Remembering a time when I was alone~

I was alone for about thirty minutes after giving birth to Jace. They moved me from the labor and delivery room to the room I was to spend the next twenty-four hours in. They kept Jace in the room he was born in longer to do whatever tests they do on new little babies. Michelle and Abby had left for the grocery store to get me some food. I'm always starving after I give birth, it's as if my body is instantly trying to replace the missing weight of the baby. Michelle's mom June stayed with Jace while the doctor's looked him over. It's her fondest memory of the whole birth. She gets these big smiles and her eyes light up whenever she tells anyone about those thirty minutes. "It was just me and him and he looked right into my eyes! I told him, Welcome to my world." Then she laughs her big belly laugh. So pleased with herself.

I was alone. Those thirty minutes were pure hell for me. Being away from my baby those first minutes drew out something primal in me. I could have climbed out of my skin with all the anxiety I felt. Where was my baby? What was taking them so long? I wanted to be able to see him, have more time to memorize his face. I still feel in the core of my being that it's wrong to take a new baby away from it's mother. That experience would make me choose to have a home birth if only we lived closer to a hospital.

Michelle and Abby made it back to me before Jace. "Where's the baby?" they asked.

"I don't know. He's been gone FOREVER!" I snapped.

Michelle went out of the room and like a hero came back moments later, pushing Jace's bassinet in front of her with her mom following close behind. "They kept him too long." I complained.

"Oh don't be ridiculous, they did not." June said with irritation, just dismissing my feelings. At that moment, I'd have given anything to kick that woman out of the room. A part of me wishes she hadn't had been there for the birth. She came with a cold, for crying out loud! She spins the story so it's all about her, her saving the day, her grandson. Every story she tells is the same. It's as if I wasn't even present for Jace's birth and if I was it was only to annoy her. If there's a next time, another birth. It WILL be different.

What did you learn from your father?~ Another writing topic

My Daddy Bill taught me how to turn the lights on and off. I remember feeling small in his arms as he carried me around the house from light switch to light switch. I remember the scratchy, tickle of his mustache on my temple as I'd lean over and flick the switch up and then down, off-on, off-on. It took all of my concentration to get my fingers just right to make the switch work, then we were off speeding, whirling through the kitchen, the den, the garage, he let me practice with the lights in every room. I can remember the low echos of his laughter, feel the vibration of his words against my body, but his voice has become muddled as if it's under six feet of water in my mind. I doubt I'd be able to recognize his voice if I heard it now. If I look up in my memory, at the place where his face should be all I can see is a giant black smear, almost like a thumb print. I think it's a good visual for the smudge he left on so many hearts when he chose to end his life.

My Daddy Bill never got to graduate to the title of just dad. He missed all of my life, he didn't protect me, he didn't hug me and he certainly wasn't there to tell me he loved me. The lessons he taught me came from the pain he caused to everyone that ever cared about him when he commited suicide. Even those that didn't care all that much for him were left with a burden of guilt, the agonizing question,"I wonder if things would have been different if I'd talked to him?"

My older brother struggles with meth addiction and I haven't seen him in three years. During the times I've spent with him in the past he goes on and on about our father's suicide. Do I think it was a conspiracy? What do I remember seeing? Would I let him talk to my uncle who was also there? My father died twenty-five years ago, but my brother can talk as if it happened yesterday. He has all this rage and pain brewing inside of him that I don't think he'll ever be able to come to grips with. It's not all my father's fault, but I'd hate to even be partly responsible for the wounds my brother carries.

Ending my life, destroying other people's lives in the process has never been an option I'd think about. I don't care how bad things have been or get. I've had oppurtunities to try things like Meth and Coke, but I've never considered it. My Daddy Bill's life went down the tubes with that crap and I have learned from his mistakes. Those are the only things he left behind for me to learn.

A memory of my mother ~

~I remember my mother's feet pressed against my tummy, sturdy as a board. I was an airplane clinging to her fingers as she pushed me further and further away. "Be brave," she'd say. "Just let go" I could smell the fruity gum she chewed as she blew bubbles giant and pink, hear her laughter as she'd snap up the bubble like an alligator just as I got close enough to crush a sticky mess onto her lips.

Tell me about a time you ate Salmon ~ Another writing excercise~

Michelle is so good at keeping me fed and happy with healthy food. Cooking is a passion for her, she loves coming up with new things and knowing just what the boys and I will like or not like before we've even had a bite of a new food.
I remember we went to see Cirque du soleil for our anniversary after Jaxon was born. He was about twelve weeks old and I was not even close to the point of being ready to leave him with a sitter. She'd actually talked about buying the tickets when I was still pregnant with him and I'd said absolutely not. She talked me into it, she said we'd be dying for a break from our new baby by the time the actual concert rolled around. She was wrong. Leaving him and the way I'd feel about it was all I thought about for a week before the day finally came. We left him with Michelle's mother. I was still nursing, but we'd begun supplementing with formula so we knew he would be fine in someone else's care.

I remember I didn't want to offend Michelle's mom and she just didn't have any comprehension of how hard it would be for me to leave my baby for a few hours. I kissed him several times, breathing in his scent, savoring it, and then started crying as soon as I was in the car. I cried half the way to the Merrymoor State Park (where the concert was being held) what if we got into an accident and I never saw him again, what if Michelle's mom put him to bed with a blanket and he suffocated? All kinds of irrational thoughts raced through my head and I let them spin until I was spent and numb with exhaustion. I grabbed Michelle's hand and I squeezed. I would try to have a good time.

Michelle had packed us a picnic basket full of different kinds of crackers, cream cheese, apples, smoked salmon and a bottle of wine. She's packed this basket with the same foods on several little romantic outings and it always feels special. It's our tool for reconnection. We took an hour at a picnic table with our meal, basking in each other's company, talking about our new little baby and sipping wine. She said she thought I was a good mother. I remember being so impressed that she thought that. It was still so hard to believe I really was a mother. I really had a baby of my own at home, a family. I told her she was a good mother too and in that moment leaving the baby for the evening seemed to have been just what we needed.

Now I want some smoked salmon. *sigh*

Tell me everything you know about coffee~~

This is my response to the exercise.
I miss the way I used to drink coffee with good conversation and a cloud of cigarette smoke. My earliest memory of coffee is paired with the memories of bleach blonde hair, black roots and the parched, cracked heels of my grandmother. I remember she'd eat a danish in the morning and sip on sandy colored cups of coffee for the rest of the day. Her coffee was so sweet it was a dessert in it's self. When I was little she'd sometimes let me drink some from her cup. She never once spouted out the blurb about how it would stunt my growth.

When I was fourteen I saw her again after not being allowed to see her for nine years. One of the first things we did was light up cigarettes and she made me a warm cup of coffee just like the ones I'd remembered her drinking. We stayed up late catching up on the past. The coffee swirling in our mouths somehow made our memories so much sweeter than the truth.
I drink over a half a pot of coffee a day now. I like it rich and bold, a strong french roast feeding fuel to my tired veins. I don't put any dessert creams or sugar in it, just a tablespoon of half and half. I'd love to say I don't need the false syrupy, sweetness like I did in the days I drank coffee with Grandma, but the truth is I don't want to get fat again. I'd rather eat than drink my calories.

Coffee's just not the same anymore. Without the conversation and the smooth cigarette resting between my fingers, coffee is just a beverage, no longer a link to a place that almost felt like home.

I CAN do this!

I write. That is what I do, but this whole blog thing seems overwhelming. I think really, I've got to just give it a go. The last time I said that was February, but this time..I really mean it.

I have been writing with six women every day. We write for ten minutes to various topics. Currently the topics are being provided by a book called "Old friend from Far away," by Natalie Goldberg(Love it, love her, pick it up if you get the chance). It's all memoir writing. You're given a topic, you put your pen on the paper and there's no telling how far you'll dig and where you'll wind up. I've been surprised several times just where I've gone with the topic. I think I'll share some of those as I write them.

If you feel inspired to write as well, please do so. Share your work, read it out loud. It's a validation of being alive. Or at least it is for me. I'm alive, I'm here. I am love and so are you.