have to stay in that position for a full 6 months before leaving.

In September of 2021 I moved into a new position, a position that better suited my family and challenged me a little more.  It wasn’t an easy adjustment and I struggled from the start. I sought input from my previous manager, from my current manager, from friends… I whined and bitched and complained, I prayed and meditated and soaked up all the gratitude I could.  I defined my boundaries and held to them.  Through it all, I was consistently shown that it was never going to work.  A few weeks ago I finally threw my hands in the air and said, “All Done!”  I could no longer work in a toxic and unsafe culture.  I couldn’t watch other coworkers be demeaned and dismissed and couldn’t allow that for myself either.  

To be afraid of repercussions for complaining was offensive to my soul - I realize I am a privileged white woman in the USA and I admit it: and it’s also my RIGHT to work somewhere safe and somewhere that follows the organization’s guideline for basic respect.  I believe in the organization I work for - just not this particular situation.  So I started looking for a new position to move into.

I am so blessed and grateful to be able to say that in two weeks I will be out of this toxicity and into something...different.

I was torn about leaving, afraid that a new position would be just as bad - leaping from the frying pan into the fire so to speak... but as one wise person said, "well, it might be bad but at least it will be a different kind of bad! It certainly can't get worse..."  and I took that advice and ran with it.

I'm excited and anxious and nervous and uncertain - but I am mostly grateful, in light of the current economic status here in the US, that I will have a job that is, once again, considered essential to our public.  My income is stable still.  I have balance... still. 

In between the Marsh and New York City

 Today I registered and checked in a handful of patients who were showing up for their very first pre-natal appointments.

I also held a woman in my arms as she wept and said, "my baby... I lost my baby...".

I heard a pregnant woman curse a medical assistant, in Spanish, to her partner, presumably thinking that the MA wouldn't understand her language.  Well.  She did.  

I attended a meeting where the manager shit on every single person's ideas for improvement.

But hey.

I get every weekend off,  AND I don't have to pick up extra shifts just to make ends meet.  So there's that.

A couple of year ago I was pondering, with my soul mate, the concept of living in the middle of a marsh in New Hampshire vs living in a big city.  I didn't want either one - I wanted something in the middle.  

The marsh was "in the middle" of the ocean and the land.  Not good enough.  

The big city was in the middle of strangers and dangers vs isolation and alone-ness.  Not good enough.  

Maybe it wasn't "in the middle" that I didn't like, but the concept of being stuck between what I wanted vs what I needed.  The whole "being in the middle" was uncomfortable to me.  And it's not wrong, it's just who I am.

Yet, here I am, here, in the middle.

In the middle, in a new job, and wondering if I've made the right choice.

Excitement and Loss.  Comradery and disconnect.  Support, and disregard.  Kindness, and coldness.  I am so very much "in the middle" that it sometimes hurts my heart, makes my soul fall into puddles at my feet, makes tears fall from my eyes as I drive home from work.  It keeps me awake, late at night, or wakes me from a sound sleep and makes me ponder choices in the soft light of dawn before my alarm rings.

I don't like this middle ground I'm in.  I don't like the choices on either side of it tho.  I am floundering - and it's a dangerous place to be where I might make a decision based on "feel" vs "fact".

I "feel" distrustful, sad, worried, disappointed  but I also have every weekend off, holidays off, and don't need to pick up extra hours just to make ends meet.

I'm perfectly imperfectly balanced in the middle right now.

So uncomfortable.  So shaky and worried and imagining the bright, safe lights of the big city while stuck landlocked uncomfortably and peering at the marsh, warm and soft and protective.

I'm in between and I'm not very good at sitting here in the discomfort.

The Sweet Bitterness

On Sunday, my previous coworker Rose texted me to say that Sunday's just weren't the same without me.

I might have shed a tear or two.  She told me that I would never be forgotten because I had a beautiful soul.  I definitely shed a tear or two.  

On Monday, another previous coworker, Jill, texted me to ask how I was doing.  I definitely ugly cried after I told her how lonely I was and how there was no one to hug or touch or be vulnerable with.

Over the past few days, an entirely different coworker was  talking about her own mental health struggles and I monopolized the conversation to focus on my needs. She asked me if I was "happy"... 

... and that is where the sweet bitterness floods my mouth, my words, my heart, my mind... and my soul.

I am many things - and right now one of the things I am is an ADULT.

I work a job that pays the bills... 

I work a NEW job that pays the bills that have inflated due to Covid and Life and These Times.

Am I happy?  Do I even have the right to be?  The luxury of being?

no.  no I don't.

So am I happy?  

I am grateful, dammit.  Grateful. 

I am a grateful ADULT.

That has to be enough right now, because I'm grateful for so many things...

Grateful to work a job that has me indoors, sitting, and face-to-face with consumers, and challenges my brain and creates new synapses; I'm grateful to have a job that is more than the one before, that offers me potential.  I'm grateful to be employed, with security, and to be able to provide consistent income for my family, as humbly as we live.

But am I happy?

I WAS the cheerful one, the one who spoke encouragement and support, the one who rubbed their tense shoulders and told them they were amazing... I WAS the one who told bad jokes and announced silly happy announcements over the PA.  I WAS the one who listened to Worship Music on Sundays with my Rosie... I WAS.... and now I ....  I am.

I am not yet a part of the puzzle, the group, the foundation.  I am not yet the cheerful one who holds your secrets and your vulnerabilities.  I am not yet the one who goes to the manager to protect you, to protect our unit, to protect our family... I am ... "now"... and I am unsettled... but still searching for my place.

It is this sweet spot, of "was" and "could be"... and the bitterness within it, where I currently balance my soul and my heart and my emotion.  I don't like it... this bitter-sweet spot... but I will swallow it every moment of every day until it finally becomes just... sweet.

If you pray, please pray that the "sweet" comes soon because the bitterness is hurting me, its hard to swallow, its making me cry and wallow and argue against the joy that is hovering, potentially, for me to embrace.

If you don't "pray" - then send me your vibes, your energy, you thoughts and wishes and hopes... I need them all.

The Beginding, with Jenni

 Hey Jenni...

Today is the "day before my last day" on W1.  

I'm having a hard time leaving W1 because it is my only true connection to you.  I have your plants, your advice, the memories of you... but being around the other people who also feel the loss of you, who remember what it was like to work with you, hang out with you, and who remember the day your dad called to tell us you were gone, the people who mourned and grieved side by side over losing you - I feel like I need them to keep me tied to you; so... leaving them is really hard, but I'm doing it anyway.  

We all battled Covid together, Jenni, on W1. 

In the beginning, we were all of us, on W1, terrified and stressed and battling this fucking virus together in masks and gowns and gloves, slathered in sanitizer and fear.  On W1, we parented together, cried and cursed together, we told inappropriate jokes together.  We survived together.  We were all connected and bonded in ways no other coworkers outside of a hospital ever could be because of that fucking virus.  Until you died.  

Then we did it all without you; because we didn't have a choice.  We battled on without your wit and wisdom and care and sass and sarcasm.  We missed you, your stories about Lyvie, we still miss her now even... and tomorrow is my last day to be surrounded by all of the people who loved you and grieved the loss of you.  After tomorrow, I will grieve you on my own.  I'm not sure I'm cut out to handle it alone, but I will do it anyway because that kind of strength is an honor to your own srength.

Today I played with my/our plants.  I repotted, I refreshed soil, I watered and sprayed and wiped Neem oil on leaves.  I brought the indoor plants that I put outside, back inside.  I talked to and sang to and made promises to ever single one.  I planted newly rooted cuttings I had growing in water in my windows.  I embraced the growth and life and propagation.  I felt you, Jenni, in the funny way I referred to bottom watering as "butt chugging", and in the way I named the few little gnats I saw flying around, and how I named my most dramatic plant "Karen".  That plant is the one I bought from you as a gift for my son and his wife (um, now she's his ex but thats a whole different story friend!) but that I loved so much I kept.  She's pretty dramatic tho Jen, she likes to pretend to die randomly, and then return to full glory only after I've done EVERY SINGLE THING so I'm never sure exactly what it is that she wants.  Heh... maybe I should name her after myself?? 

If you were here, you'd tell me to suck it up, to move on, to do what is best for myself and my family.  Except, you'd say it over a glass of wine while Lyv bossed Griff around in my yard, or while we were talking late late at night while everyone else was asleep.  Then we'd laugh and laugh and tell stories about work and vent about life and exchange info about plants, about budgeting, about ex's and moving forward... until we had to hang up.  I guess I'm hanging up Jenni... for now.

I'm leaving W1 but only in body.  My heart and soul will always be there, with yours, and I hope they keep remembering you and your life and your joy and ethic and sass.  

Tomorrow is my "beginding"  the beginning and the end of something soul shattering and life changing and forever impactful.  Thank you for being part of it all my friend...

I Love You, and your toes...

 My firstborn son is 25 years old.  He is almost half of my age.  

When he was born, he was big.  I mean... BIG.  It was a surprise, just how big he was, but throughout his life, his personality has been just as big as the day he arrived, surprising all of us with his size, and he continues to surprise me still today with the way he continues to grow BIG into his own soul.

This isn't about his birth though.  Or his growth.  It isn't about his long curly hair or his almond shaped deep brown eyes, or his physique, or even his tattoo's.  This is about his life... and mine... and life and death and all the stuff in between.  It's about all my children.

Tonight I came home after work and ran an errand with my little son.  We then came home and did our own separate activities: him on a google meet with friends, and me cleaning my ever-messy bedroom and prepping dinner and getting ready for tomorrow and another day of work/home/parenting/life.  What did my firstborn son do?  I dunno... he was probably also working. He works a lot - he works hard and works a lot of hours and works a lot of days:  last count was 80 hours in one week.  My boy, my son, Mijo, I'm proud AND worried....

While I cleaned my bedroom tonight: the room that is the depository for all the detritus of life in our small house; I turned on a movie to occupy my mind.  It was one of those indie films full of all the feels, deep and dark and inspiring all at the same time.  Maybe a little less inspiring and a lot more "feels"... with a whole lot of "dark/deep".  It kept me occupied alright; it kept me sooooo occupied that my bedroom full of detritus did NOT get cleaned.  At all...  

Well, honestly, I did manage to move things from one spot to another, and then sort the spots into categories... but then somehow time was warped and I ended up piling it all back up into one big pile while the end of the movie played out musically in sharps and minors and half beats of time.  I might have cried.

In the movie, the main character was a single mom who was mentally revisiting the suicide death of her adult son.  In one soul wrenching moment of the movie she recalled seeing her dead son's toes curled tight in a spasm, and how she tried to straighten those toes, the toes that she'd grown inside her own body, the toes she'd kissed when he was a baby, the toes she'd tickled and covered up and protected and loved... and how those spasmed curled toes she could no longer kiss, tickle, cover, and protect. 

I DEFINITELY cried.

A lot.

I have an adult son... and I also have 2 adult daughters... and another young son.

I fear for all of them, every day, and I fear for my own heart also, the fear of "the fear of losing them".

This movie had me praying, and cursing, and biting my tongue, and hoping, and praying even more.  This movie had my stomach clenched, my jaw set hard, tears streaming down my face; and also had my soul set free and lifted up to the God I believe in and hold onto and take comfort in... and I prayed that my own children would hold the same belief I have - and be able to rest in the same comfort that I hold onto... or that they would find their own comfort and belief, even if it isn't' my own.  We all need something outside ourselves to believe in and hold on to.

I have family members that have lost their own adult children, friends that have lost their own small children. I've lost my parents, and in-laws, and other family... I've lost friends that ARE family... I've lost friends that feel like my own children but yet... aren't.  I know what it is to lose a parent, to lose a loved one, a life mate, to grieve for someone else's grief... in real time... but I have not lost my OWN child to their OWN demons, and God, oh God, I stay on my knees and pray that of all the losses I've had, and have yet to have, losing a child to their own demons is not a loss I have to face this time around. 

Perhaps my turn will come, in this huge life, this karmaic adventure of love and experience; of surrender and battle all at once.  Maybe in another life it has already happened and now I am making amends?  I won't discount anything I don't know about.

Perhaps in THIS life tho,  I will lose a child to demons I have no control over.  

Perhaps its is a ridiculous farce to think my love will protect the children I have now in THIS life.  

Are you laughing at me God? 

I love you, all of you, my babies...but I know my love is not enough.  I pray that you don't leave me yet. I still need your tiny (and not so tiny) kissable toes that I can uncurl and hold flat against this bumpy life...even if it's only in my heart.  I still want time to uncurl you.  

Dear Jenni

 Dear Jenni; 

I wish you'd told me how expensive and time intensive these house plants are.  I might have turned away the first few that you gave me if I'd known all there was to know about keeping them alive and thriving.  I certainly wouldn't have taken in more! Too late now.  

Are you there somewhere laughing at me? You are, aren't you? Telling me to 'suck it up buttercup', giving me that sassy grin, and walking away saying, "sucker!" over your shoulder.  God how  I miss your laugh.

Today I think I might have finally conquered the battle with the fungus gnats.  Ever since you talked me thru repotting some of my own plants well over a year ago, and I was stupid enough to buy the cheap soil that was pre-infested with those damn gnats, I've been fighting them off.   I did all the things you told me to do.  I bought the Neem.  I used the soapy water.  I watered from the bottom instead of the top.  I let them dry out well.  I used your mom's fertilizer recipe.  I took pictures of my wilting listless plantlings and sent them to you.  I sent you video even.  You loved it when I did that while you were working a double, it helped pass the time for you.  Nothing was working though.  You told me to hang in, that we'd figure it out.  Then you died.  You bitch.  I'm still pretty pissed off at you for doing that you know.

After you died, which still feels like yesterday, I inherited a few more of your plants, courtesy of your lovely dad and some of your plant friends when we were all together, packing up your apartment.  *sidenote* damn, you loved that apartment... it was so pretty and so full of  your beautiful soul:  your soul displayed like art with your own handmade macramé and the bajillion plants in their tiny perfect planters and the cozy furniture and the peaceful colors.  You did good kiddo.  You did good.

Anyway.  I inherited a few more of your plants Jenni, and they came with gnats.  Of course!  My gnats loved meeting yours, and they all had a kick ass party going on in my place throughout Christmas.  I even bought sticky traps and had to change them every couple of days because they were so covered by those tiny evil assholes.

Finally I dug into the interwebs and the tik toks and the instagrams and I decided to forge ahead with my own plan.  Today was the finale.  If I see a garsh-darn gnat in the next few days, or the next few weeks even, I swear to God Jenni, I will die and come find you and... well... I really don't like confrontation so I probably will just flip you off, from a safe distance of course, but so help me baby cheezits, if I see a gnat, I WILL make good on this threat!

Today I took all forty-eleven plants, which includes all the little propagations I've done (toot toot! look, I'm tooting my own horn!), and the few that I snipped from your aloe at work, and I got rid of the top two inches of gnatty soil on every single one of them, replaced it with new, fresh, UN-gnatty soil, and then covered it with a solid inch of decorator sand.  Every single one, Jenni.  Every single one. Now, its not just as easy as all that though - I had already potted a bunch of the propagations in teeny little cups so it meant totally repotting those ones all together, and I had to change out a few pots that didn't have drainage holes (duh, you didn't mention the importance of THAT!) for pots that DID have drainage holes, and I also made some little climbing poles for one plant and a few support stakes for a couple of others, and I had to replace the grow lights and reposition everything - sheesh!  Afterward, my kitchen looked like the swedish chef muppet guy had just finished making a mud pie.  Then I had to clean up.  

Damn I'm exhausted.  I'm also victorious tho kiddo, and it's the first time I've felt that way in a very long time, and I also feel a deep sense of peace which I haven't felt since you died almost 3 months ago. So thank you for that Jenni. I wish you were here to talk to about this, to ask if you felt that way too when you cared for all your plants.  Instead I'm carrying a part of you in my heart, and in my hands.  I just hope you weren't being carried in any of the gnats...

I miss you Jenni.  There is a you-sized hole at work my friend, and a you-sized hole in my heart too.

Trauma

 It was March.

It was Covid.  All covid, all day, every day.  Endlessly.

No one knew what was happening, what was going to happen, what had already happened which would then influence what was yet to come.  In the span of just one or two days our city went from normal life to completely shut down.  The streets were eerily empty.  The highway had no traffic.  Stores were dark and empty.  In just one week us hospital workers were in full PPE gear and learning how to live a life we didn't have instructions for.  

One day we didn't have enough PPE, then the next day we did, then we didn't again.  One day we had to wear masks, and then the next day we had to wear face shields, and then the next day back to masks.  Later on we had to wear both.  Nurses and doctors got sick.  People died.  A lot of people died.  Everyday.  Alone.  We lived in a place of grief and fear and learned to live that way while grasping hope and exhaustion in each hand, sharing the best we had inside ourselves with the people working side by side with us and trying to hold onto enough 'self' to carry home to our families. 

We learned to live in isolation.  We gave up hugging our children and each other.  We learned to wear clothes with bleach stains and shoes that sat in our trunks whenever we weren't at work.  We bathed in sanitizer.  And we did it day after day.

Then it was July.  

It was summer, and blue sky, and warm air, and it was... different.

It wasn't ALL covid, ALL day, Everyday.  It was... different.  

Our cities and towns were only partially locked down.  We could shop, eat out, go to the gym.  At the hospital, we only needed PPE for some patients.  We kept the covid positive patients just on one floor, not every floor. We rode on the shuttle bus again.  We were used to wearing masks all the time and had learned to be safe as a matter of routine.   We hugged our children and walked our pets, and hugged each other too.  The memory of sitting in a parking lot praying and crying before every shift seemed surreal, like it had been just a nightmare, or that it had happened years ago and not just months.  

We learned to teach our kids via zoom and google meet with their teachers.  We learned to embrace family and friends via marco polo and facetime and other platforms that kept us safe, but in touch.  We worked more normal hours.  We felt... different.  We laughed.  We lived.

Now it's the end of November.  

Time flew by so quickly.  Quicker than we ever thought it could.  In the span of one week we have been thrust heart and soul back into the grasp of Covid.

All Covid, All day, Everyday.  Endlessly.

We ran out of blue plastic isolation gowns this morning.  We ran out of alcohol swabs too.  We had a school teacher with covid on our floor and her school has been shut down.  My own child is due to start back at school in a couple of days and I got an email last night that one of the staff had just tested positive. The sense of dread is so heavy.  

The weight of worry and fear is something we hospital workers carry in our pockets, in our backpacks and purses, slipped into the folds of our clothing, we carry it everywhere we go, once again.  We didn't hug each other at work today.  I won't hug my child tonight until after I've showered, and then disinfected the pathway from the front door to the bathroom. Even then, I may wear a mask. They say this is "the new normal" but let me tell you, THIS? This is NOT normal.  This is trauma.

May God bless you and make His face shine upon you, and onto all of us.

Girl

 He calls me "Girl".  

At the end of a conversation, he says, "Ok Girl, I love you!" 

Sometimes maybe in the middle of an important discussion he will say, "Hey Girl, you are OK,  really, you know?"

And I know.  I know he loves me.  I know I am, at the end of it all, OK.  Because he said so.

I'm not the only one he calls "girl", but in my mind I am the most important one.  In my mind I am the FIRST one.  In my mind, I am the BEST girl, ever.

He is my big brother and I am his one and only little sister.  I always make him tell me that I'm his favorite little sister.  He always agrees.  Every single time.  I am the only little sister he has so it's not a big stretch but still... it matters to me.

I will be 51 this year.  He will be... uh... I dunno... 58? 59?  

He will be old.  

Older than me.  

I am still a baby... his baby sister... his baby "girl".

He will be recovering from hernia surgery, from a COPD diagnosis, using a full time O2 tank, recovering from a foot surgery, and recovering from the loss of his beloved puppy dog, and adjusting to a move from Hawaii to Arizona, mid pandemic... He is undergoing a LOT.  And I am 2000 miles away, unable to see him, touch him, hug him, tease him, mock him, irritate him, annoy him, and be the little sister, the "girl" that I am supposed to be.  It hurts me to my very core.

I remember him holding me when I was 6, scared and alone and missing alllllllll the life I had known before that moment: I was 6 and my parents were divorced and my mom worked 40 hours A DAY (no exaggeration) and my brothers were all I knew of safety and love.  

I remember his girlfriend being MY friend, playing Barbies with me and giving me lunch and being my companion during long lonely afternoons.

I remember him coming back home after having gone away to stay with our dad for what felt like years but was probably weeks, and bringing me a Snoopy Dog stuffed animal from the airport - I remember discovering his ear piercing and him begging me not to tell our mom... I remember him letting me cut his hair and the awful mullet I gave him and how he didn't even care...  

I remember him as a new dad, just a handful of years older than me, holding his new baby boy and trying to figure it all out and still making me feel like I was special to him.  I remember him standing by me while our mother died.  I remember holding HIS son, and feeling close to him at the same time. 

I remember visiting him when our older brother was sick and wouldn't let us see him.  When we were both of us filled with anger and grief and fear and frustration and so so so much sadness.  

I remember his voice, over the phone, talking to me about our momma, about alcoholism, about addiction and grief,  and about our dad and his life and our step-dad and his life, and every fucking thing ever about life as my brother, as my friend, as the one person I love more than fucking ANYONE.   

I remember him easily, think of him all the time, because he is still present in my life every day; but I always have the underlying dread thinking of that moment when he won't be there, when he won't be HERE, when I won't hear him call me his "girl"... and tonight I weep in advance.

I've seen my aunties say goodbye to their sisters, to their brothers, to grieve the loss of their siblings, their special "someone" that understood their past... and I've felt angst for them, knowing that someday it will be me, losing MY brother, losing the ONE person to call me his "girl", and feeling that loss so deeply and intimately and in my very foundation.  Oh how I dread that day -  the day when I am no longer Rick's "girl".  

I feel bereaved too, in advance, of my own children losing their siblings.  Will Steph lose her littles, the ones she helped raise?  Will Noah lose his right hand, his one and only little sister, or his anchor, his one and only big sister?  Will Hannah lose both her guiding lights? Her big sister, her big brother?  What would our family look like without our "boy"'s, or our "girl"'s?  What will Griff grow up to be without the maps that his older siblings forged?  

How will I ever get to the end of the road if my big brother doesn't map it out ahead for me?

I am his "girl"... I sure hope he leaves a roadmap for me.

Welcome to 3rd Grade; and Life 2020 style

Wednesday 9/16:

 I'm sitting next to my boy; my twitching, wiggling, standing-sitting-standing-crouching-sitting, snapping, clapping, dabbing-dancing boy; and trying to get him to focus (for the love of  God, man, just FOCUS!) for his very first day of all remote learning on a google meet platform he's never used before.  He hates it.  I hate it.  "It's just day one though," I keep reassuring him (and myself, truthfully).  "It's just day one, it'll get better! I promise!"  

I'm not one for making promises that I can't keep, but over the past 7 months I've drifted towards placating hopeful false promises that I'm not really sure of but are the only ones I can muster up.  "Its ok, it's gonna be ok, really!" That's one of my most used ones.  I hope the universe forgives me.

I'm grateful for the mute button on google meet.  Most of  my running commentary as I sit next to my bored, restless, remote learning hating son, is alternate versions of  'stop! don't do that! put your feet down! good job! nice effort! ewww!'

We finished school and I only cried once.  We all took a long, independent break for the afternoon and then made an excursion to the outside world, with masks and sanitizer, for some retail therapy.  Maybe that was just for me though!

 Thursday 9/17:

We start fresh.  We sorted out the computer issues and my wiggly boy started out on MY laptop while his school issued chromebook lay on the floor in the corner of my bedroom.  We read the emails last night and printed out the assignment in advance.  We had a good hot breakfast and were ready to go at the right time.  I unplugged my fully charged laptop so I could plug in the desk lamp.  

Cue the dark music and crickets.  

1.5 hours into the day, when the teacher was walking everyone thru logging into and accessing assignments and how to turn them in, the laptop died.  I quick plugged it in and tried to reboot.  nope. not gonna happen.  It took a solid 30 minutes to finally set up the chromebook and get back on to the classroom.  We did math outside while my wiggly boy slid and swung and climbed and wiggled.  It was kind of awesome honestly, and also horribly stressful!  Balance, right?

I'm hoping to re-engage with my sense of balance, the way I did all those years ago when I had to quit my job and stay home to care for my sweet boy.  In the last two years I've lost my sense of balance entirely.  I became so entrenched in a grown up personal relationship (and the drama/trauma of it) that I lost my connection to my own self, to my role in the big picture of my own life in general.  When that relationship fell apart, I had nothing left but the drudging work of living solely as a single parent who provides.  Also?  At the same exact time? Pandemic....  

I'm hoping to return to myself.  I'm hoping to return to my friendships and relationships, my connections to my adult kiddos and my internal drive to have - yes, i'll say it - FUN and joy and peace in my life.  It's a hard, slow, painful road due to Corona virus/pandemic lock down, but I am determined to live this one life I have as best I can.  However hard it might be in the dark valleys, alone, and unsure of what I'm striving for, I'll keep going.  

I hope you keep going too...

A Beautiful Mess

It's been a long time since I've written regularly.
There have been parenting successes, and failures, and then successes - a lot of  balance in life; total upheaval, job changes, life changes, growth and discovery, joy and sadness and then more joy;  finding the love of my life and how he made every day better, and then my heart shattering when it all fell apart.
It's been months now since that moment.

Today I got up. 
I showered. 
I did the "thing" that single moms do - I survived.  Today I fed children and cleaned up after pets and I bought more food to feed those ever-hungry children, and I fed them, again.  I drove my car and paid a bill and watered some plants and then planned an evening involving a baseball game and dinner and prepping for tomorrow.  There is always tomorrow even when I wish there wasn't.

I'm tired in ways I've never been tired before.  All of us are tired right now.  We are all tired of fighting for the rights of others, and for ourselves, fighting for what is right in general, all the while trying to be safe, trying to keep our children, our friends, and our families safe.  We are all tired of fighting to make every end meet, to burn our candles at both ends without burning out, to burn a light in the darkness without burning up.  I'm extra tired of doing it all alone. 

I'm extra. 
Extra tired, extra alone, extra burning out, burning up, burnt down entirely.  I'm tired of reaching out when I know that I have to.  I'm tired of "self care" and "living juicy" and "living whole"... I'm tired of living, of trying to do it with grace and panache and positivity and a good attitude and a grounded spirit.  But I don't have a choice so I keep on going.  I am necessary to my children, and I don't take that for granted - but I'm so tired these days and even tired of trying to do it all in a way that keeps my children living juicy and whole with grace and panache and positivity...but I keep trying. 

Sometimes The Words Are Hard

I have another blog.
I have OTHER blogs, truth be told.
Some are public and some are private.
I am more than just THIS space.

Your zinfandel eyes
Your darkest alcove
My red chucks
My craziest bed-head
My craziest
Your darkest
Us
We began
and
We ended
Do you cry too?

Sometime in April, 2020

A month ago I went out to dinner with the man I loved; the man who loved me back.  We ate at a Thai restaurant and he took a picture of me and said, "My heart is so full!"  We were just 6 weeks past a discussion about marriage; a discussion we'd had more than once over the past 2 years... and that date was the last time I remember feeling loved, and in love, with that precious man. Corona Virus, or Covid 19, happened in real time, just days later.

We were already semi-aware of Corona Virus, but more as an encroaching threat, a thing for the future, and even though I worked in health care it wasn't yet a front line fear; and so we went out and had dinner and made love, and promises, and had hopes and dreams.  That was then... this is now.

Today I left work, at a major hospital in a major city on the east coast, and I cried all the way home.  No, that's not right, because I didn't just cry, I wailed.  I screamed into the universe of my small empty car.  Alone.  I prayed, loudly and from my very soul.  I cried out to God, who I felt distanced from in this moment, for myself, for my coworkers, for my friends, my family, for my neighbors, my community (and my online community)... for my children.  It's how I've spent every day for the past month - in absolute agony and fear and grief, and also all alone.  I am not scared.  I am terrified.  I am 50 years old and healthy and strong - but I am also alone and there are Covid 19 victims younger than me, at a rapidly increasing rate - right in my own hospital - on the very floor I work on - and I am full up of fear.

I am afraid of dying alone; not of dying, I want to be clear on that - but of dying alone.  I am afraid of leaving my children alone.  I am afraid that one of my own children could die and I am NOT strong enough to withstand that, I know this, not alone.  I am afraid that the two brothers I have left on this earth as true family, could die - WOULD die in fact, if they contracted Covid 19.  And I would be alone to navigate that grief.  I am afraid of losing my remaining aunties and uncle, my few cousins, my rare and true soul-mate friends who are in the high risk category (which is changing and encompassing younger and healthier people daily).  What will I do without my big brother Ricky?  Without my friends Karen or Golden? What will my kids do, without me, or me without them?  How will I die alone without a true love to hold my hand and see me off into heaven?

As my LEAST favorite cliche says, "It is, what it is..." Oh how I hate that cliche.

All I can do is live in THIS moment - and that is really the problem.  THIS moment is full of fear, and stress, and emptiness.  I told a friend today that in my loss and grief I was returning to the faith that had seen me through so many other losses, and that I so very much wished she had the same comfort.  As much as that is true, I am still just one small human being, and I wish so much that the man I loved one month ago, who loved me back, was still available in this moment.  As awesome and mighty as my God is, as my faith is, as my belief is, it isn't a human form that can hold me after a long day with sick and hurting people that I can't fix, a long day with scared and stressed nurses who can't fix their patients, a long day listening to administrative orders and knowing it's not saving lives but saving money.  I need to be held and there is no one to hold me. 

I can't find the balance right now. 

Things that are seen

I used to work in a grocery store.  I stood at a cash register and passed the time noting the odd items people bought and what it might mean or what insight it gave to that person.  The guy buying chocolates, candy, and condoms was obviously hopeful.  Equally obvious tho was the female buying chocolate, potato chips, salad, and tampons.  The salad wasn’t fooling anyone!  The occasional oddball with Mac and cheese, frozen meals, 2 liters of soda, and an expensive, specialty brand jar of cornichons.  Was he going to eat them straight from the jar with his frozen weight watcher meal?  It makes me giggle to buy oddball things on occasion now, wondering what the cashier may be thinking.  Did I really need that package of pancetta along with my stony farms organic baby yogurt and my vegan and gluten free waffles? Yes, yes I did!

Today as I was checking out from the library I sheepishly said to the librarian, as I unloaded an overflowing armful of books,  that it was a little like going to the store for milk but walking out with a $50 order.  She laughed and agreed and then said, “oh I like this title!” while pointing to one book in my pile.  The book? It was “The Life-Changing Magic Of Not Giving A F*ck” that she was referencing.  In my typically awkward way I just smiled and said, “yeah, that one seemed to call to me today”.   And I didn’t give on f*ck at all what she thought.
Scratch that.  I did, totally, I gave all of the f*cks actually.   But that’s why I got the book - to learn how not to!
I also got books on grieving the loss of your parents because all these years later I still miss my mom so much that it makes me cry.  I miss my dad too... I can still hear his voice in my head sometimes.  I also got home decorating books and some trashy fiction.  A well  rounded selection overall.  Although maybe some of the books seem like the “salad” part of a mostly junk food grocery trip!

Now I’m going to curl up for hours at a time, (well, maybe in 10 minutes increments!)  and read and learn and gather info and daydream.  Because I want to.  In the minutiae of parenting I sometimes forget to do things that I want to do, things that make me happy, not big grand things, but small things like sitting down to read a book with a cup of tea.  So that is where you’ll find me for the next foreseeable future; curled up with a book and some tea.  Drop by and visit if you’d like!

Hope, Realized...

I've often made the observation that my three oldest kids are very very much just like me: quiet-ish, introvert-ish, readers and thinkers and creators, sarcastic and witty and flawed in the most interesting ways; and that my last born nugget is... entirely different.  G is loud, and fast, his brain is so sharp and constantly working, he is physically active and oddly, he is sensitive and easily offended.  He makes friends with cashiers and baggers, greeters, neighbors, strangers...but not so easily with classmates.  He loudly embraces life, and adventure, and people.  But for me, being his mom has not always been particularly easy.  He is fast.  And loud.  And not... like me.

He didn't like the car much as an infant.  He cried miserably for most all car rides.  He didn't like it if our house was noisy and full of people but he did enjoy getting out and people watching.  He was always easily over-stimulated and if we were out and in public too long, he fell apart.  At the same time, he needed interaction and connection and would get bored if stuck at home too much.  Grocery shopping was such an anxiety producing experience, as was the rare occasion we went anywhere in public, that at some point in time it was best to NOT go anywhere with him except a playground or other obviously kid-friendly place...that was enclosed.

When he was 2, he once ran away from me in Home Depot (after first screaming miserably in the cart for far too long and then kicking and hitting and squirming and screaming while held so that I HAD to put him down on the ground) and it was some kind of comedy to chase him: 2 employees, Hannah, and myself all trying to cut him off, round him up, corral him... and him running and shrieking gleefully up and down aisles.  He also ran from toddler story time once, shrieking with joy, through the aisles of the quiet library, with me in hot pursuit, red faced and embarrassed.  He ran away in church once too - darting like a squirrel in and out of pews, right in the middle of the service, with me hissing thru gritted teeth for him to getbackhererightnowthankyouverymuch!  We left the grocery store once also, him in my arms, my shirt half up around my neck exposing my body, him screaming and flailing like a cat getting a bath, just because.  He was loud in quiet places, overwhelmed in loud places, he ran near streets and near strangers, he slumped down and wouldn't move in the middle of activity.  By the time he was about 2 and a half, we just didn't do much at all.  It was too hard.

When he was 5, it was better.  Not great, but better.  We started going places again.  It got easier. He didn't run away, at least, not very often.  He was more compliant, and I was better at reading his signals.  I was learning him.  Finally.

Now that he's 7 and heading into second grade it's... so different.  It's more like what I had hoped for.  We do a LOT of things and go a LOT of places.  Regularly.  I didn't realize though, exactly how much my little wild one has changed, until this morning.

Yesterday I had to have him come to my work for a couple hours.  Hannah dropped him off and he came up with his backpack full of snacks and toys and sat at the front desk with me.  The hour of time that comprises "shift change" on a med surg floor is crazy chaotic.  Nurses coming in to get report from nurses leaving, last minute hold ups with discharging patients, last minute rushes to get patients admitted, a post lunch slew of toileting needs and medication changes, phones ringing and call bells sounding and overhead pages going out - it's loud and busy.  There are doctors and nurses and aids.  They know OF him, and when they see him they want to say hello.  And he sat through it all.  This morning, a nurse commented on G's behavior from yesterday, saying how amazed she was that he just sat there, played with his toys, ate his snack, watched a little show on my phone, answered politely to all the people stopping by to say hello to him and chat for a second, smiled and joked back at the ones who made time to engage, and was, in her opinion, a truly mature and mild child.  I listened to her and was overcome with emotion.  I hadn't even realized how much my boy has grown and changed, how much time has tempered my feral boy, how easy and joyful our times together now are, until someone else pointed out his genuinely agreeable little persona.  Another nurse had met him once before and was thrilled to see him again and commented what fun he was, how quiet and well behaved he was.  I was...tearful; and I treasured their comments deep in my heart.

Stepping outside my own limited perspective sheds such a bright light on so many things. Take away?  I'm going to try to do this intentionally, regularly, to step outside and look at the bigger view. To live bigger, broader, and with more open eyes.  To acknowledge.  To 'notice'.

Also?  I work with some pretty amazing and kind-hearted people!

Three Years Ago

Three years ago.  Three years ago seems like so very long ago - until I look at my child and his skinned up knees and his big brown eyes and hold him on my lap and then I think, "Three years ago was yesterday!"

Facebook gave me a memory today.  A memory from three years ago.  This is what I posted on Facebook three years ago, today:

August 4, 2016 

Last winter *G was just 3 and a half I discovered that G had been being mistreated at his daycare.  I'll never know the full story - but it happened, and that's all that matters. I pulled him out of that daycare immediately and began looking for a new place.  I found a really gentle and encouraging place that seemed to understand the situation and for awhile things were OK but G was really exhibiting a lot of behaviors we couldn't figure out.  We did everything we could and worked with his teachers and the director but G was just struggling with interacting with other kids and reacting really strongly when reprimanded; and primarily only at daycare (in hindsight, three years later, we see that he was trying to find his own sense of control and to feel 'big' since he'd been made to feel so helpless and small by adults in the old daycare).  He was struggling so much and everyone involved was feeling pretty unhappy so 3 weeks ago I made the decision to leave my job and stay home with him.  He only has another year before Kindergarten and he needs this time at home with me to feel safe, to regain trust in adults, to learn that he IS a good kid and worth every second of time I have.  I will be able to get back my savings, my retirement, my paycheck - but he will never have another chance to be four and to feel safe and be at home with me.  So - today was my last day at work and I'm alternately terrified and excited!

And what a terrifying and exciting time it's been!  My life has gone through a lot of dramatic changes over the last 10 years but its within these past 3 years that its really begun to settle, to sort itself out, to be balanced in a way it never was before.  I haven't enjoyed all the drama and the changes, and honestly I'd rather not have to relive any of it ever again, but I'm grateful for the growth I've experienced, for the time I've had with my son and for his healing which healed us both.  Who knows what things will look like in another three years!!

Someone Bring Me a Blanket

When I was married, I used to joke with my husband that when I was old and incapable, he would have to put my make up on for me.  The deal was that I would have to remove his nose and ear hair so it seemed pretty fair.  I guess we are both off the hook now since the divorce, which also seems pretty fair!  As I've gotten older though, putting on makeup has become the least of my concerns when I think about the aging process.  Working in a hospital has made it so clear to me that there are more important things to ask a partner to do for you when you can no longer take care of yourself.

To me, one of the most heartbreaking situations I see regularly is when people, especially older people, are alone.  A while ago when I was registering patients for surgery it was sometimes frustrating to have an entire posse of family and friends taking up space in the waiting areas for hours at a time, for minor procedures, but in my heart, it was far better than registering a patient for surgery and seeing them come in alone, wait alone, and ultimately leave, alone.  Often they wouldn't even have an emergency contact to list.  My heart always felt raw after registering those ones.  It gave me a chance to offer up a prayer for them, and I was glad to do that one small thing, but the awareness that so many people go through so many experiences in life, alone, pinches my soul. 

A patient on my floor died this morning.  Alone.  Last night I went home and cried about her situation. She was deaf, and blind, and in the process of dying.  It wasn't easy and she was alone and I hurt for her. I am hugely grateful for, and in awe of, the nursing staff who advocated mightily on her behalf to make that process easier.  I saw them working hard and caring hard and using their hearts as well as their best skills to see that this patient was free from anxiety and pain last night.  She did have a husband, but he was also elderly and not able to come often or stay long.  The back and forth of getting to the hospital, the long walk from the parking garage to our unit, the hard chairs.  It was a lot for him.  He would come once a day and sit for as long as he could.  He held her hand.  He adjusted her blankets.  He patted her pillows.  He folded a small handmade blanket from home over her chest and tucked it under her chin.  He was stoic and expressionless, but he was here.  He would check in at the desk when he arrived and would say goodbye when he left.  Late last night a nurse called him to let him know her status was changing and that he might want to try and come back.  He came with some additional visitors around 7 pm.  I'm not sure how long he was able to stay, but I do know that she was alone when she finally passed early this morning. 

I often joke about what it will be like when I am unable to care for myself.  I joke that my oldest daughter will foot the bill, my oldest son will show up with a secret stash of alcohol, my youngest daughter will be the one actually putting in the work of caring for me, and my youngest son? He'll pop in every once in a while and cause a ruckus before disappearing again. But its not really all that funny.  Being single and aging isn't funny at all.

If I am in a hospital, if it's at the end, I wonder if anyone will pat my pillows, hold my hand, or tuck a blanket over me before they leave... I wonder if I will die alone. I'm single and while I know I have a lot of living left to do, I think about the future a lot. Recently I had to assign a health care proxy before I went in for a small medical procedure.  I assigned my 21 year old daughter who still lives at home.  I'm pretty independent and not worried about being alone right this moment, but it was a little unnerving to ask my 21 year old child to act in my best medical interests in case I was unable to do so.  I guess maybe I'll have to tell her to bring me a blanket and hold my hand if it comes to that. She's not the sentimental one of my crew and I might have to leave explicit instructions if I want something like that!  And I do - I do want someone to hold my hand and to bring me a blanket.  I'd like it to be someone other than whichever nurse is on duty.  I'd like it to be someone who loves me.  I don't want to die alone, but the reality is that I might. It makes me sad to think about, but I'm willing to lean into this life I have, as it is, and have gratitude for it, as it is. I can pray that when my time comes, I will at least have nurses that are as wonderful as the ones I currently work with and who will advocate for me as fiercely as I watched them advocate for the patient last night.  And I can pray that someone will bring me a blanket...

Once Upon A Mother

There are 13 photographs in this collage. 
There are 13 different little faces in 13 little card stock framed windows, under glass, in a plain pine frame. 
Thirteen hearts shining from blue, brown, hazel, green, and black, wise little eyes. 
And all 13 of them were loved by me, however briefly, once upon a time.
There were more than 13 but I don't have pictures of them all.  That makes my heart sad, but I still know in my heart the feeling of holding each of them in my arms.

Dori, Ari, and Lili called me mama.
Maddie, my little meme, also called me mama.  She wanted to help make my morning "foffee" and would call down the stairs to the big kids by saying, "guys! guys! C'mon guys!!!"

Ray, Kevi, Nico, Xavi, Jelly, Jazzy, Liz, and Ci, didn't call me anything at all; either because they were too young to speak, or because they weren't with me long enough to name me as their own. Flit was one of the the ones who could say my actual name, but refused.  He wasn't the only one - as I said, there were more than the 13 that I have pictures of, but he is one of the ones I remember actually ACHING for. 

Flit, whom I nick-named after the hummingbird in the Disney movie Pocohontas, was terrified of the dark, and of closets, and held fast to the belief that the only foods worth eating were chicken nuggets, or white bread with peanut butter.  One night Flit, all of 5 years old and barely 40lbs, woke up sometime after midnight screaming"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" and had to be wrestled out of his urine-soaked pajamas and put into soft, dry ones, and laid onto soft, dry sheets and covered with a soft dry blanket, and still he stiffened up and refused to be held, or sung to, or cuddled, or soothed.  He just whimpered, "I'm sorry...I'm sorry..." the whole time.  My heart broke a little that night in a way I didn't know was possible.  Until the next one.

Little man was barely 2, like maybe 21 months.  His baby sister was just 10 months old.  You do the math... go on... I'll wait...

Little Man and baby sis were brought to me at about 7pm.  Little Man, at barely 2, was one of my favorite ages - and was all big eyes and totally expressionless.  He was blond, with chocolate drop eyes and a round little tummy... and a green-snot encrusted nose.  Baby sis was a dirty, stale smelling, rashy bottom, sticky mess.  I moved to unbuckle her from the cheap plastic infant bucket seat the social worker had left her in and Little Man made HIS move.  He threw his little baby body over that plastic seat, over his baby sister, with the intention of protecting her from me.  He was not even 24 months old.  He was still - for all measures - a BABY... yet he felt he had to protect his baby sister.  He risked the completely unknown for the salvation of a helpless infant when he himself was just an infant.  I cannot even describe what that felt like to see and realize and understand. 

At that point in time, I had 3 kids of my own.  Three children born from me into breastfeeding, organic homemade baby food, and cloth diapers.  Children who were read to and tucked into "family beds" and then fed hot breakfasts in the morning before getting on a bus to the local public school.  Children for whom the worst punishment was loss of watching tv, or an early bedtime, or a 5 minute time out in the corner on a chair.  Children who sat at the dinner table with both parents every night and ate kid-friendly, nutritious, and balanced meals; who showered or bathed every night and wore clean pajamas and clean clothes every day.  Children who left their younger siblings without a second thought because...why should they worry?

Little Man and his baby sis stayed only 2 nights.  I can't remember now if they were taken in by family or shifted to a longer term foster family, but i remember Little Man's eyes... and the way he wanted to protect his baby sis even tho he was a baby himself.

I remember Dori and Ari and how I called them "the ladies" and would say things like, "c'mon ladies, lets get going" and "alright ladies, this way now..."  I remember Lili and dressing her in everything pink and pretty.  I remember my own children wearing yellow raincoats and yellow rainboots and how I would call out, "c'mon duckies, this way...".  Maddie was a different story entirely, and deserves a post all of her own.  There is a Maddie sized wound in my heart that will never heal. 

Thirteen pictures of 13 souls - and there are so many more than just those 13 - that will forever be the beginning of 13 stories... and I loved all of them.  There were more like 18... or 20 by the time I had to quit being the foster parent I'd always dreamed of being.  There were babies and toddlers and preschoolers that stole bits of my heart and pieces of my soul and they all started with the line, "Once upon a..."  time? drug habit gone wrong? bad date? bad childhood? mother? Once upon a mother... yeah, thats it... Once upon a mother...

Once upon a mother, there was a child that needed a heart to love it.  And then there was D. 

Today on Mothers Day I think about my momma and how long she's been gone - 24 years.  I miss her more than I can admit because missing her makes me choke, sob, and keen in grief, ... still.

I think about my mother in law and how long I've been divorced - 10 years. She loved me as best as she could.
 
I think about Maddie - it's been 11 or 12 years since I saw her - she must be 12, or 13 now... and what has become of the baby who arrived with bite marks on her thighs and a blank expression on her face - who turned into the laughing Buddha baby who wanted to make my morning "foffee" and who yelled, "guys! c'mon guys!" to the big kids down the stairway.  The brown girl, in the sun, who stole my heart.

I think about oldest girl with the starry eyes and sunshine smile who lives so far away and whom I miss with an endless ache every hour of every day. 
I think of my oldest boy - my Mowgli man-cub with the wild curls and the 'to the bottom of your soul' brown eyes, and the music that erupts from his pores.
I think about my youngest girl with the crazy hair and the stern eyes and the laughter that is moon beams and ocean tides...
and I think about my boy-oh, my WTF child, my upside down inside out life shaking soul splitting shake n shimmy firefly child... and how once upon a time i wasn't a mother yet and how much I would NEVER go back.  Not for a moment, not for a day, not for gabazillion dollars.

Once I was a mother - and I always will be.

Renewed

For someone as wordy as am, who used to write daily, who is frequently on social media and truly has a need for connection with others based on conversation, I find myself becoming more and more speechless as time goes by.  I'm more often censoring my own words and thoughts.  Not that I have less of them, oh no, my thoughts are plentiful!  I'm caught up, however, in the act of trying to decide what matters, what will make an impact or be dismissed, what will make someone pause, feel pain, roll their eyes, be angry, or even try to get me to change something or delete something... or want me to agree that I am wrong about some feeling or thought.  That happens, even to me, who now writes so very little. It makes the act of writing, and talking, so treacherous.  I came across a quote the other day that made me stop in my tracks.  I had an "ah-ha!" moment over it.

I discovered "gaslighting" just about 6 years ago.  Someone sent me an article about it and as I read the article I was struck with a feeling of both dread and conviction.  I had chills, my face flushed hot, I felt nauseous.  I was having a panic attack just reading the article that described something so significant about my entire life.  This explains Gaslighting... 
Parents do to their children, and spouses do to their partners.  Alcoholics and addicts do to anyone. Employers do it.  Sometimes alcoholic parents do it to their children and those children grow up to be adults that have spouses that do it, partly because its what feels normal to them.  Sometimes those adults figure it out and somehow free themselves from the shadow of this abuse and begin to live theirs lives in authenticity and honesty. Or they at least try.

It's hard to recover from a lifetime of trauma - of living under the power of gaslighting.  I see it when it happens now; I see it when it happens in interactions with co-workers or with an employer or out in everyday circumstances, I see it when someone tells me about an interaction they had that didn't feel right.  I try to make sure it's not happening TO my child, that I'm not doing it out of conditioning.  I work hard to be obvious.  When I'm tired, or stressed, or worried, it's even harder to notice, to be aware of, to avoid.  When I saw the words someone else had written in a quote the other day it was like a splash of cold water to my sleep-walking self. 

"The thing about trauma is that it will have you gaslighting yourself when real shit goes down because you have learned that your feelings aren't to be trusted"

Man that hit home.  I think back to all the times I've gone to a friend or my therapist and asked, "tell me, is this feeling even valid?  Is this thought process worthwhile or am I being over-sensitive / dramatic / ridiculous / self-absorbed / crazy" (or any of the other adjectives I carry in my self-sabotaging arsenal).  Nearly every single time, it is validated for me that I AM seeing things clearly and having an appropriate feeling or thought.  Occasionally I will be shown other ways to think about it, but I am usually doing a fine job of being in reality these days. 

When I am feeling my best, feeling my "lady-balls" as someone special likes to call it, I am confident and sure enough to say what I think and feel what I feel without apology.  I have better relationships with others, I am a better listener and communicator. 

When I am under stress, worried, conflicted, or up against something I am unsure of however, all bets are off.  I become a gaslighter to myself.  I doubt, I second-guess, I waffle, I apologize, I stuff feelings and emotions and thoughts, I twist my own words and scorn my own feelings.  I speak harshly to myself.  I switch back and forth between what I feel and think to what I THINK I should feel and think and it gets very messy, very chaotic, and it hurts.  It hurts my relationships with others as well as my own self.

I hereby make the commitment to stop doing this to myself.
I'm going back to the beginning.  Back to when I focused on balance, on God and the universe presenting opportunity for learning and leaning and grounding and growing.  I'm going back to believing in myself, to feeling my feelings and not doubting their true-ness.  I am facing a lot of things I am unsure of, a lot of new opportunities, a lot of choices, and I'm tired of fighting against myself.  I trust that I will sometimes be wrong and that there will be forgiveness and mercy available when I own those moments as mine.  I trust that I will sometimes be right, and there will be gentle acceptance and reward when I claim those moments as mine.  I know sometimes that the forgiveness and mercy will be just out of reach and I will have to find it within myself, for myself.  That will be hard.  I can do hard things though.  My sweet 22 year old son just reminded me of that a few nights ago.  So goodbye to self-gaslighting.  Hello, again, to me...