Nope. No damn rednecks over here. Nuh-uh.

There are people who suffer outrageous tragedy and somehow they pick themselves up and not only survive, but shine. They become an inspiration to others. They advocate, support, march on.


Live.

They live, not without pain, not without sadness, but with a beauty in the face of tragedy that says to others that they still see good in life.  That there is still occasion for happiness, and that laughter is healing.  They help other people to believe.  To Hope.

And when their long-awaited dreams are realized, those who love them cannot stand by and just let that pass without notice.

There must be rejoicing amongst all. Lifting up. Celebration!

And, because I admire and adore her, I really wanted to join this celebration, donate a little to the cause, and congratulate Tanis on this incredibly joyous and long overdue occasion. But when I read the email and post from Catherine (Her Bad Mother His Bad Redneck Aunty) and it became clear that, in order to participate, I had to talk about the ways in which I’m a “Redneck Mommy?”

Well, I got really depressed. Because there really is nothing for me to talk about along those lines! Total bummer, man.

I mean, we are just totally not rednecks over here. You know, it’s not as if I grew up in a town that was so small it had to join with another, nearby town just to have enough people to form a high-school. Or as if that high-school actually had goats in its proverbial backyard. *cough*

And it’s not as if there were corn fields right behind the house I grew up in, and my little brother and I played in an old, falling down barn, building forts out of discarded tobacco-drying sticks. I never built a fire right up against the old house we rented that was built in the 1800s and had no central air.

We so totally did not play on old stumps in our backyard and have a pile of sand there, too, that our cats absolutely did not shit in and then we played in it some more anyway.  Seriously.  Didn’t.

I never once stepped in actual cow manure while playing at a friend’s house!  We did not burn garbage in an old water well on the back of the property we lived on.  And I have no idea what it’s like to watch my mother pluck the feathers out of a freshly slaughtered chicken.

NOPE.

And my husband is totally not a redneck, either! He is like, WAY more Not A Redneck than me, even! He doesn’t play country music for a living, and he has most certainly never, ever said as a part of regular conversation, without a hint of joking intended, the words “over yonder,” or “them are.”

Or “here in a little bit” to mean, “in a little while.”

Definitely not.

He is not from Texas.  He does not refer to our dog as a “turd-hound.”  He has never danced the Two-Step or gone hunting a day in his life.

(Interjection:  If you ask him, he will tell you that dancing the Two-Step is NOT “redneck.”  It’s “country.”  Then, when you ask him what’s the difference between “redneck” and “country?” he will fidget and say, “I don’t know.”  And you will point and laugh at him, and mutter, “Sooo writing about this.”)

He has never crapped in the woods and then wiped his ass with a ROCK.  And he doesn’t speak with a drawl.  Ever.

And this? It is SO TOTALLY NOT HIM.

Photo is property of John Owens, used by permission.
Facebook is a wonderful thing. Heh.

Nuh-uh. Nope.  Totally not him wearing that bolo tie.

Also?

I do not go for days without a shower or actually like the taste of Ramen Noodles. I do not go around barefoot all the time, even in the dead of winter. I have never cut my own hair. Or peed on the side of the road. Or drank the shiznite out of some Koolaid and walked away with a Sweet-Ass Red Mustache. Or used a hoe, on a garden, and not the kind of ho you’re thinking of either, because I’ve totally used the hell of out them hos.

Never worn a “wife-beater” tank top with bra straps showing under it.

If I had to put together a cowboy outfit, I’d be screwed, because it’s not as if there are cowboy boots or hats easily accessible around here. *shakes head back and forth vehemently* And there really are no guns here. Especially not a shotgun wrapped in a damn rug because we’re too lazy to figure out a better way to store it. Oh no.

Our Christmas tree is soooo not laying down in our yard, all dried out and crusty, begging to be hauled away from the reach of disapproving eyes.

WE DO NOT STILL HAVE CHRISTMAS LIGHTS ON A PORCH COLUMN BY THE FRONT DOOR.

Additionally, I never say, “ya’ll.”

My child is not, in fact, running around in nothing but a diaper, right at this very moment, banging a piece of metal he broke off of the wall-mounted toilet paper dispenser up against the living room wall. To say that was the case would be a total fabrication of the truth. Never happened.

And bah Gawd, we doan be a’ havin’ a rickety, hand-raised metal fence out tha back o’ the house tah keep tha dawg and tha youngin’ in, walk ’round half nekid in front o’ them thar open winders, and most definly doan never scratch ar hind quarters or go a’pickin’ ar noses in public!

That just ain’t decent, folks!

We are a strictly, 100% Non-Redneck Family around here.

So, I must regretfully decline taking part in this fabulous celebration for Tanis.  As I am just not able to join with the others in proper fashion, you see.

So happy for you, Tanis. My Totally Not Redneck Family and I are rejoicing for you and yours.
Heart.Bursting.
Rainbows.Unicorns.Glitter. You know.
<3

He doesn’t need rose-colored glasses yet; they’re built in.

These sunglasses have brought Braden great joy for the past few months.

When he first started playing with them, he was a little unsure of what to do with himself. He’d hold them up to his face, turn them, flip them.

Open. Close. Open. Close.

He would wear them on his belly. His navel was protected from the sun’s harsh rays as he spun in circles around our living room, singing.

More and more he put them on his face. Showing them off to everyone. Smiling, laughing. So proud of having them there.

Recently, he broke them.

An accident, really. He dropped them and immediately stepped on them before he could still his forward motion. I saw it happen. One of the supports snapped right off.

I wailed inside. My whole body simultaneously tightened and melted for him. I just knew there would be a complete meltdown.

I was wrong.

He sat down on the floor and delicately picked up the two distinct pieces. He was quiet. His mouth was a tiny, slighty open “o” as he sat there, brow furrowed.

He held them in his hands, looking at them, his face full of questions. *melting*

I bit my lip and I told him that I was so sorry, but there was no way to fix them. *tightness*

He just stared at me with his big, blue eyes. *melting*

I told him that they were broken, forever. *tightness*

He kept trying to piece them back together anyway. *melting*

There he sat, holding them up against one another… over and over again, because he just knew that eventually they’d be fixed again.

That is him right now.

The beautiful, innocent child, blissfully unaware that some things can never be fixed after they’re broken, no matter how hard you try to put them back together.

In my heart, I know that my jaded view is not the one I want.

I want to believe, like he does.

Moreover, I never want him to stop believing that.

Oh world, please don’t take this from him for a long, long time.

Maybe there’s time for me to learn to believe again, through him.

When did THIS happen?

And just who in the hell is responsible?
Cause, I’ll kick a man’s ass over it.

August, 2007

December, 2008

*sniff*

Haiku To Help Ivy

UPDATE

Ivy has received the treatment! Click here to read the post where her mother announced it.
Thank you to all who posted about this and signed the petition! The internet can be used for good!
*********

This little girl needs
treatment because she’s always
in the hospital.

She is young, vibrant.
You can see the life in her
eyes, the sweetness, love.

Only two years old,
she has been in hospitals
countless, painful times.

Her story is one
that no child her age should have.
Sickness. Blisters. Pain.

Her immune system
does not do the job for her
that it really should.

She misses out on
things that little kids her age
should get to enjoy.

You can help her… She
needs treatment that’s being denied.
Sign the petition.

Her mom wants her to
have treatment so she’ll have a
chance at normal life.

Please don’t turn away.
Help her. It costs you nothing.
The worth is priceless.

A few moments, place
your name on the document,
her life could improve.

Thank you, in advance.
Thank you for helping this child
turn her back on pain.

The total cop-out post.

Today’s Photohunt theme is “Beautiful”

Okay, I have literally thousands of photographs I’ve taken to choose from every time I play this game.
And I have MULTITUDES of photos that I think would qualify for this theme.

And yet, somehow? I can’t bring myself to take it any further than this…

One day old.

3 days old.

Cliched, trite? Maybe. Sappy? You bet your ass. The predictability of it certainly does not belie the truth of the sentiment.

Those first few days of being drunk with love and amazement are unparalleled.
He was so helpless and needy.

So was I.

But he fit into my arms perfectly, and has ever since. A piece of the puzzle that completes me.

And that, my friends, is the most beautiful thing I can think of.

Taking it one emotional bump at a time.

It’s that time of the month when I’m more emotional than usual. More sad. More stressed. More angry. More prone to tears, what ifs, and blank stares.

Recently, a long-time and very dear friend of mine named Jenny sent me an email that carries important words, and good advice. I asked her permission to share it with you all, and she agreed.

So, for any of you out there who are feeling, have felt, or will feel the same way I do right now, maybe you’ll find something here that helps you turn it around, or just to deal with it more effectively. Or maybe just to make it through another day without feeling like giving up.

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

I know you didn’t ask for any advice, and so against my better judgment I’m going to offer some without solicitation, and I hope you’ll forgive me for doing so. You know my story, you know about all my failed pregnancies. Five years ago, I was struggling. My life wasn’t turning out like I wanted. I had dead babies instead of living ones. I had no answers and no health insurance to help me find answers. I had crazy moods and baby hamster hairballs in the shower drain and an empty womb and it wasn’t what I had planned. All my friends were on their 3rd or 4th child by then. I was tired of going to other people’s baby showers. I was broken hearted every time I looked in the spare closet and saw baby clothes and gear staring back at me, taunting me with their uselessness. I absolutely hated to hear any pregnant woman complain about her nausea, her swollen feet, her tiredness- what I would give for any of that. After the hopefulness that came with each positive pregnancy test, came the fear of loss, the inevitable emotional investment and hope, and then the emptiness of actual loss.

Then came this moment where I could see clearly: While I really do believe that most of the pain of the human experience is self-inflicted, some things are truly beyond our control. My life is not always about my choices. Things happen to us, and we get no say in how they turn out. What could I do about my childbearing life at that point? Could I change history, or even my obstetrical future? No. The situation was out of my hands. But the great realization was about gratitude. Could I hold my babies and raise them and nurse them? No, but I had other opportunities that my friends with little babies did not: I could go out of the house for more than 2 or 3 hours at a time. Heck, I could go out of town if I wanted. I could give blood, and do upside down yoga poses. I could make love to my husband without the let-down reflex squirting breast milk everywhere. I could work and take night classes. I could sky dive and ride roller coasters.

I couldn’t control what was happening to my body. I had to resort myself to the fact that 1- I may never know what is causing this to happen, and 2- I may never give birth to another living child. Rather than dwelling on those uncontrollable elements, I chose to focus on what I did have. The summation of the realization for me was this: Be grateful for what you have, when you have it.

I could spend my time and energy wanting what I couldn’t have, wishing for something beyond my control, hoping for karma or God to sort out the kinks and make everything right, or I could make the most of what I had right then, even if it wasn’t what I had hoped. I realized that no matter what life is handing me, I have a multitude of blessings to make the journey pleasant, even wonderful, if I choose to see them. Life is fluid, ever changing and shifting. I would not always be in the place, emotionally, mentally, that I was in then. Who’s to say if I’d be in a better one or not, that is also out of my hands to a degree. I knew that if I did have another child, I would have a host of other challenges, as well as blessings to appreciate. But for now, this is what I had. And I owed it to my husband and living children who were depending on me, and to God who gives me each day, to make it count for something. If not, life would end up passing me by while I hoped for what was around the corner. Be thankful for what you have, when you have it.

Again, know that I care and I want you to feel well and whole. If I’m full of crap, you won’t hurt my feelings to 1- roll your eyes and hit delete, or 2- write me back in all caps and tell me how wrong I am.

*********

Of course, I didn’t roll my eyes. I nodded and cried. And now I look back at these words often.

I think I’m going to take Braden to the park on Thursday and watch him run around and remember that the day he was born to me, whole and alive, was such a special blessing. Every day after that with him (even the tough ones) has been another special blessing in and of itself. There’s really nothing bad that can happen that can ever take from me the great gift of everything I’ve experienced so far with my son. So many wonderful things and moments – there’s no way to catalog them.

Today, I am thankful for that. And remembering to be thankful for that makes the other stuff easier to deal with.

Baby steps.

Thank you, dear friend.

I like to be alone. (translation: I am oh-so-screwed.)

I’ve always been happy spending large portions of time by myself.  In fact, I prefer it to being around other people a lot of the time.

I don’t get “bored” from being alone.  Never have.  I can always come up with some way to entertain myself when there is no one else around.  Really.  In fact, I usually don’t get to the majority of things I’d like to do all by myself, there are so many.

There are lots of labels that we try to fit on people who feel this way… “anti-social,” “introverted,” “weirdo.”

The thing is, I’m not all together anti-social, introverted, or weird.

I can be rather social, outgoing, and extroverted.

It’s just that I really enjoy time to myself.  Introspection.  Downtime.  Whatever.

This has been the hardest thing for me about becoming a mother.

I see you nodding.

I am very rarely alone.  Even during those oh-so-special times when you think no one else would even WANT to be around you, as a mother, you often have a guest.

“Why no, I didn’t want to pop a squat alone, why would I want to do that?  Come along, little one, and watch me poop.”

And what of taking showers?  Either you

a. just don’t shower

b. have a munchkin in there with you, or

c. the moment water hits your skin, there is one howling from another room.

They wait until you’re trying to scrape the filth of many days from your skin to have complete breakdowns.  That, or to mortally wound themselves.  They do it on purpose, you realize.

[The parental units must not be allowed to refresh themselves.  This is part of The Plan.  This is part of how they break us down.]

And what if your other half occasionally decides to hang out with the spawn in the morning so you can sleep in a bit?  You can’t get any decent snooze time anyway, because you can hear them carrying on in a loud manner.  At least if you’re in my home.  Where Screamie McGee resides.  There is no waking moment invulnerable to being sporadically punctuated by a shrill report.

The downtime – it’s just not the same anymore, is it, folks?

A trip to the grocery store alone has become almost as enjoyable as only, um… other things should be.

“I’m going to run out and get a few things from Kroger.  I’ll be back soon.”

“Okay.”

Pause.

“I thought you were going to Kroger?  Why are you standing there with that glazed look in your eyes?”

“Oh. Sorry.  Yes.  I was overcome with desire and anticipation at the idea of not being screamed at when I stop the cart to pick something out.”

*wipes drool off lip and gets car keys*

While I absolutely believe it is worth it, and I wouldn’t trade this life for any other - sometimes, I would really like to have time alone again.  Know what I mean?

So, in the face of all this, how do you keep your sanity?  What do you do to find some time alone?

Waking for Braden

Last night I awoke, at about 4:30 am, to mildly-annoyed-baby-whine sounds. Listening to the monitor intently for a moment, tapping into that special Baby Sound Meanings-Deciphering Super Power us mommies have, I decided Braden must be half asleep, but missing his paci.Sometimes, the sounds say, “I miss my paci… but it’s not a big deal, and in a few seconds, I’m gonna murmur off, back into deep sleep without it.” When they say that, I roll over and go back to sleep.

Sometimes the sleepy sounds say, “Uh-oh. I miss my paci. While I sound pretty deep asleep still, right now, if it doesn’t jump in my mouth soon, things are going to change pretty quickly.” When they say that, I’ve learned to get up quickly, walk quietly, search furtively, find the paci and plug the hole.

Of course, sometimes they say, “OMG, I’M NOT GOING TO MAKE QUIET, SLEEPY SOUNDS AT ALL! I JUST WOKE UP, MY PACI IS GONE, AND WE’RE GOING STRAIGHT INTO DEFCON-5! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Those are the nights when I really, really wish I hadn’t given up the sweet, sweet alcohol. (Because getting drunk while rocking a child back to sleep for the next seventy-eleven hours is a good idea. ? )

So, anyway, while I was standing by his crib reaching into the corner to retrieve The Paci, the soft glow of his crib-side light gave me one of those sweet glimpses of my Nighttime Braden. He was nestled near the corner of the crib right next to me, on his back, sleepily rubbing at one eye, with both eyes still shut. His blonde hair was falling back softly from his forehead. He had that, “I’m an angel in dinosaur pajamas” look. I sighed as I put the paci back into his little mouth, and listened to his sleepy, happy sucking sounds.

Back in bed, I spoke to him in my head for a few minutes.

“Braden, you have amazed me just recently.

I can’t believe how much you JUST changed on me again. I can’t believe how often you are talking to me, and that you’re asking me QUESTIONS!

I can’t believe that you can RUN and point at things and ask me, “Ish?” (this?) and “Wah-DAHT?”

I can’t believe that you spit out large paragraphs of garbled baby-language about the things I identify for you.

Braden, I’m just amazed by you and I don’t know how to tell you that. I still can’t believe that God decided to let you live with me.

But, you know what, Braden?

I hope He never changes His mind.”