Silly? Maybe. But it's mine.

It seems silly. I have three beautiful children. They bring me so much joy and fulfillment. They also make me seriously crazy at least once every day. I love them. I marvel at their growth and development. I am blessed to experience their lives with them when so many others don't have babies. I know how blessed I am.
I have a wonderful husband. He loves me and supports me, even when he doesn't like what I choose. He is devoted to me and to our family. So many women don't have that.
So why is it, with all this goodness in my life, that I just can't get over the one blessing that the Lord didn't let me keep? I can go days, even weeks with barely a thought of the little hands and feet, the little person that was mine. Then, all of a sudden, with horrible intensity, he comes rushing into my mind and my heart and I can barely breathe.
I've processed this so many times and always feel like I have sufficiently healed but every time it hits, I am back in that same place, staring at my dead baby. A tiny, beautiful body, an image that I can never erase. Why did it happen? Why did I fail? Why do I still feel like I was at fault when doctors and therapists have reassured me time and again that there was nothing I could have done to prevent it from happening? The guilt is just as real and just as strong today as it was that morning in the emergency room.
I believe that we are supposed to learn while we are on this earth. That's why we are here. I've many valuable educational experiences throughout my life and have seen how they were necessary for myself or to help others that I've loved and cared for. This situation though, it just doesn't make sense. I don't know what I could possibly get out of it but pain and shame. Maybe it has made me more compassionate toward others. Maybe.
Mostly though, it has just made me acutely aware of how little I am in control of. My baby died and the world kept right on turning. What exactly am I supposed to learn from this? And why haven't I learned it already? It has been nearly three years. I'm ready for an explanation but I know better than to rush God or make demands of Him.
I know that there are a million and more people out there with all kinds of worse situations than I could ever imagine. I get that. I'm not trying to say that what I am going through is the ultimate in pain. I know it isn't. I only know that it hurts. It hurts a lot. People say that time heals. I think it is more accurate to say that time dulls. The pain is still there but with all of the other things in my life, good and bad, I don't have as much time to think about what was lost. Not as much time to sit and try to make sense of it.
I've had another baby since then. She is healthy and perfect. I should be focusing on her and loving the happy moments I have with her. I try to. I really do. And yet, so often that I hate to admit it, I have to wonder.. Why him and not her? I just don't understand.
Yes, I have many things to be happy about and grateful for. I am so very aware of that. It does not stop me from wanting my angel baby back. It only makes me wish even more that he were here sharing this beautiful life with us, the missing piece to our family puzzle.
The only conclusion that I can come to is this: If I were to heal completely and get over this pain, it might cause me to forget him. That possibility is so horrible that I find myself welcoming the pain as long as I am allowed to remember that for a moment, he was mine.

Lilly's Quest for Love

This one is a bit silly and mushy and definitely not what I normally write, but this was what came to me, so here it is. Feels good to be at it again! Thank you Bethany for the motivation!

        Lilly wanted only one thing out of life; to be loved. She looked for love around every corner and as many beds. Lilly needed comfort; didn’t that come with love? Why was she incapable of finding the one thing that would make her life complete and worthwhile. The one thing that would make all the effort worth it.
Lilly tried. She gave it all she had. Her face was pinched and pulled and coated with creams and potions. Her hair, her skin, all artfully colored and shaped so as to attract the desire of her heart.
Lilly aged. Time went by and still she was alone. How much more could she do? She pleaded with the stars. She pleaded with men. All she wanted was a heart in return. Devotion as strong as her own.
Lilly cried. Her nights ended in meaningless engagements. The morning always began with remorse. Her cup of hope ran empty. There was no more skin to pull. No potion to apply. Time had caught up with her and left her empty.
Lilly gave in to the sadness. She closed the door to her heart and sealed forever the fate life for her had chosen. Would that she could have seen that even at its most dark and dismal, life can reignite fire, a flame unexpected. Life can change its mind and the winds of fate can shift.
Lilly gave into the dark. Hidden away in her lonely but comfortable prison, she would never know the one that the stars, the very heavens had prepared for her and her alone. Were she to walk again the trails and byways of the park and wood near her home, fate would have kindly, lovingly guided her into the path of one so affectionate, so confidential in his feelings of loyalty. The one, the very one who would make her heart complete, whose ardor and zeal would overwhelm her girlhood fantasies and make real all ever she hoped to enjoy. Late? Yes, fate took its time and tested Lilly’s resolve as it often does with wide eyed, hopeful humans. At last though, destiny had arrived, waiting with childlike anticipation but steps from Lilly’s front door.
Awake Lilly! Go and find your fortune! Take one last chance on hope. All is not over. Life is not done! Awake Lilly! Discard the silly adornments, the false embellishments. Be you and only you. Lift your body, lift your heart and your mind. Open yourself to love! Not in the reckless manner of yesterday, allowing all and any to enter, only to take and leave nothing but ashes. Open your heart to faith and optimism. Are you yet in your grave?
No Lilly! Life holds something more for you still. Your patience has been tested, your lessons have been cruelly learned. Much has been taken and even more you have given. But now, Lilly! Now is your time! Open that door! Step into the sunlight and see what gift awaits. There is reason yet to believe!
Lilly gave herself up to one last try, determined that her life would end that very night if fate chose to victimize her yet again. With all the power in her being, she embraced her old friend, her life long companion, hope. She held on and let herself be guided down the cobblestone path.
Past the young mothers with children at play. Past the old men with their chess pieces played. The dogs barked and the birds sang and as Lilly crossed the small stone bridge that many times had felt her step, a hand was offered to help her cross.
A warm, slightly wrinkled, but strong and perfectly lovely hand. Lilly looked up and into eyes so blue, so deep. In them she saw her own reflection and knew this soul had felt all the pain, frustration and longing as had her own.
Lilly knew it would not be perfect. She had grown far too sensible in her middle years to believe in fairy tales and happily ever after. She knew there would be trials yet and hardships to overcome. More important than that though, was the knowledge that here before her, with his gentle grip on her arm, stood the one that would walk with her through whatever else life had left to give.
Lilly smiled. The walls of her fortress came down and she knew at a glance that this one returned her own deep and abiding feelings. Her aged skin, having lost the glow of youth so long ago, her graying hair and sagging figure; none of these concerned her now. None of the attempts she had made in the past to be a desirable flower had left her with anything but regret and shame. In the eyes of the one, Lilly knew that not one of those things mattered. Love had found her. Love was here and would walk beside her until their time was through.
Lilly’s road had been long and often perilous, but at the end, as a reward for undying hope, her long journey was rewarded.
He wasn’t perfect and neither was she, but in the grasp of their weathered hands, perfection could only feel envy.

Mariah

    Mariah Catherine Walker was born at 7:24 pm on Friday, the 27th of April. She is my third live birth and an amazing addition to our little family. She is beautiful, perfect and healthy. I adore her, as do her siblings and her daddy. I adore my other children of course, but I have an extra strong bond and devotion to Mariah. She was conceived in a new era of my life, being over 30 years old and having been diagnosed with some difficult and potentially debilitating conditions. I was warned that the pregnancy would be very difficult and that irreversible damage would be done to my body as I would be unable to continue my drug therapy regimen during the pregnancy. I was nervous, as was my husband James. I figured though, that if the Lord wanted us to have another child, He would also make it possible for us to get through whatever difficulties might arise.
    Other than my fairly recent medical diagnoses of fibromyalgia and rheumatoid arthritis, I was actually healthier and in far better physical condition than I had been when my other two children had been conceived. I had lost a lot of weight and built up my body’s physical endurance and abilities. The first trimester of my pregnancy went really well. I was sick but it was not overwhelming. The second trimester was quite a bit more difficult as the fatigue set in and I began to feel the effects of not having my regular medications. Plus I had a family to take care of. James went above and beyond his role to make up for what I was no longer able to do around the house. Somehow we were getting done what needed doing.
    The third trimester found us both tired, worn out physically and mentally, and impatient. Because of an unwise decision I made to lift a large bag of flour, I ended up in the hospital at 31.5 weeks, in labor. It took a lot of medication and six hours, but luckily the progress was halted. I was put on bed rest which was incredibly frustrating for myself. I am a very active, independent person and cannot stand sitting around unproductively. James again stepped up and took on even more responsibility. We also had wonderful family, friends, and church members helping us. We were very blessed and felt a lot of love.
    I went to modified bed rest and even got to go to the gym for a few light workouts. The workouts were difficult to accomplish but always helped my energy levels. I stayed as active as I could for as long as I was able. It soon became obvious that every little bit of activity was going to set off contractions, so the last month and a half of my pregnancy saw me very sedentary. That was a difficult time emotionally. I felt useless and helpless. James was always quick to assure me that he didn’t resent me and didn’t mind the extra work he had to do. Again we had lots of help from the outside, whenever I was willing to drop my pride and accept it.
    For all of her trying to come early, when I finally reached the “safe” point in my pregnancy, my daughter decided she was staying put. I became increasingly uncomfortable, which happens with any pregnancy but was especially difficult this time around, as my body’s condition worsened. I realized all that the doctors had warned me of. We decided to induce at 39 weeks. I felt selfish for doing so, but had to admit that my body, my marriage, and my sanity, would not survive much longer with the pain I was in.
    We were first in line on Friday, April 27th and were to be at the hospital at 6:15 am. I had a breakfast shake at 5 am and that would be the last food I would be allowed until after delivery. I would also not be allowed to drink anything. I could have only ice chips. Luckily, the hospital had a lovely array of syrup choices to top the ice chips with. James brought me cup after cup.
    I was induced less than an hour after arrival. This was my first induction and I thought I had prepared myself sufficiently. I had no idea how it was going to turn out. Contractions kicked in quickly but reasons unknown at the time, I was not dilating. The Pitocin was increased to help me progress, which made the contractions very painful. I held off on getting pain relief, afraid it might slow down what little progress I was making. The pain just got worse and worse, and I was stuck at only a 2. The hours went by and we became increasingly more frustrated. My strength was sapped and I was very hungry. More than half way through the induction, my water was finally broken by an attending physician. My ob doctor had come down with a migraine and would not be delivering for me. His replacement was unable to get away from his office yet, so this other doctor stepped in. He was kind and did his job well and with good explanation.
    Within 45 minutes of breaking my water, I was dilated to 7+. It was quick and very intense. I finally gave in and asked for an epidural. Before that was able to be prepared, the nurse gave me a different, fast acting iv drug that sent me flying to the moon, up and over my contractions. It was an amazing feeling but did not last long and soon the full force of the contractions was on again. I had another dose an hour later and enjoyed the brief respite from the pain.
    My epidural went in easily and I was laid back in bed. Strangely, I did not feel any relief. I waited and waited some more, the nurse assuring me that I just needed to be patient. I knew something was wrong though, having had other, successful epidurals in the past. This barely took the edge off the contractions and I had not been prepared to experience this part of active labor. I waited an hour and then asked for the anesthesiologist to come back. He decided to insert another line for yet another epidural. I was in the middle of transition then and the pain was nearly overwhelming. I sat on the edge of the bed, bent over as best as I could. I leaned into my mom’s chest and she and James both held onto me, soothing me with kind words and encouragement.
    It quickly became apparent that my arthritis had damaged my spine in such a way that the doctor had a very difficult time getting the line into place. It took 30 minutes and at least ten different jabs of the needle to get it in place. It was definitely the worst part of the whole experience.
    I was laid back down when it was done and told that I would need to roll to each side every 45 minutes so that the medication could flow evenly to both sides of my body. I did as I was instructed and quickly became aware that again, the epidural was not right. My abdomen went numb and soon my chest became tight, yet I still had complete control of my legs and felt no pain relief. The nurse assured me again that I just needed to be patient. She told me I was lucky that I had control of my legs and that it would help when it came time to push. I knew she was wrong and asked James to scoot me up to a sitting position on the bed, thinking that might help the medication to flow down. We asked the nurse if it would help and she quickly advised us against it, saying that all I needed was to be turned to the other side. I was turned and it didn’t help, just as I had expected.
    Again I asked the nurse if I could sit up. Again I was told no. I surprised myself by being able to take the unexpected pain in stride, losing control only once. My mom and James were very supportive and helped me through the contractions. I think it was only because of what I had went through to get the epidural in that I insisted that the doctor be called back in again to consult on my situation. When the anesthesiologist came in again, the first thing I asked him was if it would help for me to sit up. He said yes right away, that gravity was necessary to distribute the meds and was surprised that I hadn’t sat up sooner. I was incredibly frustrated but didn’t have time to yell at the ignorant nurse. James and the doctor scooted me up to a sitting position and the doctor put another full dose of the epidural into my line. Within minutes I was completely numb from the waist down and my chest no longer felt tight. It was also time to push.
    My delivering doctor had arrived and we got into action right away. I had no feeling in my lower body and only the slightest inclinations to push so I had to rely on the doctor and nurses to tell me when to push. I held onto two small handles and pushed with all I had. A couple of minutes in, the medical personnel got very quiet. The nurse who had proven incompetent was asking the doctor, in subdued tones, what his back up plan was. She said words that terrified me, including ‘c-section.’
    An oxygen mask was prepared and they were trying to put it on my face. No one was explaining anything to me and I was over come with fear. My mom was able to see what was going wrong from where she stood and yelled at me to just push and breathe in the oxygen. I did as I was told for a moment, but couldn’t take the not knowing. I yelled at the medical staff, demanding an explanation. I had been through a similar situation with my last delivery and was not going to be left in the dark this time around.
    My angelic doctor quickly and calmly explained that my baby couldn’t breathe, her heart rate had disappeared and that I needed to breathe as deeply as possible so that the oxygen could get through the umbilical cord and sustain my baby. I was more scared than I had ever been in my life, but the urgency motivated me and I pushed with all I had in me. I wasn’t allowed any breaks between pushes. My baby had to come out now.
    The doctor used a suction device during my last long push, and my sweet Mariah came into the world at 7:24 pm. Twelve hours after I had begun the induction process. Her cord was wrapped twice around her neck and also tightly around her little body. The doctor moved swiftly, freeing her from the tangle. She cried and I knew the world would keep on turning. All of the fear and terror dissipated immediately. Mariah Catherine was laid on my chest and I helped to clean off her beautiful little body. I held onto her tightly and was overwhelmed with emotions so deep and so powerful, beyond anything I had experienced in my life before.
    In spite of all the drama and madness, Mariah was healthy and perfect. I reluctantly let her be taken away to the nursery to be cleaned up and measured and couldn’t wait till she could join me in my room. I distracted myself by finally satisfying my gnawing hunger with an assortment of cookies and crackers. Later, James would bring me a delicious cheeseburger, fries and milk shake from the café downstairs.
    My baby was brought to my room and I felt so much love and so much calm. Recovery is turning out to be a long, bumpy road, but all I need to do is look into her tiny, perfect little face, and it is all worth it. We worked hard for this baby and so we appreciate her in ways that I don’t think we would have otherwise. I will likely not have any more children, as this body is just too damaged to sustain another pregnancy. I am grateful to be blessed with three wonderful, healthy children and a husband that would do anything to support and care for me and our little family.
    The memories of the pain fade away and I am left only with the good stuff.

Taking the bad with the good. Be happy! :)

I am walking while balancing a bowling ball between my legs. The baby has dropped and now I can breathe! My back and bum are stiff and sore. I have random bursts of energy and am crossing tasks off of my list.
My office is a disaster. My front yard is beginning to be something I can be proud of again.
The sun is roasting. A lovely breeze blows through, cooling my sweaty brow.
I sit and can barely get myself back up. My baby squirms inside me, anxious to get out and play.
Third trimester is tough. Life is good and the world is beautiful.

Thayne, second installment

 My creative juices are really beginning to flow with this one! Feeling good and inspired. Unfortunately, I am now on page 8 and can't possibly finish it up in just two more pages. My new goal, which is still within short story parameters, is 15 pages. I will continue posting installments, about every 4 or 5 pages, as I get them ready. This is all rough draft.

   I gave the class quick instruction in clipped tones; they would spend the rest of the day re-working math problems from yesterday’s test. Was it fair to punish them for Tommy Wilk’s inconsiderate dad with his appalling lack of social skills? The test hadn’t gone well for most of them, so honestly, this was probably more of a favor than a punishment. I do like to see my kids succeed. This may only be fifth grade, but I know it will be a stepping stone in the path to adulthood. I like to wax philosophical now and then. Yet another thing that Mom says is holding me back. At this rate, she says I’ll wind up a dowdy old professor at some distinguished university, spouting my insights and revelations to students half my age and going home to a house full of cats every night. She really bugs me sometimes. You should know that she is a well-known hairstylist. I wouldn’t recommend seeing her for services though, unless you fancy the middle aged punk rocker look that most of her clients end up with. They band together, her kind. A bunch of lonely hearts who lost their childhood to unexpected and ungrateful children.
    Mom gave up trying to live vicariously through me when I was twelve. She insisted on buying a sparkly pink bra and panty set for me, telling me it was time to grow up. I was perfectly content with my Hello Kitty undergarments. Mom said I was a lost cause. I happily accepted the title, hoping it meant I had a life long guarantee free of her nagging and um.. encouragement. The guarantee didn’t last long. Mom’s been after me ever since, in spite of my repeated disinclination to go along with her latest scheme for getting me married off. Why does it matter so much to her, I wonder. I wouldn’t be here were it not for her week long adventure with a washed up rock star whose name I was never allowed to mention in her home. Why the determination then, to see me respectably matched under the law? Mom is a conundrum. I don’t often spend time trying to make sense of her many contradictions. Mostly I just ignore the phone until Christmas, when she lavishes me with shopping sprees to the local mall. I always head straight for Ann Taylor. Mom moans and groans every time. I wonder, if she were not to react so dramatically, if maybe I wouldn’t try something a little more young and hip?
    Today I think I might have to stop in at Lulu’s, Mom’s beauty shop, and have a brief word with her about this rat of a father that has worked his way into my subconscious. I am certain that I will regret the visit but I could definitely use a manicure, so maybe it will all balance out.
    When the bell rings to let school out for the day, I notice that Tommy Wilks sits in his desk a little longer than usual. He’s eyeing me again, appraising, trying to answer a question in his mind. Perhaps he is wondering how someone with dark brown hair can possibly be a grandma. His dad will pay for these speculations!
    Tommy finally stands up and walks toward my desk. He’s shuffling again. I wonder if he learned that from Daddy? It is a sign of a lack of confidence. Daddy must have a serious lack if he has to stoop to taking cheap shots at his son’s devoted and highly educated fifth grade teacher.
    “Yes Tommy? Was there something you needed?” He is still trying to solve a mystery in his mind. I can practically see the wheels turning.
    “Miss Lalaine, you’re not really a grandma are you?” Seriously? He was just coming out and asking it again? I had thought Tommy was a pretty intelligent little boy. His test scores had certainly indicated as much. And yet, here he was, with his softly freckled face, staring at me intently, willing me to put his worries to rest. I can’t imagine why it is so important to him that I not be a grandma. I am certainly dignified and wise enough to be a grandma. Wait a minute! What am I thinking? I am NOT  a grandma! I am young. Really young. My mortality will likely last at least another fifty years.
    I return Tommy’s intense stare, think through my response and finally let it out.
“No Tommy. I am NOT  grandma. I am still very young and have not married or had children yet, let alone grandchildren. Your daddy might not be getting enough sleep and because of that his eyes are bleary and he isn’t seeing things properly. I am not a grandma, nor do I look like one. Okay?”
    Tommy sniffs and then wipes his nose with his shirt sleeve. “My daddy sleeps as much as I do. Maybe his eyes are broken a little though. I don’t think you look like a grandma, Miss Lalaine. Me and Jack Miller both think you’re um, hot stuff. That’s what Jack says. I just think you’re pretty. My grandma isn’t very pretty. She’s got wrinkles and her hair is kind of like a witch. She does dress like you though.”
    What am I supposed to say to this? My words fail me--a first. I shake my head and smile. “Thank you Tommy for your insights and your compliments. Have a nice day.” I nod dismissively toward the door. Tommy takes the cue and walks out.
    I stand and brush off my lavender pencil skirt. It remains perfectly smooth and wrinkle free. Wrinkle free, just like me.  I’ve always been proud of my flawless skin. Regretfully I admit that that was a gift from my mom. She still passes easily for ten years less than her actual age. It bothers me at times, but also gives me something to look forward to.
    At home I prepare myself some stir fry. One of my favorite shows is about to come on and I have the freedom to sit on the couch, with my feet up on my Pier One ottoman while I eat and am entertained without interruption. A quiet evening alone. A remote that I don’t have to fight for. A couple of hours of grading papers. My dirty dishes can sit in the sink and there is no one to complain about it. I can put off my evening workout dvd and not feel bad for my lack of commitment. There’s nobody here to call me out on it. Still, the quiet can be suffocating sometimes. I turn up my Bose sound system, the one I saved three years to buy, and rock out to Abba. Maybe I will go ahead and wash my dishes.
    Laying in bed, it’s now almost eleven but tomorrow is Saturday so I have all the time in the world, I boot up my lap top and start a little bit of mindless surfing. I pull up the Ann Taylor website to see if the new spring line is up. It is and I begin scrolling through the pages of soft pastels, perfectly tailored and sufficiently cosmopolitan. “Safe.” Yes, I say it out loud. I live alone, remember? I can say things out loud and there is no one to think me crazy. Every article of clothing I see looks so perfectly safe. Is that how I live my life? No! I’ve traveled the world. Alone! I have walked along the Great Wall of China and played with the penguins in the Arctic. Who else can say that? I’ve climbed three mountains and sung my heart out in the hills of Vienna. I don’t play it safe.
    I move the cursor to the side of the screen and access my photo file. Folder after folder, I am amazed at myself. I have done all kinds of brave things. I look at the pictures of me base jumping and riding in hot air balloons. I stroll along, on the back of a camel in the Valley of the Kings. So many amazing things and yet there is a painfully obvious common thread. I am alone. And I am almost always wearing pastels. I can’t even remember inviting anyone to join me on any of these once in a lifetime adventures. Why is that? Am I selfish? Do I love being alone?
    I have no answers and continue browsing. I come to a folder of photos from my classroom activities. I am stunned and rendered completely immobile when I see little Tommy Wilks, red hair, freckles and all, standing on the playground next to a man who has his arm draped protectively around his shoulders. The man is tall but not imposingly so. His hair is full and jet black. He couldn’t be Tommy’s father, could he? Where did the red hair come from? I hate myself for admitting that he is handsome, disturbingly so. My anger continues to grow as the word grandma is repeated, louder and louder in my mind. It reaches a fever pitch and I slam the top down on my lap top. How dare he? Being ridiculously attractive does not give anyone the right to say such rude things about a person they don’t even know. How I wish I was my imagined alter ego just now. Thayne, the one name wonder, would certainly know how to handle this situation. She would show him with her tattooed, brash and sacuy ways just how mistaken he was. She would put him in his place and leave him drooling. She would…. Oh she would make him pay!
    The smallest hint of a flame is beginning to burn in my mind. I don’t need the amazing cat walk phenomenon Thayne. I can do this myself. I will show him and he will eat his words! I pull the lap top back open and focus in on my enemy’s face. I crop it and blow it up, creating a new screen saver. Just as I practiced such discipline to earn my Bose sound system, which is just queuing up a hearty Rod Stewart ballad, I can utilize equal amounts of discipline and a fair bit of cunning to reach my aim. I’ll show him grandma! He has no idea what is coming his way!

Looking for direction and ideas

Hey kids, this is the start of my latest short story. I plan to keep it to ten pages or less. I have a picture of a woman riding an old fashioned style blue bicycle happily along a beach board walk, her head thrown back in laughter. She is the inspiration for this bit of fiction. Please read through what I have so far and leave suggestions for plot directions, especially regarding Tommy Wilks' father. I am totally open to this becoming a love story.
Thanks!!!!

   I don’t know where Mom came up with my name; Thayne Walton Lalaine. What kind of name is that for a girl? Mom has always been a free spirit, not a hippy, just marching to the beat of her own drum. I’ve never appreciated all the questions and strange faces that have come along with my unique nom de guerre. Perhaps, if I were a European super model, I could get away with the name and no one would think anything of it. In fact, I could just be Thayne. A one name wonder of the cat walk. Maybe an edgy pixie type with various tattoos and a portfolio full of fringe worthy, boundary breaking shots with backgrounds worthy of my unique persona.
    Alas, I am an elementary school teacher. My long, rather boring shock of mousy brown hair is woven into a simple braid about 350 days each year. I am a very averagely built woman, not particularly tall or short. I go to the gym at least four times a week but have never been aggressive enough in my efforts to be impressively toned or admirable. I hit the tanning bed for a week twice each year and consider that be an ample undertaking.  My make up does not consist of pushy blues, fuchsias or jewel toned lip colors that attract attention from hundreds of feet away as my imaginary alter ego might. I wear mascara and lip gloss, even for evening outings. I shop at Ann Taylor and would consider myself a business casual poster child. Maybe I’m not quite old enough to be dressing this way, my mom keeps telling me that I look older than her in my linen pantsuits and orthopedic shoes. What can I say? The fabric wears and breathes well and I have plantar fascitis in both feet. I will not be a slave to fashion. Mom thinks that my style is holding me back in pretty much every aspect of my life but especially in the spousal department.
    I am thirty-one and single. I’m not old and I am really accomplished. I own my own home and mow my own lawn. I have traveled the world and have only three or four more things to cross off my bucket list. I think that counts for something. Maybe people just expect more from me, with a name like Thayne. I should be more unique perhaps, or at least a little more granola. I’ve done my best to ignore the expectations of others, spoken or otherwise, especially those of my mother. She gave me the weird name in the first place, dooming me to never live up to its uniqueness.
    I have been able these thirty-one years to disregard the comments and looks at family and high school reunions. I have been content to live my life the same as I always have, feeling that if I were meant to find Mr. Right, he would eventually show up and he would just love and adore my Ann Taylor, slightly marmish style. I could have continued on this way indeterminately if it weren’t for Tommy Wilks. I have had problem students before but Tommy wasn’t what I would call a ‘problem.’ Tommy was unique and spirited. He reminded me of my mother. That alone made him a challenge for me.
    When he walked up to my desk to turn in his homework last Monday morning, he could have simply dropped the essay into the basket and then gone quietly back to his seat. Instead, Tommy dropped the food stained essay into the basket, ran his chubby little white hand through his brick red hair and gave me an appraising look. I could tell he had something on his mind and I have always tried to be attentive to my students.
    “Tommy, did you need something?” I lowered my glasses and placed them on the desk in my most professional manner.
    “Its just, um.. Well Miss Lalaine, you kind of look like.. Well, my dad says you should be a grandma. Are you a grandma Miss Lalaine?”
    I had no premonition, no feeling that this was where this conversation was heading and was thus ill prepared. I sat in my Eddie Bauer leather seat, just absolutely shocked. What was I supposed to say to this? I scoured my memory for a picture of Tommy Wilks’ dad. I could find nothing. When had I ever seen this man? When had he seen me? Who was he to say such a thing? Where did he get the nerve? And more importantly, did I really look like I could be a grandma? This injustice was ludicrous and my temper rose quickly past its usual realm of calm serenity.

Adrenaline Junkie

Adrenaline
    I fell off of a tall ladder at work when I was eighteen. It hurt pretty good and left me with a nagging fear of heights. I do not like being told what I can or cannot do, especially by a ladder. I decided about a year later that I was going to face my fear head on, with gusto! I started at Lagoon, an amusement park in Northern Utah. Roller coasters, the kind that leave your heart in your throat. I forced myself to keep my eyes open. We zoomed, upside down, and I felt every heart racing moment of it. I wasn’t ready to squeal with delight yet, but I was on my way!
    I climbed into the Blast Off and my whole body trembled, waiting for the inevitable rocket toward the sky that would take me with it. I tried to breathe, slowly and evenly. Before I knew it, there was a soft bounce and then whoosh! We flew toward the clouds! I screamed along with my fellow riders. For a few blissful seconds, we just fought gravity and felt the freedom of movement at break neck speeds. The thrill, the adrenaline, it coursed through every inch of my body. It was a new and wonderful feeling and I wanted more of it. The rush was greater than the fear had ever been.
    As soon as the ride ended, I got in line for the Re-entry ride. We all strapped in and were slowly raised skyward. We bobbed at the top, looking out over the valley below and all the patrons of the theme park, watching us with awe and jealousy. And then, before I could think another thought, we were falling. Falling fast. My hair blew around me as I screamed and yelled. Was that a happy sound coming from my throat? A woohoo perhaps? The ride ended and I jumped right back in line. I needed more!
    I rode those two again and again until it was no longer enough. I put my arms and legs straight out and conjured up all kinds of nasty images of my harness coming open and me free falling over the crowds of the park, landing right in the middle of them with a big ‘ol thwump! The vivid imagery of my imagination was enough to make the ride exciting again, but not for long.
    I left the park that day, feeling high on adrenaline and happy juice. Who needed drugs or alcohol? I had found something far better. What would I do next? What would top this? I began my research and started saving money.
    A few months later, a girlfriend and I drove down to Las Vegas. We pulled into town in the morning, too soon to check into our hotel. We changed clothes in a parking garage and headed out onto the strip. We hit several amusement rides, roller coasters and such. It was fun and since it had been a long time that I had not felt the rush, this was feeling good. There was an undeniable itch though. More. Must find more.
    After checking into our hotel and getting situated, we wasted no time getting up to the top of the Stratosphere tower. The wind blew around us as we looked out over the city. It was beautiful, wonderful and terribly exciting. I looked up at the Big Shot, Las Vegas’ much more exciting version of Lagoon’s Blast Off. Not only did you shoot toward the sky, you did it from the top of the Stratosphere Tower! My nerves were all fired up and the flutters in my stomach were out of control. I was jonesing and it was bad. To work our way up to it, we did the roller coaster first. It was lame. Probably why it is no longer there.
    I was itching, dying to face the possibility of death. Fired up, ready to go, forced to wait in line. The time dragged as I watched the other riders strapping in, flying high, screaming with excitement and terror. Our turn finally came. Becky, my good friend and companion for the trip, strapped ourselves in, ready to take it on. We were both suitably terrified. My moment had arrived!
    Our seats bounced momentarily and then off we went! The rush, the speed, the high! It was overpowering and all encompassing. I had never felt so alive, so real, so in the moment and aware of mortality. I had to ride again. And again.
    The ride had been amazing, but soon, I felt again the longing for more. Something more terrifying, exhilarating, fulfilling. I left Las Vegas, wondering what would be next.
    I soon left home to be a nanny on the other side of the country. That alone was a wild ride, new and dangerous. Nineteen and headed out into the world alone. Soon the newness of it was replaced with a feeling of normalcy however and I needed a boost. A friend from high school that I had kept in touch with via email had become an avid sky diver. The idea of jumping out of a plane scared me to the core. Why would anyone do something so crazy? And why was I even considering it? That voice in the back of my mind, the one that was beyond excited at the prospect, encouraged me whole heartedly until I finally had a plane ticket in my hand and was headed back to Utah.
    I spent the first few days visiting family and friends, all the while, feeling the pull of the open air. I met up with Derek, my sky diving friend, and we headed out into the desert. I trusted him completely with my life. I had no reason not to. He had done this and every cell in my body wanted to experience the exhilaration that he promised would be mine.
    I found a flight suit. We trained, briefly. I guess they assumed that since I was Derek’s friend, I must know what I was doing. I was ill prepared for what lay ahead, but I think it was better that way. It allowed for ultimate terror and satisfaction. Soon our plane pulled up, a tiny little thing that looked like an oversized toy. We climbed in and I was strapped to a stranger, my tandem partner. Derek would be recording my jump. We rose into the sky, above the mountains, into the clouds. Derek had arranged some special experiences for me with the pilot and other jumpers. The ride had been slow and smooth, when all of a sudden we were shooting straight up, very quickly. And then, as sudden as the climb had begun, the plane fell. Rapidly. We all flew out of our seats, floating so briefly in zero gravity. It was over before I had even known what was happening. My body knew though and I shook all over, amazed, excited, charged up and ready for more.
    Before too long, we had reached our jumping altitude, 2,000 feet higher than they normally jumped at. Another gift he had arranged for me. The little door popped open and people began jumping. My tandem partner spoke into my ear so I could hear over the roar of the plane and the wind. It was our turn!!!!
    He scooted me to the end of the bench. I watched as Derek climbed out onto the wing, holding on with one arm and positioning his helmet cam with the other. It was madness. Total and complete madness! What in the world had I gotten myself into? I looked at Derek, thinking he must be totally insane. But then, what did that make me? I pulled my goggles over my eyes as my tandem scooted me, on my knees, toward the yellow line. My breath caught in my throat as I looked out the open door and beheld the clouds, the mountains, valleys, fields, farms and bodies of water that lay below. Far below.
    My partner made me look into Derek’s camera and then Derek jumped. I watched him fall for a split second and then my tandem was rocking me back and forth. We rocked, once, twice, and on the third rock, he rolled me forward, out of the plane. I screamed for all I was worth. We fell, we flew, my cheeks flapped in the wind. I felt my body, my mind, every seam that was holding me together began to pull apart as gravity acted upon me. I was on fire. I was alive. Death reached its greedy hands up for me as the ground came closer. I laughed, or rather screamed hysterically, in its face.
    My partner knocked on my head to tell me it was time to pull the chute. I couldn’t or wouldn’t do it. :My senses were overwhelmed with the action and I couldn’t focus on something so mundane. He pulled it for us and we were immediately sucked back up into the stratosphere. We flew quickly and the chute caught, leaving us all of a sudden in a soundless, peaceful void, floating slowly toward the earth. All around me was silence. I felt serenity, goodness, love. I felt God.
    The ground rose toward us, objects, buildings, cars, people, all coming into focus. It was time to land. I cruised in on my rear end, landing with a thwop, skidding to a stop, Derek catching the entirety of my graceful re-entry on tape for posterity sake.
    Never had I felt so completely fulfilled, so one with the earth and the sky, ready to take life by the horns. I had faced death and shown him what I was made of. Nothing could stop me now.
    I look on life with fire and panache. It threw fiery darts and lay thunder in my path, but those feeble attempts would not stop me. Whenever it all seemed too great, I remembered that day in the sky, and suddenly, anything and everything was possible. I did it again, a few years later, needing to recharge and feel powerful again. There was less of a rush this time, but still a quiet power entered my soul and fueled me on. I wondered what I could possibly do after that to excite such adrenaline and stimulate my mind, soul and body so thoroughly.
    The answer came three or four years later. My body was overwhelmed with pain, I couldn’t stand, sit or lay down. There was no comfort to be found. I thought I might die at any moment, almost wished for it. Agony, complete, total and all encompassing racked every fiber of my being. My body stepped up to the challenge, predestined from the foundation of man’s existence. I was built for this and generations before had made this moment possible. That, and a beautiful iv of medication. With a final push, my daughter Olivia, a brand new life, one who had never seen the sun or felt the glory of physical existence, entered this crazy messed up world and gave me the biggest rush of happiness and self realization , more than any jump from a plane or crazy blast off toward the skies, more than I had ever dreamed possible.
    She cried and my life began. Take that world! I was a woman and I could do anything! I looked out the window, toward the clouds, remembering the heights that had so terrified me. I faced them and in my mind a shout went up. “Bring it on!”
   

One Perfect Moment

   One perfect moment. A beautiful song is playing. My unborn baby is kicking me gently. My two other beautiful children are in the other room playing happily. My loving husband is going to pick up my car. We will spend the day running errands together and looking for a 'family' car. That boy loves me so much. I can’t say which of us loves the other more. There have been so many challenges. So many. So many choices and consequences. We have weathered a plethora of storms together, holding onto each other tightly, desperately, doing all we can to stay afloat. The Lord has blessed us with a love and devotion, a never say die commitment, that I know will carry us through whatever else He has in store for us.
    There is definitely a difference between loving and being in love. I have been blessed to feel both for this man. I have held him while he cried and he has done the same for me. He has challenged me to be better and I have convinced him that he is better than he believed. I have dared him to be adventurous, to live life and not worry about it. He has been my rock of stability when I have vacillated, tossed about by the winds of change and the torrents that would have drowned me.
    We have fought demons together and carried each other when one of us just couldn’t make it another step. I still feel the flutters in my chest when he walks into the room. His eyes. He looks at me and I am the most beautiful woman in the world. He smiles at me and my life is complete. He holds me and I know I will survive. He wipes away my tears and reminds me that I am worthwhile. He holds me to my goals and reminds me of my values, even if he doesn’t agree with all of them. He supports my efforts and lets me live in a dream world when reality has gotten too tough to handle.
    He cleans up our children’s poopy accidents when  I can’t get myself out of bed. He makes spaghetti when I haven’t an ounce of energy left to even think about making dinner. He has worked all day and still comes home to help me keep this house running smoothly. He loves our children. He runs and plays with them. They never have to doubt his love and devotion. He provides for our family. We live simply but we are rich in love. We have goals and plans and we work as a team to bring those dreams to fruition.
    I know he will never leave me. He knows I am crazy about him. His opinion matters more than anyone else’s. As long as he loves me, as long as I love him, as long as the world keeps turning and I have his hand to hold, my life is perfect. I don’t need money or diamonds, I just need him.
    And yet, the most powerful thing that he has taught me, is that even if I were to lose him, should the Lord decide to take him from me before I am ready, I would survive and be strong. He has found and cultivated that part of me that was buried deeply, afraid to try, afraid to be powerful. He believes in me and now I believe in myself. If I were to only have one day left with him in this life, it would be enough to get me through the rest of my years. I could live on our memories of loving and living together and be fulfilled. He has made that possible for me. I only hope I have done the same for him.
    Thank you Lord for this man. Thank you Lord for this perfect moment and the clarity to recognize and appreciate it.

Longterm Results of a Short Term Conquest

     I was an adventuress. On a quest and determined to succeed. This will sound horrible, as I was in a fairly serious relationship with a guy that I really did care about, but I was on the hunt for something--someone-- exciting and hard to get. I knew that this relationship was destined to end eventually as we had different plans for the future. I loved the thrill of the chase and had recently found my target. James was incredibly quiet and painfully shy. He had an adorable smile and sparkly blue eyes. I looked forward to when we would work together, I even checked his schedule to know when he would be there. Borderline stalker.
    When he was there, I would find any excuse I could to call him over to the cell phone booth I worked in. I wore low cut tops and tight black pants. He was a man after all. I knew how to work my assets. The fact that he didn’t seem even remotely interested spurred me on. Other guys were terribly obvious and I knew what they wanted. James was different. He kept to himself. He blushed from my attention. He even seemed to avoid me.
    I wasn’t offended, I just took it as a challenge. Who did he think he was anyway?  And why wasn’t he like every other hormone driven guy in the store? What did it take to get his attention?
    I discussed it with Austin, a fellow employee and friend of James. He advised me, even begged me, to leave James alone.
    “He’s a good guy. He doesn’t need you using him for your entertainment. I know how you are Julie.”
    Well, he should have known better. Tell me not to do something and it will become a forbidden desire that I will fight to acquire and experience. I was more determined than ever. Another co-worker, Lori, gave me easy access to James’ schedule. I formulated plans and picked out my outfits with care on the days that I knew he would be there. I was making progress, having had several short conversations with him. He seemed to actually want to talk, not just stare at my chest like the other guys. We had a few laughs and I was feeling confident.
    Then, one day, in the middle of a great conversation, a silly little blonde haired co-worker came up to the counter and invited James to go on break with her. He tore off his Walmart vest and stashed it under the counter, hurrying to join her just as fast as he could. He didn’t even say bye to me. I was pissed. Not hurt. I wouldn’t let myself be hurt by a conquest. Whether or not he did this on purpose, my determination now went into overdrive. He would be mine. He would want me and would want to spend every possible minute enjoying my attention. Yes, I was rather narcissistic and self-absorbed. It helped my fragile ego and filled a void left my ex-husband. I wasn’t a ‘man-eater’ as a former flame liked to call me. I was just young and looking to find myself and my identity. If that meant I would take a few bystanders along for the ride, so be it.
    I continued flirting with James every chance I got and would mercilessly parade my doting admirers in front of him, hoping to appeal to his jealous side. He had to have one hidden in there somewhere. Plus, I needed to get back at him for the incident with the little blonde girl.
    By all accounts, James seemed unaffected and even more determined to make me work for hi attentions. If only I knew then what I know now. It sure would be nice to be able to read peoples’ minds and not have to wait till years later to find out what they were actually thinking. There were much easier routes to his heart but I didn’t know that at the time, having been successful with a certain approach for so long. I couldn’t understand why he was so much different. Maybe it was because he did actually have a heart. He wasn’t just looking for a body but an actual person to care about. That was not what I was looking for.
    My current relationship was still going on but I had a growing awareness that it was doomed to failure. A mutual friend of James and I had suggested that James attend Church with my boyfriend and I. James was wanting to get back into it and I went every week, despite all the nasty things said about me. I may have been a somewhat loose woman with questionable morals, but I loved my Savior and knew that eventually I wanted to take that path.
    James rode with me to church where we met up with my boyfriend. We sat together, sang together, worshipped together. Some weeks my boyfriend had to work and so it was just James and I. I was as pathetic as the silly guys in movies working to attain a pretty girl. I would hold our hymnal with one hand and wrap the other around the back of James’ chair, eventually maneuvering to rest my hand on his shoulder. He didn’t stop me.
Several weeks of church attendance later, I broke up with my boyfriend. It was time for things to happen with James. I no longer had a commitment holding me back and was exploring several options with some fine young men, being fresh off an emotional break up and all. This was status quo. When I finally texted James that it was time for him to ask me out, I had a string of suitors that I was playing with. It was all superficial nonsense on my part. I knew what I was after. James responded quickly to my text and our date was scheduled.
    I was happy to tell Austin and Lori all about it. They were disappointed and again encouraged me to leave the poor boy alone. He wasn’t like all the other guys, they told me. He was a good one and didn’t deserve to be a conquest. They weren’t the only ones that told me to keep my distance. And there were plenty of people advising James to stay as far away from me as possible.
    Whatever the reason, James decided to ignore them and make his own informed decision about me and my character. He always has been good at looking past the cover of a book, able to find nuggets of gold where others see only tin.
    It came time for our date and I haughtily informed Austin that James would be kissing me that night. Austin went into a desperate string of pleas on behalf of James’ virtue and goodness. I heeded not one word.
    James picked me up and we played pool at Ozz and ate dinner at one of my favorite restaurants. I was happy to see that he was finding himself comfortable with me. He spoke easily and I didn’t have to carry the conversation. He was flirtatious and I was certain that he must’ve wanted to go out with me all along.
    After our date, we ended up back at my apartment, watching a movie. I knew that if I was going to make my move it would need to be now. I scooted closer to him on the couch and put my hand on his leg. He didn’t move. I could feel the nervousness radiating from him and it made me smile. He was so cute and his eyes were so lovely. He smelled good and he looked at me expectantly. I realized pretty quick that he wasn’t going to take advantage of the moment; it was all up to me.
    I moved in to kiss him and to my amazement and shock, he pulled back. Had I totally misread the signals? What was wrong with this guy??
    He quickly explained that he had a cold and didn’t want me to catch it. How chivalrous... Though that may have been at least partially true, I was unconvinced, especially when he managed an appropriately time, fairly convincing cough for my benefit. I didn’t buy it. Austin must have gotten to him; perhaps told him of my plans to conquer. I would not be undermined or defeated.
    I was there to kiss him and kiss him I did. He gave up the fight quickly. He is a man after all. Even with his good intentions of helping me avoid sickness, he wasn’t able to contend further with his healthy hormones. I kissed him and he kissed me right back. It was lovely, passionate and new. I could tell he put everything he had into impressing me and I appreciated his efforts. Silently I patted myself on the back. Victory. I could hardly wait to tell Austin the next day.
    Regaling him with stories of my success, I watched as Austin just shook his head.
“You don’t know what you’re doing Julie. James is a good guy and deserves to be treated right.” I was pretty sure I had treated him really well so far, even if I did have my own selfish intentions.
    Meanwhile, James was telling our mutual friend Jake that he wouldn’t be seeing me again. He didn’t want to be just another one of the guys on my list. I was dangerous or something like that. He was done. I wasn’t terribly concerned at the time as I had a date with my ex-boyfriend that night and several other dates lined up for the week. I had had fun with James but I wasn’t looking for anything serious and I was still pretty hung up on the ex-boyfriend.
    I was surprised when James texted me a couple days later, wanting to see me again. How about that? I thought, wondering if I wanted to go out with him again. I was a bit nervous about leading him on. Whether or not anyone else believed it, I really did have a heart and a conscience. I eventually decided that another date couldn’t hurt. We went out again, and then again and again. I learned more and more about him, finding so many things to like. I realized there was so much more to this man than I could ever have imagined. He treated me so well and was happy to look beyond all of my flaws and my horrible reputation. He saw past the façade to the self conscious little girl on the inside that just wanted desperately to be loved.
    I hadn’t stopped dating other people yet. I wasn’t ready. James and I had only been seeing each other for a few weeks after all. James had other plans though. I took him with me to visit my cousin that was in the hospital, preparing to meet the Lord. I guess it was strange that I would take him with me on an occasion like that if I hadn’t yet decided that I was serious about him. On the way there, James insisted we pull into a parking lot. I thought at first that he just wanted to make out. No. He wanted to ‘talk.’ I was not ready for this conversation and fought to keep it from happening. When James is determined however, he makes things happen.
    For nearly two hours we sat in my car, him explaining why I should only be seeing him and assuring me that if I didn’t get rid of the other guys, he would most definitely be moving along. I thought about calling his bluff but his tone was so serious. I realized that he must mean it. A battle commenced in my mind. I didn’t want to lose him but I just wasn’t ready for commitment. We went back and forth and finally he just left it up to me. He had laid out his cards and wouldn’t be persuaded.
    I knew I must be crazy for making such a decision, but I couldn’t stand the thought of losing him. I acquiesced. He kissed me. He held me. I felt secure and at peace. This guy really cared about me. Maybe this was the right move.
    We visited my cousin. It was a bonding experience. On the way home, he watched as I texted all the guys I had been seeing and told them of my new relationship status. There were a few angry responses and I made sure that James read them. He didn’t feel bad for the other guys, instead he smiled a big happy smile, enjoying his victory. That boy can really stand up for what he wants or believes if he feels so inclined and he isn't shy about claiming the spoils of war.
   He wasn't the only one to enjoy the benefits however. We were now officially a couple and I felt that entitled me to certain things. He was dropping me off at work one day and I asked him to walk in with me. I stopped conveniently in front of the register where that silly little blonde girl was cashiering. I kissed James deeply and made sure that she saw us, though she tried to look away. James was embarrassed. I was triumphant and floated through my shift that day. The conquering hero had been crowned.
    Here we are, approaching our seven year wedding anniversary. James won me by ignoring me. He won me by seeing the goodness I had hidden so well. He won me by giving me a chance when all the signs pointed in the opposite direction. He won me with his strength, his character and his loyalty. He won me by letting me think I had won. He’s a smart guy….. and he’s mine. Austin and Lori  gave their blessings eventually. Lori even hosted my bachelorette party. I haven’t seen or spoken with Austin in years, but I’d love to run into him sometime and tell him that he was partially right. James is a good guy and he deserved more than to be a conquest, a target of my ambition. Maybe he will be satisfied to see that I have given James a lot of good years, well beyond that first night and kiss.
    Funny how things work out sometimes.

   

Skinny Jeans

 Why is it that the most difficult subjects flow the most easily in my writing? Not sure what that says about me, but it is where my writing is taking me right now. Thanks for bearing with me. :)

Skinny Jeans

      First thing in the morning, she runs to the bathroom, strips nude, empties her bladder in the toilet, and quickly pulls the scale from under the sink. Before stepping on, she removes her earrings and wedding ring, anything to weigh less. The moment of truth has arrived. One deep breath and she steps, one foot at a time, onto the scale. Will it be a good day or will she be miserable? She will know soon enough.
    The digital read out brings a smile to her face. This will be a good day--down two pounds from yesterday. Time to try on clothes! She throws her undies back on and heads for the closet. Those skinny jeans that have been mocking her for months--might they fit now? They hang next to the full length mirror on her bedroom door. A daily reminder to “be good.” She pulls them, reverently, from the hanger and unzips them. The denim is soft in her hands, beckoning, promising so many rewards if she can just fit her legs comfortably into the fabric.
    One foot in, the denim slides up her thigh. Snug but comfortable. Now the other leg--then pull them up. Those butt-blasting moves have really helped. The jeans slip over her back side and come to rest at her waist. Only one more hurdle--zip them up. She gingerly holds the small piece of metal in her two trembling fingers. Moving, it’s moving! The sides of the zipper catch hold and bring the jeans closed over her stomach. The extra ab workouts must be helping too!
    Victory is certain. A premature smile spreads across her face and she hears the voice of congratulations in her head. So many weeks, months and years of hard work and strict adherence to discipline are paying off. The zipper is all the way up. Just move the button through the hole and prove yourself. Why are you sucking in? You shouldn’t have to suck in to get the pants buttoned. The girls in the magazines wouldn’t have to suck in. You obviously haven’t worked hard enough. Why even bother trying now? Put those pants back on the hanger where they belong. You don’t deserve to be wearing them. You must be so embarrassed and ashamed. What if everyone could see you, with your muffin top hanging over the pants you’ve poured yourself into? You are truly pathetic.
    The jeans are back on the hanger, though somewhat haphazardly this time. She lays on her bed and cries. The voice won’t stop.
    You are really crying over this? What good will that accomplish? Get off your fat ass and go running. Do something! What a waste of time. You are just laying here, making it worse. You don’t burn calories by just laying there like a beached whale. Maybe it’s appropriate. You certainly look like one.
    She can’t stand listening anymore, so she throws on a pair of baggy sweats and loose shirt, anything to draw attention away from the grotesquely over-sized and ill- proportioned body she is stuck in. She brushes her teeth and her hair but wonders why she even bothers. Her stomach growls for morning sustenance. Weakness. You can’t even control that one thing?
    She makes a bargain with the voice, cutting a small apple into countless thin slices to confuse her body into thinking she is eating more than she actually is. She savors each one, shushing the voice for at least this moment. She does not need to feel guilty for eating an apple. Her rational mind takes root temporarily and reminds her of what she learned in treatment. Her body needs fuel. She eats and enjoys the tender fruit. A large glass of water will help to fill the room in her stomach.
    Twenty minutes later she is at the gym. She has warmed up and is heading toward the weights. People look at her. They’re all looking. You think they can’t see what you’re hiding? Not everyone is as clueless as you. You’re not fooling anybody.
    She tries to fight back. At least I am here. That has to count for something. I’m doing the work, making the effort, giving it all I have. That has to count!
    The voice is not convinced. It never is. Look at the girl in the pink top. That’s what real work looks like. Look at her waist. See how she has no cottage cheese on her thighs? See how all the men look at her? They aren’t looking at you that way.
    She notices the girl in pink and thinks her life must be perfect with a body like that. Her rational mind tries for a moment to give her a leg to stand on. What do I care what the men are looking at? I have a wonderful man at home who loves me just as I am.
    The voice jumps mercilessly all over her. You’re really going to try that line? Really? You are beyond pathetic. Why do I even bother trying to help you?
    She is ashamed and feels repentant. She pushes and pushes, moving as much weight as she can, pushing, pulling, lifting and squatting until her muscles scream. The voice rewards her with praise and motivation. She feeds off of it and wants more. A treadmill is open. She jogs over to grab it before any of those skinny girls can. They don’t need it like she does.
    Quickly she raises the incline and increases the speed. Her heart is pounding and her lungs are on fire, still she pushes on. The voice screams in her mind, challenging her, commanding her. When finally the digital read out on the treadmill panel shows that she has burned a sufficient amount of calories, the voice gives her permission to get off the treadmill. Her body aches, every inch. She hobbles to the bench, sitting carefully and laying her head against the wall. She feels pride. It is worth the pain. They’re all looking at her again. They can see how hard she worked. They know that she is trying. The voice is pleased and there is peace.
    At home, she showers and then takes the time to put on her make up. She has earned it. The finishing touches are done, she has accessorized her outfit and slips into a casual chic pair of day slippers. She asks the voice if she has earned lunch.
    Yes. You did a great job at the gym. I know everyone was impressed with you. All those fat ladies were jealous and inspired. They wanted to be you. Today you mattered.
    She appreciates the permission but doesn’t like what the voice is saying. It doesn’t make sense. But I thought you told me this morning that I was one of the ‘fat ladies.’ I remember you saying that.
    The voice always has an answer. No honey. You fought. You fought hard and now you don’t have to be one of them. I am so proud of you.
    She smiles, content with the answer and opens the fridge to see what her lunch choices are. As her eyes pass over each item, the voice gives its input. Yes to this and no to that. She has narrowed it down to a salad or a piece of chicken. The voice votes for the salad and the voice’s vote is the one that counts. She eats the salad, allowing herself some lite dressing since she did work really hard at the gym. The voice allows her, as it plays perfectly into its cruel little plan.
    Another large glass of water and then some distraction tactics to help her ignore the hunger that still exists inside her. The voice comes to root for her and cheer her on. Now remember, you chose to eat that salad dressing. You knew it had extra calories and fat. Be careful now. You don’t want to mess up this day. Remember the jeans this morning? Come on now sweetie, go for a walk. Read a book. Lose yourself on face book . Do something, anything.  So she does.
    Dinner time rolls around and the hunger pangs will no longer be silenced with water or chewing gum. Her husband will be home soon and will want a real meal. He will want her to eat it with him. How are you going to handle this? Don’t let him serve it up! Make sure you have a large glass of water. And maybe put a smaller plate at your setting. Then he will think you’re eating more.
    She cooks a healthy meal and throws together a large green salad. Better leave the Ranch in the fridge. You won’t be able to resist it if it’s on the table. That bowl of bread rolls should go at his end of the table, as far from you as possible. They smell good but they will not help you fit into those jeans tomorrow. You know they won’t!
    Her husband comes home and wraps his arms around her. She hopes he doesn’t feel the rolls of extra skin and fat that she is trying to hide with a loose blouse. She wishes she could be comfortable with him touching her. She knows he loves her but the voice keeps sneaking doubts into her mind. He kisses her and she enjoys it. For a beautiful moment she is completely happy and the voice is banished. She will not let it in to ruin this as it has ruined so many other things.
    The couple sit down to dinner. The voice is back and is angry at having been expelled. Instead of encouraging her toward ‘good’ choices, it berates her every move. With her husband looking at her adoringly though, she feels rebellious, wanting to show the voice who is in charge. She slathers two rolls with butter and doesn’t bother with the green salad. She goes to the fridge and bring the dressing to the table, pouring a generous amount on her plate to dip her bread in. She eats and then she eats more. Her stomach is satiated but her mind is not.
    Her husband wants a bowl of ice crea and invites her to join him. The voice screams in her mind. Don’t! Don’t do it! You can’t do this! Stop! Stop! You idiot! Don’t you realize that you’re turning into a fat pig, horrible, horrible! You are such a waste! Go ahead, give in! I’m done with you!
    She defiantly scoops more of the creamy frozen treat into her bowl. She’s gone this far, might as well add chocolate fudge and nuts. Maybe some lady finger cookies too and a spray of canned whipped topping. She looks at her masterpiece and feels powerful. She is in charge and no one can tell her what to do. Other things may be wrong in her life and she may be powerless to change them, but this, this is hers and she won’t let anyone take it from her. The whole skinny world be damned!
    She eats, licking the bowl clean. Her husband cuddles with her on the couch, wanting her to watch a movie with him. She says she will in a minute. She sneaks back into the kitchen and fills her bowl again. She hides in the bathroom with the fan on and wolfs it down, not even tasting it as her stomach is stretched to bursting. She sees stars around her and can barely hold her head up, she is flying so high. She is powerful, just look at what she has done, having pushed herself to the point of pain, just as she did at the gym this morning. The voice couldn’t stop her. So there!
    But oh, it hurts. She is overwhelmed with nausea and her sides ache terribly. She can’t do anything about it here. He will hear her. She can’t let him know that she has relapsed. She will never go back into treatment. Never.
    She walks back to the sofa where he is waiting for her, having put together a story in her mind, willing the conversation to go her way but knowing that if she has to cause a fight, it will be worth it to end this physical discomfort.
    “I’m going to take a quick shower. I’ll be right back.” She tries to hurry to the other bathroom before he can object. She isn’t fast enough.
    “A shower? Now? Can I join you?” Oh how she wished that were possible. How was she supposed to get out of this without offending him?
    “Not this time sweetie. I’m all gross from gardening today.” Lies had their place. She was good at lying. “How about tomorrow though?”
    “Whatever.” She hears and feels his disappointment but it is nothing compared to the searing pain she feels as her stomach expands to its limits, feeling as though she will come apart at the seams at any minute.
    She hurries into the bathroom, gets the tub running--it makes the most noise--and then lifts the lid and seat of the toilet. The fan is going and the movie is loud. He won’t be able to hear.
    The voice saunters into the bathroom and rests next to her on the vanity. I’m glad to see you’ve come to your senses. Was it worth it?
    Anger boils over inside of her. Anger at the voice, anger at herself and the whole miserable world. She  forces her fingers down her throat and feels herself enveloped in endorphins, soaring to a place of relief, happiness and peace as the pain and discomfort, the anger and rage, are expelled, violently, from her body.
    The voices dares to congratulate her. She screams in her mind for it to leave her be. The tears come and she knows that she has lost. Again. How did she get here? The day had went so well. She feels dirty and defeated--may as well get into the tub. She soaks and waits for her head to stop spinning. Her muscles are so tense, the warm water helps to soothe and loosen them. She lays there until the muck that had splashed up from the toilet onto her face feels too disgusting to bear another minute.
    She starts the shower and hopes there is at least a few minutes of warm water left for her to thoroughly cleanse herself. She towels off, brushes her teeth, moisturizes her face and then goes to the bedroom for pajamas. Her head is pounding and her stomach is empty. Her husband is still on the couch. Should she crawl into bed and will herself to sleep so that she won’t have to fight the hunger? Or should she mend fences with the man who loves her? Maybe have a few sticks of celery to ease her growing appetite..
    She loves him and needs his love in return. She cuddles with him on the couch, munching her celery. She tells herself that tomorrow will be better. The voice pats her on the back and assures her that it will be there for her.
    The sun rises again and she wakes up to the skinny jeans, smiling at her from across the room.

my first kiss

I am able to laugh about this now, even the part with my mom and the shovel. Listen to your parents kids. They just might actually know more than you.

My First Kiss

  Sloppy. So much saliva. He had told me to just hold still and he would show me how it worked, then I could follow his lead. It was definitely not what I had thought it would be-- nothing like my mom’s Harlequin Romances. Yes, we were standing in a lovely place surrounded by trees and greenery. It was actually a drainage ditch but the foliage was great and I knew this was where I wanted it to happen. The ambiance was worth the scratches I got from climbing down into it.
    Josh was so handsome. I had been infatuated with him for months, having worked with him at McDonald’s. He was eighteen and drove a black truck. I was sixteen and had never been kissed. The fact that such a handsome boy was paying attention to me sent my heart soaring. When he wanted to meet up, I knew I would do whatever it took to make it happen.
    My brother Jared and I had to go to the high school for MMR booster shots. I told Josh I would be there and Jared said he would cover for me. We got the shots and then I walked out behind the gym and met up with Josh. Jared was off to find his own adventures. I sat with Josh on the cement. We both knew what was going to happen. He asked and I told him yes except that there on the cement was not the romantic place I had in mind for my first kiss.
    We took his truck and drove away from the high school. I directed him to the place I had picked out. Josh drove like a maniac-- I guess he was showing off. I clung to the handle above my door and wondered at my decision to get into a vehicle with this hormone driven lunatic.
    We pulled up to the ravine like drainage ditch and he peeled out on the dirt. I was so not impressed but he smiled and his face was beautiful It was worth it. He helped me out of his jacked up truck and we walked down to the ditch. The weather was perfect, the day sunny and bright. We made our way through the brambles, him gallantly catching me when I stumbled. Once we were down in the ditch, under the shade of some lovely weed trees, he explained how this would work.
    I assumed it would be like the movies, him moving in slowly and easing me into this new experience. It was nothing like that. He stuck his tongue down my throat and his excessive saliva sprayed over my face. I had to take breaks to wipe my mouth on the shoulder of his shirt. I hoped he wouldn’t notice. I held onto the hope that this would get better. He was so handsome, how could he be such a bad kisser?
    When I decided I had had enough of this nonsense, I asked him to take me back to the high school, promising that I would see him again and assuring him that it had been a wonderful experience. In my mind, I was already envisioning the pyre of flames consuming those wretched romance novels that had led me so far astray and given me such unrealistic expectations.
    Josh brought me back to the high school. I couldn’t find my brother anywhere. I called him and he had gone off to do something else. I waited at the school for him, getting more and more nervous that our mom would wonder what we were up to. Finally Jared showed up and we went straight home. We made excuses about a long wait to get our shots and then I went off to my bedroom to reflect on my recent experience. There was a giddiness in my heart, in spite of the disappointment of the actual experience and Josh’s apparent lack of know-how. I promised myself right then that if ever I was someone’s first kiss, I would make sure I knew what I was doing and that they would walk away satisfied and pleased.
    A few days later, the truth had somehow been leaked to my mom that I had snuck off with Josh. I still have no idea how she came to know-- I just chalk it up to mommy-magic. My mama has always been a tiger, fighting to defend her cubs, even if her cubs wanted anything but that. I have come to appreciate it over the years, especially now that I have my own babies. I did not appreciate it at sixteen.
    Josh showed up at my house to visit me and maybe take me for another terrifying ride in his truck. I opened the door carefully and quietly, hoping Mama wouldn’t hear. Yes, I was planning to sneak away without permission. I was so sure of my invincibility in those days, like most teenagers. I’m sure we would have been just fine, with the worst possible scenario being a fiery death after Josh crashed us into a tree. Other than that, I was wasn’t worried about any hanky panky. This was all knew to me and I was certain that Josh wouldn’t rush me into anything. Honestly, I didn’t care to kiss him again, rather I thought it would be nice to walk around somewhere, showing him off like a trophy. He was beautiful after all.
    Josh and I walked as noiselessly as possible toward the front gate. We were halfway there when my mama, in full tigress rage, came flying out the door wielding a shovel. She yelled at Josh to get off her property, threatening to call the cops. I screamed for her to leave him alone and yelled reassurance to Josh, hoping to see him again soon, apologizing profusely for my mother’s behavior. Mama wasted no time ordering me back into the house. I sulked slowly back toward the door, my face burning red with embarrassment and anger.
    I locked myself in my room and cried into my pillow until Mama came knocking at my door. I don’t remember what happened from there, other than being grounded. It was a few years before I saw Josh again. He was as beautiful as always and had somehow managed to get over my mother’s banishment. We talked briefly but I made no plans with him and decided he was kind of a jerk. He totally ruined the fantasies I had created in my mind of how it would be if I ever saw him again. Maybe Mama had been right about him…..
    I saw him again about four years later as I was working in the cell phone booth at Walmart. I had blossomed into quite the lovely young lady by this point. I am not bragging, simply expressing pride for the progress I had made in taking care of myself and my appearance. Josh noticed my efforts as did lots of men by this time. He was still as handsome as ever, but there was a certain patheticness about him as he tried every line he could to get my number and secure a date. I remembered my mother’s opinion of him and noticed the tell-tale signs of a drug problem and his overall scruffiness. It also didn’t escape my memory that he had been pretty rude to me the last time I had seen him. I gracefully
allowed him to give me his card, saying
 I’d call him but knowing that I never would. He finally left and I held my head up high, feeling incredibly victorious somehow and like I had really grown up. I figured Mama would be proud-- I didn’t even mind if she decided to say “I told you so.” Mom’s just know more than their wily teenaged daughters. Yay for mother bears protecting their babies when their babies have no idea what they might be getting themselves into.

The Living Room

     Moments of Glory

This will be a series of moments that I was either completely, or at least semi-victorious in often hair-brained conquests. It's nice to be able to sit back and laugh about things now and then.

 

 The Living Room

    While pregnant, emotions and hormones run unchecked. Sometimes, in the midst of the fracas, a woman can be overwhelmed and find herself carried away on ideas that maybe weren’t thought all the way through. I have done this many times, much to the chagrin of my husband. He is a good man and has been a good sport, knowing that when I get a crazy idea in my head, more often than not, I will be the catalyst and he will be the one who actually completes the project.
    I love taking credit for the whole thing though, of course. We wouldn’t have a living room if not for my hormone driven, hammer wielding madness. James, my wonderful husband, was at work. My daughter, Olivia, was sleeping. I was around seven months pregnant with my son Reagan and just starting to feel the itching of the nesting phase. For some reason, there was an absolutely horrid bedroom where our living room should be. There wasn’t even room for our couches and so the room went largely unused. This had bugged me for the few months we had lived in the house. Finally owning our home gave me such a feeling of creative freedom, it was difficult to keep my ideas, which were plentiful, from growing out of control.
    On this particular day, budgets and prudence were banished to the farthest reaches of my busy mind. With a hammer in hand, I began knocking into the sheet rock of the completely pointless closet taking up space in my would-be living room. I pulled paneling from the lower half of every wall in the room. It was a wood paneling that had been painted over. It was hideous and offended my good taste. I found such gratification in ripping it from the walls. Soon I found myself surrounded with rubble, piles of the results of my work.
    James came home from work and went straight to the kitchen, not even glancing into the room I was destroying. He had no reason to--the space was useless and we usually bypassed it. That wouldn’t be the case much longer.
    James busied himself with something in the kitchen. I kept at my work, quietly. Soon the room was becoming too full to allow for further progress. I needed to start clearing out the debris. I thought about carrying arm loads out through the front door and then heading around the house to the backyard. With a growing belly and overall awkwardness, I decided against this plan and went the more daring route. James was engrossed in whatever he was working on-- so I walked right behind him and out the back door, carrying five foot sections of paneling, depositing them unceremoniously onto the back patio. I didn’t stop to think about the growing pile that would eventually have to be dealt with. I couldn’t be bothered with details as I was on a roll and determined to do as much as I could before my energy ebbed.
    I had carried at least half of the wreckage out to the patio, right behind James’ back and was feeling quite confident. On one of these trips however, his curiosity was awakened and he checked my work space while I was in transit. Oh did he start yelling. Those who know him might find it hard to believe that he’s ever raised his voice in his life, but really, when that boy is upset, he does become human and expresses himself quite well.
    I walked into the room, the face of innocence. He stared at me, holding a board in his hand, absolutely incredulous.
    “What did you do, Miss Daisy?” He had used my pet name-- I took it as a good sign.
    “I’m making us a living room. Do you like it?” I attempted the best puppy dog face that I could. He just shook his head, dropped the board, and walked out of the room.
    I continued working, determined to have the room gutted before I stopped. I get lofty ideas in my little head. I worked furiously, tearing at pieces of wall, fragments flying as my hammer pounded into the walls. I was successful for quite awhile, emptying the useless room of all that made it dysfunctional. Onward and forward, I tarried in the space for hours, until all of a sudden, a board I had been trying to forcefully remove, decided it was going to fight back. The harder I pulled, the more it stuck to its place in the opening of the now skeletal closet. Its resolution was admirable but I would not surrender. I pulled with all I had in me, huffing and puffing, seeing red and feeling the adrenaline rushing through my limbs. I wrenched the board in every direction, twisting and turning it. It refused to give. Just as I was ready to start yelling like those annoying men at the gym that make almost obscene noises as they hoist ridiculous amounts of weight over their heads, my hands slipped, I could find no purchase. The board flew backward, catching me in the side of the head right as I was falling-- landing gracefully in a pile of nails, sheetrock and boards of various lengths.
    I had been defeated. The victorious board laughed over me from it’s place above me. I lay prostrate, feeling every bit of the disappointment, the adrenaline draining from my body. I could not bring myself to even look at the offending closet with its malicious board again. I turned the project over to James, citing physical deficiency. I stayed away from the room of my defeat, only checking in every few weeks as James, his dad, and his brother worked to make something beautiful of the disaster I had caused.
    I was finally able to let my pride go when it was time to texture the beautiful new walls. I gave it all I had, determined to regain some of my former glory-- to feel again a victor in the war of the living room renovation.
    I proudly acknowledge the many compliments I--we-- have received on the masterpiece we created, with yours truly as the spark that got the fire going. James is even happy about it and enjoys the time we spend together as a family in the lovely little living room that is ours, bought with blood, sweat and tears.
    Good things can come from temporary madness.

Reminiscence

  I found a great website with daily writing prompts and have found it to be very helpful! Here's yesterday's prompt and what I did with it:

  The garden is overgrown now. We spent hours breaking our backs to remove all of the rocks so that we could have a small patch of lawn for the baby. Every rock we found was used in my rock garden. I planted some beautiful flowers and foliage, most of which I took when we left. Now my perfectly placed rocks are devoid of beauty and overrun with noxious weeds.
  The grass we had planted and raised with tender loving care is now a field of waist high growth. Perhaps it was silly to invest time and money into a small plot of earth that was only temporarily ours. While we had it though, we enjoyed it. Family and friends had joined us for dinner parties. Our small baby girl had rolled and crawled on the vibrant bit of green we had created. While we loved it, it was beautiful.
  Staring at the travesty of what has become of our hard work and love, the point is driven home that the current tenants, like many renters, did not feel compelled to improve their surroundings during their brief sojourn. I never should have come back to see it. It was one of those days spent in reminiscence and I was urged by nostalgia to visit the small apartment where we had begun our married life and welcomed our baby home. The visit has only succeeded in depressing me and reminding me of the inevitable passage of time with its multitudinous disappointments.
  Times change--one season gives way to the next and our existence is not stationary. But then, would I have wanted to stay there forever? Certainly not. We have moved onward and upward to a home of our own, where the gardens are mine and every effort that our little family puts into them is ours to enjoy, just as long as we pay the mortgage. I can dig into the soil and invest my heart, knowing that when I come back tomorrow, it will still be lovely and tended to.
  I leave the sad remnants of our former flowering oasis and hurry home to the bit of earth that is mine and the family that loves it as much as I do. Seeing all of the flowers and shrubs that greet my arrival, I am glad that I walked down memory lane for a moment. Wherever we have gone, we have sought to improve our surroundings and with the sweat and labor have come fountains of blessings and happy memories. Perhaps I will focus on that the next time I feel inclined to visit an old haunt--knowing that even in the midst of the decay I see, there remains still a spirit of happiness where we lived, loved, and played together.

Kids

Lilly considered which of her numerous childhood disappointments she would change if she had the power to go back and do it over. One came immediately to mind. Jeffrey. All he had wanted was to be accepted, appreciated, and loved. He wanted to fit in. He was surrounded by brothers that included him when it was convenient or when they were told to. What must that do to a person’s self confidence? Lilly knew that there was not much she could have done in childhood to change her brothers’ ways, but she herself could have done things better. When the boys had locked him out of their room and he knocked repeatedly on her door, wanting to play whatever she was playing, just wanting to be with someone and not left alone, she could have let him in. Sometimes she had, but not nearly often enough. There were times when she just wanted to be left alone to read her books or play with her dolls. She liked alone time and figured he’d have more fun with the boys anyway. Why didn’t she take the time to see why he wasn’t playing with them? She would have found that they were being mean and she could have told Mom. She could have done something. But she just wanted to be left alone and not bothered.
    When he would try to force his way in, a little boy desperate for a friend, Lilly would hold her body against the door until he would stick his foot in the door. Then she would scream and holler that he was bugging her. Mom would tell her to let him and she would resent him all the more. This could have been a time to play new games and share laughs, to bond and become close, but Lilly just sulked and was as mean as she could be until Jeffrey would finally leave the room, sometimes crying.
    The worst time, when Jeffrey had pushed Lilly to her limits and she was just blind with anger and annoyance at the inconvenience, she had slapped him on the back. Hard. Really, really hard. He screamed in pain and ran to Mom. Mom carried him over to Lilly and lifting the back of his shirt, revealed the results of her heartlessness. There, on his lightly tanned little back, was Lilly’s bright red hand print. Lilly tried to be tough and ambivalent, but the truth was that her broke into hundreds of little jagged pieces when she saw what she had done.
    Lilly accepted her punishment and knew that she deserved at least what she got and more. She hoped the sandal would leave a mark on her--somehow that might ease her conscience if she were to feel as much pain as he had. But then, which had hurt him worse; the sting of her angry palm, or the passionate rejection of friendship and love?
    Over the years, Lilly and Jeffrey still had times when they didn’t see eye to eye, but that one day, the day she committed the crime she would never quite forgive herself for, that had changed her. She could never be so cruel or unfeeling to him again. She realized her shame and was angry with herself. Why had it taken this outburst of unrestrained temper for her to realize just how much she loved that little boy? She was finally able to see the sweetness of his spirit, his giving heart and his quick forgiveness. He loved with all he had and just asked the same in return. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for a friend or family member. Why had she so long taken him for granted?
    Yes, things changed that day. As they both grew older, Lilly enjoyed Jeffrey’s friendship more and more. He came to her for advice and she was honored. He openly expressed his love when some of their other brothers couldn’t bring themselves to say the three simple words. He not only said it, but he showed it. Often.
    One dark night when Lilly was drowning in her own life’s misery and had given up hope of ever finding happiness or meaning in life again, it was Jeffrey who ran to her side, forcing his way in and saving her life.
    Lilly couldn’t understand how someone that she had been so awful to in childhood, could become one of her best friends in adulthood. Surely the Lord was blessing her beyond what she deserved. She felt unworthy of Jeffrey’s love and loyalty, but rather than dwelling on it, she decided to do whatever she could as long as she lived to make sure that Jeffrey knew just how much she loved and appreciated him. Maybe, just maybe, that would appease the haunting memories of her past mistakes.
    There is no way to erase the effects of our words or actions on those we have wronged. We can however, do all within our power to make things as right as possible, not just assuming that the past is past and all must be well. You never know what another person might believe about themselves or the world because of you. Do what you can to make it better. You never know when you’ll lose the opportunity and be forced to live with the regret. Resolve to be mindful of your words and behavior in the future, especially with those you love and those who love you.