What is Love?

What is love?

This blog is simple. I treat it like a diary. I have no idea how to add cool fonts or posh back grounds. I don't have sponsors or ads (though I probably should, this is good stuff most of the time). Recently, I have found in light of some really joyful news from friends and some heartbreaking news from those I hold close, we always talk about love. 

"I love him"

"I love that"

"I just love her to death"

"Don't you LOVE it"?

It made me ponder.

Why do we throw the word "love" around, but we gasp at using the word "hate"? They are both extreme expressions of emotion. One is good, one is bad. One is tossed around like a rag doll in a toddler crib, the other is treated like a turkey hot of the oven on Thanksgiving day.  So I thought, what is love?

I can tell you what love is, in my minor opinion.

Love is sacrifice.

Giving up what you want for another.

 Giving your time as a sign of respect and kindness. Without words saying, "I know you have needs too, take your time and I will take care of everything else". 

Forever giving up any chance of having a 6-pack, and in return a belly scarred with stretch marks. And doing it again, and again, and again..

Staring at that last delicious piece of cake on your plate with your mouth watering, but instead getting just as much delight is watching that child's eyes light up and hearing their soft, "mmmmmmmm".

Paying for tuition instead of a fabulous vacation. 

Missing out of a few extra hours of sleep even though you have been up since five o'clock in the morning to stay on the phone with your best friend, who's world has shattered into  a million pieces.

Staying a few hours late so that everything is taken care of. At work, at school, at church, at your friend's party washing dishes...you get the point.

Love is saying "no".

No. I am not letting you drive tonight.

No. You don't look like a sack of potatoes with bullet holes in your butt cheeks in that dress which is too bright and too tight.

No, you probably shouldn't wear that.

No. I am not leaving. Not now and not anytime soon. I will stay as long as you need me.

No. I am not going to let you give up. You've got this!

No. I don't want them to suffer any longer. 

Love is saying "yes"

Yes. I will take the garbage out. (yes now, not in 2 hours after I binge on 'House of Cards').

Yes. I think that is "the" dress.

Yes, you can have it.

Yes. We'll take it.

Yes. You can dump out that bag of blocks...and that box of leggos...and all of your Barbies. We have all day to clean it up later.

Do I promise to love this person for the rest of my life? God as my witness?

Yes. I do.

Love is staying up all night.

(not always for that, you pervs)

Staying up all night because you are excited.

Staying up all night because you are worried.

Staying up all night because you are heartbroken.

Staying up all night laughing until you cry with your loved ones and OD'ing on a box of Oreos (am I alone on that one?)

Staying up all night terrified she is going to stop breathing..or turn on her side weird, or cry (again).

Staying up all night driving to get there.

Staying up all night because you literally can't stop watching this stupid freaking show, because love doesn't always have to be serious.

Staying up all night holding his hand for the last time.  Remembering his face. Listening to him breathing. Because sometimes love is serious.

Love is real.

Love is greater than hate.

Love is a miracle.

Love is more painful than childbirth (without the epidural).

Love is all the feels.

here are a few things and people (and animals) I love

 My parent's wedding bands- inscribed "1-17-70".

Petey and I after his first and my third half-marathon

(love is beating your time).

My parents and Petey and I at a friend's wedding.

My big fluffy retard, Roxy (oodle-doodle-poodle-schmoodle).

.

Daddy and I while I pinned his rose on my wedding day.

Roslyn passed out at daycare.

Me and my Mr. Marshalluffagus (my sweet nephew). We're in love.

My brother David, My Sister (in law) Whitney, Petey and our babes on Thanksgiving in Miami.

My loves. Every. Single. Day. For, like, ever.

On the night you were born

An open letter to my daughter on the eve of her first birthday:

Dear Roslyn,
      Sweet, angel baby Roslyn. My daughter. My heart. My savior. I remember a year ago. I remember sitting on the couch in the living room and balancing sticky Popsicle sticks on my stomach and watching you move them. I remember how painful standing up was and the God-awful brace I wore to support my disproportionate belly when it felt like it was going to rip off of my backbone. But I was your home. You were happy. I kept you safe there. We sang, we laughed, we listened to trap music and Taylor Swift. We cried a lot. I held you before I ever touched you. I made you many promises and vowed that I would never break them. I shared secrets with you and knew that you'd never tell. You felt my excitement, my sorrow, my breathing and knew my dreams. The world was ours.
    You saved me. Your rescued me before you even entered this world. You forced me to eat every day and take care of myself when I wanted to crawl into a dark place and hide forever. You forced me to get out of bed and shower. I can still remember the fragrant oils and thick lotions I put on my growing belly to prevent stretch marks (which I got anyways, and I wear with pride because you gave them to me) every single day. You, my precious gift from Heaven, forced the people I love to look at me in a way other than as the girl who's Dad was dying. You made us all believers. This tiny miracle who was tossing and turning inside of me was the proof that God gives us life and hope when we question why he takes life and hope away.

    I cried today. I cried as I watched you show your personality and allowed me to have a peek into the lady you will be. I cried because I am not ready, like ever. I cried because I thought about the first time  you get angry with me and slam a door in my face and how my heart will break right then and there. I cried because I so desperately hope that I am half the mother you deserve to have. I cried because I remember begging you to be born days after you were supposed to be. I cried because I remember having you. I remember laying in a hospital bed and being told by your Daddy to open my eyes and see. "It's over! She's here! You did so good", your Daddy said. We held you and kissed you and listened to your tiny cry. I cried tonight because I remember that feeling of the moment you were born, and the way you changed me forever. I cried because I want you to be a baby who needs me forever and I cried because I watched you sleeping and wanted to hold you again while you dreamed baby dreams.
   You are so special. The world is your oyster and you are the beautiful and perfect pearl in our world. I will always support you. I will try to be cool but not to be embarrassing. I promise that when that guy who I hated breaks your heart, I will listen. When you need advise, I will give you what I have, but only if you ask. I won't hover. Even though every bone in body wants to touch you, stroke your hair, and kiss your cheek I will stay back. I will watch you grow and I will cheer you on. I might get frustrated, but I need you to be patient with me too. This whole Mom thing came on pretty quickly and I sometimes I feel like I am never going to figure it out. You need me. I need you too. I promise that as long as I live I will give you everything I have, but I need you to give me that too. At the end of the day, it's you and me kid.

     We are a team, you and I. One day, your birthday will become more routine and mine will become more precious. Eventually, you will want to hear my voice and ache to be held by me once again just as I sit here and yearn to hold you. I want you to know how much you have changed my life. You have shown me a fierce protective instinct I never knew I had and spidey-like hearing I never knew existed. Every time you reach for me, my heart feels like it will burst. When I am cooking dinner and I feel your little hands wrap around my legs, I remind myself how precious this time in your life is.  Our love is special because it is ours, little one. I want you to know that I will change every day too, but that is because out love is growing. Soon, you will understand what I mean. But until then, I'm here. Listening to you dreaming and waiting for your first Birthday to begin. When you open your eyes, baby girl, I hope you see this whole crazy world in front of you and still chose to take Mama's hand.

"Heaven blew every trumpet
And sounded every horn
On the wonderful, marvelous
night you were born"
-Nancy Tillman

The American Dream

God help me for this.

I always read about these blogs going viral. 

"An Open Letter to My Cheating Spouse"

"Life as a Dead Man's Daughter"

"Why Marriage is Dead"

"I Refuse to be Politically Correct"

...blahblahblah

All relevant.

All needed to be said.

All from one person's perspective and filled with the writer's opinion. As it should be.

Up until this point my blog has been mainly for myself. To share memories of my Father and gab on about my perfect little slice of heaven (my daughter, Roslyn...duh) and other things here and there. 

Tonight I came to-well what I think-was a strange realization.

It is Saturday night. A few years ago Petey and I would be getting in touch with our friends and seeing what there was to do. We would meet at each other's houses or downtown at a cool bar. We would grab a late dinner and have drinks and bar hop until we stumbled into McDonough's where I would proceed to belt out whatever karaoke tune I fancied to a willing crowd of blithering idiots just like me. We would saunter over to the buffet across the street and clumsily make our way home with cheese grits stuck to our chins.

Tonight is different.

I am sitting at my kitchen table. It is covered in books, index cards, 3-ring binders and study guides. My eyes burn with the anticipation of laying my head on a pillow and watching an episode of Mad Men on Netflix. The baby is asleep and I have successfully gone another day without detrimentally injuring her (or her soul) and managing not to burn my house down of drown in dog hair.  Mentally...the LAST thing I want to do is study Pathophysiology. Why am I torturing myself?

Because I want the American Dream. 

Call me selfish. Tell me I already have it. I have a great job, a hot husband who makes me laugh, and amazing family and a perfect daughter.  The blessings are undeserved. There are Tons of friends, a full belly (and muffin top, le sigh) and a beautiful home to hang my hat. But I am thirsty. I want more because my Father taught me that I can get more. Life is a lemon you squeeze every drop of juice out of before it's a shriveled up rind in the garbage. 

GO FOR IT

but not without blood, sweat, tears (oh hell yeah), sacrifice and WORK. 

I don't get to go out on Saturday night for a while. 

No buying that sweet pair of ankle booties with leopard print calf hair.

Buh-Bye nightly Jeopardy and Netflix binges. 

You are studying. You are leaving work and rushing to get into class afterwards and forcing your eyelids to remain open. You are missing precious story time and bath time sing-a-longs with your baby. You aren't going on Vacation. You are scrutinizing every hour of your paycheck and getting clammy when the bills are due and your tuition is as well.

I promise it will be worth it. In 1.5 years when you smile up at your beautiful family in the stands of a stadium or arena, lightly touch the silky hood on your graduation gown and accept that Masters degree from your department head, you will smile. When boards are passed and the job hunt is finished, there will be laughter. Why did I complain? That was over before I knew it! You are finally where you said you'd be when you were 17 years old. You have followed your dream and made your loved ones damn proud. You deserve that vacation, those shoes and that job.

But when I stop and think about it, I wonder.

It's kind of bold.

You have probably thought it.

Maybe heard your parents mumble about it over creamed peas or hot coffee?

The American Dream is dying.

It is a slow and painful death. A public execution being watched my millions of Americans. We are standing in Town Square and watching our greed, the frayed noose, slowly but surely tighten around our paraben-free moisturized whiny little necks. 

The killer? It's us. U.S. The United States citizens.

The American Dream didn't come from an open hand or a check in the mail. It doesn't owe you (or anybody) an apology or feel sorry for you and your born circumstances. It believes in you no matter how much you don't believe in yourself. It is out there waiting for you, coaxing you with its' well manicured finger. It expects you to make sacrifices. It knows your family is going to make sacrifices too. It is beckoning you. Pleading with you, to be the best you can be and earn (that's right, EARN) the life you want and deserve. 

It won't come easy. It wants you to understand that happiness and the life you dream about doesn't happen overnight. It wants to scream at you and tell you that instant gratification, greed and whining is suffocating her. It doesn't come with a loan or special privilege because your parents made bad decisions. It wants to shake you and hold you by the shoulders and say, "YOU ARE AN AMERICAN. THE WORLD IS YOUR OYSTER AND YOU ARE THE PEARL"!!! But the shell is hard to open. It isn't steamed and cracked so you can slide your knife in and drink it's juices. You must cut your finger-several times- and figure out how to make it unfold. You will have to do things you might not want to do when you don't feel like doing them. It doesn't feel sorry for you. 

The American Dream is yours for the taking. This land is full of opportunity. YOUR opportunity.

It will be worth it.

Repeat after me.

It will be worth it.

Meteor Shower

It is Tuesday morning. I've been up since 4am.

 

Normally I would be at work, getting patients ready for surgery and most likely cutting up with my beloved coworkers. I would have normally kissed Ros goodbye and smugly walked out of daycare as she whined for me to come back. It's a funny thing, that feeling of being needed and how it breaks your heart, annoys the piss out of you and validates every doubt you had of whether or not you are winning at this parent thing.

 

Not today.

 

Yesterday I took Ros to the doctor to get some advice on what I assumed were bug bites all over her body. Petey and I were appalled at our hygiene and doubting the cleanliness of our home, our dog and ourselves. Little did I know my wonderfully chirpy pediatrician would say, "Good job Roslyn! You get the most diagnosis of the day"! As she sympathetically explained to me that these were not, in fact, bites but classic Hand, Foot and Mouth virus- AKA modern day chicken pox. A yucky virus which covers your child in nasty red bumps that also invade their soft palate therefore making everyone's lives miserable. Top that off with a rousing case of thrush (oral yeast infection in her mouth) and a sublime double ear infection. Did I mention she has had tubes for 3 months? Don't even get me started on her ears and the massive FAIL of her previous ENT...

 

Anyways

 

The title of this post, "Meteor Shower" isn't random. There is a meteor shower coming, the Perseids Meteor shower this Thursday most visible around 4am. Too bad it wasn't this morning? Maybe Roslyn and I could have enjoyed it together while she screamed bloody murder. Back to my point. While I am busy feeling sorry for myself and drowning in guilty, soggy tears over my sick baby, the news of a meteor shower awakened a vivid memory of Daddy.

 

Whenever there was a meteor shower growing up, Daddy would come into my room in the earliest hours of the morning and get me out of bed. Together we would quietly and excitedly bundle up and creep outside to the street to watch the stars fall together. It was our thing, just he and I with the galaxy to share. Sometimes we would stand in the driveway as I would rest my head on Daddy's side and wait to catch a shooting star. Sometimes we would see one or two, sometimes we lost count. I vividly remember waking up on a chilly winter morning around 4 am and laying in the street of my Beaver Cleaver neighborhood and waiting for the show to start.  We walked to the end of the street past the streetlights and sat in the middle of the road, knowing there weren't going to be cars for a few hours. I was in high school, and times like this between the two of us were few and far in between my lame attempts to be cool and attend every social function I could get an invite to only to further prove what a total weirdo I am.

I was resting my head on my Dad's arm and studying him. Memorizing his navy snow hat - the only one he ever owned - the smell of his grey sweatshirt and Member's Only jacket. What we were speaking about, I can't remember but suddenly the biggest meteor lit up the sky like a firecracker dud before us. It fizzled out quickly but left my Dad and I both with huge grins and matching whispered "WOW's". My Dad looked at me and said "We need to name that one. Like a comet that was just for you and I".

 

 

"Katherine Alexander", I said. Super creative I know, but it was ours. We often brought it up every time from then on when we would wake up so early to watch the stars fall. I still woke up when I went to college whenever Dad would call and tell me another meteor shower was happening. I can remember wondering around my apartment complex my junior year to find a place where the street lights wouldn't disrupt my view (safe I know- but the desire to stir memories sometimes cocoon your fear of danger by replacing your instincts with desire to relive a memory over safety) and waiting for the first meteor to show itself. I would call my dad before class and we would chat about who saw more. I would smile smugly, as I do now when I leave daycare, knowing he still woke up without me just so we could still share our memory together.

 

We never saw quite a dazzler like Katherine-Alexander again. Our last meteor rendezvous was on a summer night in Louisiana where every star is visible in my Mom's hometown. If I knew what I know now, would it have been more special? Probably not. The best memories are the ones that aren't forced. But it made me think about meteor showers. Although I feel like my family is being rained on by continuous bouts of bad luck, I look at the clock and notice that it is 8:00am. The house is quiet, and the presence of Roslyn's whimpers are gone. I peeked into her room and watch her sleeping peacefully. The rhythmic rise and fall of her breathing almost hypnotizing. I don't want to wake her, yet I wonder. Will I wake her up one day at 4am instead of the opposite?

 

Maybe so.

 

Right now I think it is important to count my blessings which feel like a rare meteor some days. There will be days when I am amazed at the beauty and splendor of the life I have. There will be days that I am disappointed that not a single star falls but I will remind myself of one thing.

 

No matter how bad the show is, how sleepy I am or anxiously I am awaiting for something exciting to happen...the moment that is happening, the memory being created will be what remains.

No Shame in Mom Game

I want to address something that has been on my mind ever since I got pregnant.

 

Mom shaming.

 

It's definitely a thing.

 

Maybe you've never heard of it. Maybe you have unknowingly participated. Perhaps you have been a subject of being bad-mouthed by fellow Mothers -friend or foe. Well I am here to sound off and hopefully plant some type of seed.

 

The definition in my little brain is as follows:

mom-shaming

verb

1. The act of belittling or bad mouthing another mother out loud or in your own mind. This could be in reference to differentiating parenting styles, discipline and theory. Mom shaming is a way other Mothers potentially speak hatefully or disrespectfully about another Mom's way of rearing their child or live their lives.

 

Why is this a problem? Why is this even a thing?!? Am I crazy? Or just making it up?

 

Absolutely not. I am admittedly guilty of talking smack about the way another woman choses to Mother. I have hatefully partaken in conversations were myself and other Mothers have trashed our fellow Mama. I admit it. I am guilty...and ashamed.  It starts from pregnancy and doesn't stop because another Woman's child is 45. We women constantly pick apart the way we look and act while pregnant, the way others deliver, sleep train, dress, feed (don't EVEN let me scream about breastfeeding shaming) and entertain our kids. There isn't a right or wrong. Well, okay, I mean there are obvious no-no's like child abuse and cooking meth while your baby watches "Yo Gaba Gaba" (did I spell that right? Whatev) but otherwise there is not a theoretical "right" or "wrong" way to be a Mom.

 

So let me step up on my soapbox and PREACH for a minute.

 

On pregnancy:

So you go to prenatal yoga 4 days a week. Cut caffeine and all artificial colors/additives? You gained 16 pounds with your fabulous pregnancy? GOOD FOR YOU!!!

You have the perfect nursery? Stock piled 465798 boxes of diapers? Awesome.

Haven't bought a thing? Does the thought of holding a tiny human kind of freak you the hell out? That's ok!

Gestational diabetes creeping in with every donut and big mac? Haven't left the couch once? GOOD FOR YOU!!

Maybe you adopted or took in a baby under unusual circumstances.

At the end of the day, we are AMAZING ladies. Nobody else can grow a human being. Sure, we try to be healthy and do what is best for the baby. As long as we're not snorting lines off our bump at 37 weeks in da club...I think we are ok. Remember Alyia Montano? She is the 800 meter track super star who caught major shit for running a race 8 months pregnant. Unless you are Alyia or her OBGYN, what right do we have to tell her what is safe for her baby? Her doctors actually encouraged her, while her fellow Moms...her SISTERS in life bashed her for doing something that is natural to her body. Guess what? That baby came out perfect and is loved every bit as much as anybody else's baby. 

 

On Delivery:

Total natural? No meds? No epidural? Holy crap you are insane and you are a champ.

Wanna press that epidural button 500 times a minute? Doctor may I have another oxy? Sister I feel ya. That contraction stuff? SUCKS.

Scheduled section? It's all good. I will drive you anywhere you need to go in the 6 week window you aren't allowed to drive after you have MAJOR surgery AND have a baby!

At the end of the day, you are giving birth...one way or another. YOU are the awesome powerhouse that God has chosen to bring another human life into this world. Do what makes you the most comfortable (or uncomfortable you au natural goddess) and post 300 pictures to facebook to show off what YOU did.

 

On Feeding:

Were you amazingly lucky enough to survive that first year breastfeeding without giving your baby a drop of formula? Hell yeah! I envy you!

Tried your best? Did you spend hours pumping and crying and begging your baby "take the friggin' boob kid"!!!! Before you caved and gave (gasp!) formula? God created formula for a reason. YOU are NOT a bad Mom or a bad person.

Look at you making all of your own baby food! Buying all organic? No additives or meat for your baby? Nice work.

Gerber 4/$2 super sale savvy saver? Ooopsies the baby just downed a honey bun when I Wasn't looking type of Mom? Ha! I've been there. Let's talk when she eats mud, sand, dog food.....the list goes on.

Guess what? Either way, that baby is getting nourishment. Every Mom is not a dietician or registered nutritionist. We try our best. Some of us can afford time and money to make top notch non-gmo homemade meals while other Moms scrape together whatever they can or whatever WIC will give them to feed a teeny, tiny, hungry mouth. As long as those rolls are getting fatter and those lips are smacking, you're doing it the way that is working for you and your baby. Bravo!

 

On Sleeping:

So you co-sleep. Baby gets to spoon you every night. You can sleep well knowing your baby is right next to you. Every now and then, your 13 year old crawls into bed with you some nights? If that is ok with you, that's ok with us. Maybe you put your baby on her tummy at 6 weeks (guilty) because she slept like an angel from then on out. Maybe you never put them in a stylish bassinette or Granny's antique iron crib. Those super expensive and beautiful bumpers stayed regardless what the SIDS campaign says. So white noise making your house sound like a category 5 hurricane is in your backyard...whatever works!

Maybe you let your angel cry it out like Ferber said or can't stand that horrific sound (omg, the anxiety...I KNOW) and spent endless hours and sleepless nights awkwardly snuggled with the babe in that glider you thank God for or on the couch while watching weird infomercials at 4am.

My God. If there is a struggle all Mamas face, it is the sleep battle. Whether you were that lucky duck who's kiddo slept 8 hours a night at 4 weeks or your 18 month old STILL wakes up at 2 am...you aren't doing anything wrong. We all miss sleeping, one way or another. When Roslyn wakes up like clockwork at 6am day after day, I tend to glare at friends who have sleepy angels who whimper for food at 8am. But the struggle is equal and different for us all. Through it all, we are in a sisterhood of exhaustion, insomnia and endless googling of  "Why the shit won't the freaking baby sleep for ___ hours after ____ o'clock and why is he trying to kill me"? TELL ME SIRI!!!!

 

 

 

Ya'll. This is the tip of the iceberg. I could easily get into discipline styles, judging the way other Moms dress, look, or how they chose to spend free time. Either way, we as women can do better. If you are a Mom, you are part of an elite sisterhood of women who have been there and done that. These women are your support, NOT your competition. They are doing what works for them. They love their children as much as you do. They miss sleeping, secretly google everything and panic at least 17 times a day over the littlest things just like you do. How are we going to raise strong, confident and smart children is we are constantly breaking each other down and working ourselves to the bone endlessly trying to achieve that "super woman" status?

Allow me to let you in on a secret.

YOU ARE SUPER WOMAN

You are a Mother.

 

(steps off soapbox)

 

 

 

 



Mom Brain

 

It's a thing, ya'll. But not like what you think it is. I just felt compelled to share some of the embarrassing, housewifey/mom-ish things that have gone through my head today. Things that I would be annoyed that other Moms felt the need to post on Facebook or something. On this page I can say what I want though and not feel bad about it. You came here voluntarily right?

 

 

1. Gross. There is a strange brown ring on the sink under Petey's toothbrush. I should probably clean that.

2. Why does this bathroom always smell like pee?

3. My spray tan is coming off of my legs. I look like a blind person who played in the mud who was then washed by another blind person.

4.. I totally want a smoothie, but I want the baby to stay asleep more...so I'll just pour some of these ingredients into milk.

5.. Hot damn that milk is bad. Garbage is full.....to put back in or force into the trash...

6.. (As I am watching the dog lick up the baby's barf) I should probably clean that up and stop the dog from eating it. But, by  the time I tell her to stop after thinking about it, she's going to clean it...and the couch feels good. I'll clean it later, or not. It's gone. Oh well.

7.. I bet Kroger makes extra money on the "organic chicken" because they package it individually within the package. The hell man.

8.. Speaking of these little packages, why are they impossible to open!??!?!

9.. Damn, how did I get the world's smallest chicken breast in here?!?! Oh because I chose the cheapest one. Damn.

10. This shirt is wrinkly...dryer for 10 minutes.

11. I should wake Roslyn up....10 more minutes.

 

awful right?

Ugh. When did the cool stuff get evicted and replaced with this crap?

It's ok. I'll read my fashion mags and hit up Barre class and get my cred back tomorrow.

 

Lots of Love

Katherine

 



Summertime Sadness

 

 

Summer time. Growing up, this was my favorite time of year. No school meant zero responsibility other than summer reading lists (which, I confess, I read most of) and a dinky summer job. Summer meant melted popsicles and the smell of a grill burning. Summer was steam rising off pavement mixed with the smell of damp earth after a 10 minute storm. Summer was my escape. Summer was the only time I pretty much ever got asked on dates by random guys from different schools who didn't know what a goof I was to all of the boys at my own. Summer was freedom and joy and sun.

 

All of that changed last year. Summer has been stained. Incinerating heat indexes, long days and fireflies are now associated with sadness for me. Even tough I spent 28 years of my life with vibrant summer months, my mind can't escape last year. Instead of joy and excitement I feel pain and deep, deep loss. Preplanned road trips to the beach are replaced with the long and boring drives between Savannah and Marietta that I did every weekend. Quality time with family and friends on the porch watching fireworks have been replaced with passing out roses to my relatives from the spray on my Father's casket. My memories and brief daydreams seem to always rewind to the final weeks of my Father's life. All I see is his withering body. The sounds I remember are the oxygen compressor and his voice as it grew weaker and weaker. The smells are that of the hospice center, sterile and clean mixed in with the exorbitant amounts of shea oil I rubbed on my growing belly day to day. I can't forget sleeping on a crappy pull out couch at the foot of the hospital bed and listening to the clicking of a morphine pump.

 

It seems unfair. Why does the bad overtake the good? My motto is to live life looking at the glass "half full". Why is it that when I think about my Father, 95% of the time I can only think about him dying? Is this the way that all human brains work? Or am I flawed? Is there a way to rewire my thoughts? Or maybe, just maybe I am ok? Maybe this is part of the grieving process. I hope and pray that eventually my thoughts and memories of my Dad will only be the good ones. Like camping trips with shared naps and cuddling or super secret Sonic dates filled with grease and calories my Mom could never know about. I want to look back at times with my Father and smile. Instead I choke back tears and a quivering jaw.

Why am I writing this? This isn't an advice column and it sure as hell isn't a lame attempt at getting a group reaction. I think putting my thoughts down where I can see them help me feel like they are leaving my head and moving to this page. I don't ask people to read. I don't want to be criticized or understood. I just want to put it out there.

I want to share the two strongest memories I have of last summer. Both of them are incredibly strong moments for me emotionally. The first is July 3, the day my Father died.

I was awakened to my phone ringing at 7:30 in the morning. My Mom had stayed at the hospice center with my Dad (we rotated, it was her turn) and my Aunt was home with me. My Mom told me to hurry. That Daddy's vital signs looked poor and the classic "this is it" was happening. I remember my Aunt reading a crappy book downstairs and both of us rushing to change clothes. I drove us there, God knows how, and I remember my Aunt taking my Mom out of the room. Whitney was there with David already. I remember Daddy's breaths getting farther and farther apart. I gently placed his ipad next to his head and put Glenn Miller on softly to fill the silence in between raspy, gargled breaths. David and I knew what was happening and we sent Whitney to go find my Mom. It was just David and I. His children. The reason for every grey hair on his head and every moment of pure joy for 30 years. It must have been they way Daddy wanted it. We each had one of his bony, cool hands in ours as we each went back and forth between looking at Dad's face and looking at each other. It was only seconds after Whitey left the room that my Dad's final breaths were taken. "Always in My Heart" switched on the play list and David and I took our free hands and held on to one another. David said a prayer and we both Thanked God that he was free. We didn't cry. We breathed. What seemed like  the first time since the day we found out chemo failed, my lungs filled with air. I think that's the way it was supposed to be. Dad didn't want my Mom to be there for that moment. He knew David and I were there and that it was safe to leave us. My Mom came back into the room and sobbed. She placed her hands on my Dad and patted him. Sort of to say, "you are safe now".
The nurse (who was oddly named Dovey, which is my Great Grandmother's name) pronounced the time and a tech came to clean him up. We stayed on the porch and waited as they took him to the funeral home. That night, we went to dinner at an Italian restaurant and looked into the future together.

My second strongest memory is September 24th. The day that Roslyn Jean Peters entered the world at over 9lbs and 21.5 inches long.

Petey and I had spent the past days walking as far as we could trying to kick start some contractions. There were a few nights I had a few hours of killer ones, but nothing to get the show on the road. My doctor finally decided one week over her due date that she was a little too big to hang out. Her eviction notice was posted and we were to be at the Hospital at 5am. The next morning, we arrived on time and Petey even found his strategic parking spot. We checked in and waited for the guy to call my OB and tell him I was here. 3 minutes later and one sad faced ER volunteer later, I was told that I was in fact, not on the schedule and I could either A. wait for a room or B. come back on Monday. Of course I cried. The excitement of meeting my angel and the pure exhaustion of being pregnant completely enveloped me. Petey took over and said, "We are having our baby today. We aren't leaving this hospital until you get my wife a room". 3 hours later, and  I was in my labor suite with Pitocin (that's the stuff they use to start labor) pumping around 10.

One fabulous epidural, a nap and 1.5 hours of pushing and well...there you have it. The doctor rested the fattest, Asian-looking dark haired angel on my chest. I was so focused on pushing Petey had to tell me to open my eyes, that it was over. I wish I could relive that moment over and over and over again. Like Groundhog Day, but minus the Bill Murray and the horrid 80's power suits. I couldn't let her go (I did, I really wanted Petey to hold her) in the 3 days I was in the hospital. We didn't luck out on our postpartum room-aka the Pediatric floor where the shower head was even with my boobs- and yes, Petey's truck got broken into. But on September 29th we went home with our daughter. Who has brought more joy and purpose to my life than I could have ever fathomed.

I hope that this summer, I build new memories. That I start to mold my child into a lover of all things water and sun and sugar like her Mother. I hope instead of looking at the sun and remembering the heat of a July day standing in heels pregnant and swollen by my Father' grave site is replaced with splashing in a baby pool in my backyard while Roxy dances around us and Petey grills hot dogs. I hope that Daddy's laughter and joy slowly erases the pain and suffering I saw those final weeks.

I pray that this tiny piece of time is shoved back into a dark corner of my brain and stacked on a shelf with algebra and Great Expectations. Only time will tell. If I have learned anything, it is that time might just not heal all things as quickly as I want. Rather the focus must be placed on time itself, and that I plan to spend whatever I have left in the sunshine of summer.