Soldier On

This happens every so often. I completely lose steam, feel deflated, parched, and need a break, but I don't get one. When you carry the burden of losing a child, you get no breaks. The grief is always there, raging, under that thin sheen of ice. It is a monster that will haunt you forever. You have to stay in your skin, even when you don't want to, you have to drag your heart along with each year that goes by, even though each beat is painful, you have to smile and laugh, always pretending and pretending some more, which makes you very, very tired . Over time, I have learned to manage the grief over losing Vanessa, but out of necessity, and nothing else. It took a long time to learn how to manage, and I still walk a fine line of keeping face and falling into darkness, but days like these, I feel like it is too much. This pack is too heavy, and I just want a break. I look for someone to carry it for a while so I can catch my breath, but there is no one that can. It is my Scarlet letter to carry. I can't remember what it feels like to have a heart free of that pain. That seems foreign. I don't remember how it feels to have the easy nature of freely feeling joy. It seems so beautiful, and  for those of you that can have this, feel grateful. You are lucky. I wish my heart could sing again, but the song is long gone.

Last night after a brief breakdown, Jeremy asked me why I was crying. During the moment of clarity which made me cry, my answer was,

"I just didn't picture my life going like this. I feel like I am just passing time until I see her again, not really living, just passing time."

He nodded, and agreed as we sat there in the semi darkness before falling asleep with that on our minds. The morning didn't bring much relief except a brief ray of eight year old sunshine that bounded down the stairs and asked for breakfast. I was still feeling down so I said "Why don't you make your own this morning?" So, she did. From somewhere deep in the recesses of the pantry she unearthed a small, one person sized box of Fruit Loops, poured some milk over it, added a fistful of golden raisins and some chocolate chips, and that was her homemade breakfast. It made me smile. I felt a little guilty over not fixing her a healthy square breakfast, but not today. I need today to take as much of a break from myself as possible.

I will be taking a break from the blog for about a month to re-adjust my pack, heave it back on my back, and soldier on. As always, I thank you sweet people for reading my words and connecting with them, and allowing me the outlet of pouring my insides into words. Now, I can't leave without sharing something, so I will leave you with a recipe for a yummy summer evening gathering, or maybe, even a Father's Day dinner.

                                                   Low Country Boil


         2lbs. Cleaned, uncooked shrimp, shells on

         6-8 fresh ears of corn, shucked, broken into thirds

         1 1/2-2 pounds baby red or mixed color baby potatoes

         1 packaged of andouille sausage (about 6-8 links) cut into   
          thirds

         2 lemons, quartered

         2 boxes of Zatarain's Crab boil


         Optional:  Crusty french bread 

                          extra quartered lemons for the table

                           cocktail sauce for dipping


Fill two large pots of water, and bring each of them to a boil. Some people like to do this outside and use one extra large pot over a gas powered burner which would work great, but I only had my stove, so I had to split it into two pots.

Once each pot of water is boiling, add 1 Tbsp of kosher salt to each pot, and divide the whole potatoes evenly between the two pots. Boil for 10 minutes, then add the lemon, corn, andouille sausage, and crab boil packets, and again, split between the two pots equally. The crab boil comes in a convenient little spice bag, so add a bag to each pot. The crab/shrimp boil is packaged in a little yellow box about the size of a pudding box. At Vashon Thriftway it can be found behind the fish counter where you self- weigh your seafood, and at Fred Meyer, I found it in the spice section where you buy cooking spices.

Boil for 10 more minutes, then add your shrimp. Boil for about ten more minutes, turn off your burner and let sit for 5 minutes or so, or until you feel it has steeped in the spices long enough. Most people drain it, line their tables with newspaper, and toss it right on there. I put it all on a large serving platter and everyone picked off of it, and lined my table with newspaper so no plates were needed. Easy breezy clean-up. This fed 6 hungry people, and we had enough for leftovers for lunch for the three of us the next day. On the table, I had warmed crusty french bread, quartered lemons to squeeze, and plenty of cocktail sauce. Oh, yes, and Gin and Tonic's. They go very well with this ; )

It isn't a cheap meal to make, so it is great for a special occasion, or when you want to woo someone.

Happy Father's Day to all you wonderful Father's reading this, and Happy 4th of July to you all. Stay safe, have plenty of fun, and enjoy the start to Summer!

See in  July,

 XXX's and OOO's ~M

The Dance

It is already time for her first date. Gulp.

Her dress was chosen and hung on a hanger with shoes poised beneath it days ago, ready to be slipped over her head, buttoned up, belt tightened around her slim waist.  The pre-date ritual started with a long shower, lots of conditioner for shiny hair, and a good slow brushing of the hair. We watched you-tube videos as we did this, settling on a french twist up-do for the evening, with yarrow and chive blossoms tucked in.

 She didn't nervous giggle much like I did during my pre-date ritual as a teenager, but was more fidgety, and wondered why it was a big deal to get all shiny before a date.

"why does my hair have to be just right? why do I need to get all dressed up?" she asked.

"You just do, for a date, it's just something you do." was all I could come up with. She just shrugged and went with it.

She picked out red nail polish for the evening, and I swept her eyelids with nude glitter shadow, and brushed the apples of her cheeks with a dab of blush. She wanted more, but I said no. It was already killing me seeing her with a modern hairdo and kitten heels. Lipstick was an automatic "no."

It is almost time for her date, and he shows up in a grey dress shirt, a tie, and a smile.
He takes her hand, and they giggle as I do my duty and take obligatory pictures.

She holds his hand like she will never let go, then turns and disappears into his car. She waves goodbye as I stand there holding my heart.

I sigh, put it back into my chest, and turn to go inside. I breathe and my breath is totally normal and easy. I can breathe as she goes on this date. This Father-Daughter dance of 2013.  I know in coming years I will not be breathing this easy as she leaves for a date, so for now, I will hang on and swim in this easy breath.
 Time will but take it away too soon.

Bookworm

When I was in second and third grade, my teachers read us many, many books. I loved hearing their voices and the sounds of the pages being turned as we hung on their every word. It was a comfort, and was my favorite part of the day, where work was put away, our ears were perked up, and all we had to do was listen and use our imagination. Boy, did I use mine well. It went into overdrive as I listened to Bunnicula, The B.F.G., Superfudge, James and the Giant Peach, Frecklejuice, The Celery stalks at midnight, and Ramona Quimby age 8, just to name a few. I loved it, up until we were read The Witches. I dreaded story time, then. I remember my heart pounding and my palms sweat as the words dripped from her mouth. With my overactive imagination and terrible fear of the dark at that age, that book did not bode well, at all, and still to this day I shudder and shy away from that book, as if it could bite. That book really got under my skin. I have every book my teachers read me from those grades stocked in Gracie's bookcase ready for reading except that one. That may be a book she may never read. My childhood fear of it may very well keep it out of her bookcase.

Now that she is in the age of reading, I am eager to stack in front of her the books that I loved so much as a child. They took me places, made me feel like I had company on those nights the dark seemed so foreboding, and made me feel understood, and entertained. All it took was to open the book and let my eyes glide over the page. No electronics needed, just a good solid spine and some paper attached to it. I adored my books.

Somewhere, my love of reading took a nosedive. I had no time, too busy,  my attention span waned, there were/are a million excuses why I can't read. I haven't read a book in ages. I have them ready though. I religiously cruise through our local thrift store and find these gems, buy them, and stock them up for when the time comes when I can curl up with a good book. It seems like such a luxury. I love that thought. I must make it happen.

Years ago, at that local thrift shop, I found and bought all the Harry Potter books for Grace. The deal was, she would read the books, one at a time, then we would have a movie night after each book to celebrate. This week she finished the first book, and was over the moon excited to see her book become alive and dance on the big screen.

First things first. Pizza must be ordered. Pajamas must be donned. Curtains must be closed, and a lightning bolt must appear on your forehead.

Next, we must concoct a recipe to resemble Butterbeer. After cruising through recipes, we decide to just add stuff to the blender and call it good. A little of this, a dash of that, a little hocus pocus, and POOF, you have Butterbeer (which she said tastes a lot like fizzy egg nog).

                                                          BUTTERBEER

                            1 Cup good quality cream soda

                            1 Tbsp. Butterscotch syrup

                            1/4 Cup vanilla ice cream

                             good pinch of ground nutmeg

                             good pinch of ground ginger

                             Whip cream


In a blender, blend up the cream soda, butterscotch syrup, vanilla ice cream, nutmeg and ginger. Pour into a frosty mug or glass and top with whip cream and some ground nutmeg. Mmmmmm. Fizzy eggnog.
                                             

Piping hot pizza is here, Butterbeer is made, now it's time to enjoy the movie. I keep asking Grace if people/parts in it is what she pictured in her head. I am surprised by the number of "no's", and badly want in her head to see what she was seeing as she read the book.

I am happy she is a reader. When I see the light on in her bedroom way past her bedtime and peek in, 99.9% of the time she has her nose stuck in a book. Instead of turning off the light as I should, I melt a little and say "5 more minutes, K?" and I let her read because I love seeing it.

Sweet Valley High. The Babysitters Club. The Thornbirds (guilty pleasure, yipes!). Black Beauty. Fear Street. All the Judy Bloom books. Island of the Blue Dolphins. Who put that hair in my toothbrush? V.C. Andrews books (!?! )  The Chronicles of Narnia. Little House on the Prairie. These are all books that took me far, far away.

Grace's bookcase has the ability to take her places, and I have waited a long time for those books to come alive. They are starting to, the arms are unfurling and grabbing her attention. One by one they are starting to march out, and I am excited for my little girl. My little bookworm. : )

Staircase to the stars

Growing up, I had lots of hopes and dreams about what I would become when I grew up. I still do. A bakery owner, a fighter pilot (children of the 80's, you know what I am talking about), a teacher, a graphic artist, a nurse, a real estate agent, an astronaut, a vet, a marine biologist, an ultrasound tech, a farmer. These are all things I have wanted to be at different points in my life.

There was one constant that I always knew I wanted to be, above all those hopes and dreams, and that was to be a mother. It was as if it was ingrained in my DNA, there was no question, I always wanted children, and I knew this even as a young child. The other wants and dreams just fell away, not far, but away, as I knew there was to be a break somewhere in my twenties, when I wanted to have babies. It didn't go as planned, not even close, but I took that break in my twenties, and have since, blessed be, have become a mother. Now, not all women are the same, and some stay home (I use this term loosely) to raise their babies, and some continue with their dreams, and have both. There is no right answer. I firmly believe in the beautiful choice that each mother is different, circumstances are different, and it is up to us to forgo judgement and back our mother sisters with their very personal choice.  Ladies, we need to back each other up. For reals. No smack talking each other.

That being said, I had the opportunity to raise my babies as my sole job, and I took it happily. When people ask me what I do,  the first thing I say is  "I am a mother" (which usually gets a blank stare that says, "ya...go on..."), and then I say my second job is a photographer, which seems to satisfy them. Sheesh.  I remember getting the questions as soon as I had Vanessa, "what do you do all day?" and the "when are you going back to work?" and I still get those questions from time to time. I am a mother. Isn't that enough? 'Nuff said, right moms? Wrong. I still get the disapproving look sometimes, like I have to prove that I am busy, or I have to prove that the way I spend my day is worth cash in my pocket. At first, I really felt the need to justify using the term "being a mom." Now, I let it totally roll off my back. I need to justify nothing, except for the fact that I am doing right by my girl, and that to me, is all that truly matters. Not making other people happy with my life choices.

We've had a rough couple weeks, Grace and I. Kinda like petting a tiger the wrong way, you know, against the way the fur lays. Being a parent stretches you to uncomfortable places and tests every part of you.  If each kid came with a manual specific to their personalities, it would be very, very helpful. What I've needed to do this week, is re examine how I am raising her, and how I talk to her. I do this internal shake up quietly, alone, and it leaves me feeling confused, slippery footed, and a bit black and blue inside. I can be very rough on myself, as mothers sometimes do. This week, I won no parenting awards. This week she won no exceptional behavior awards unless you include fit throwing. What we both know, is that we both have to do better. Learn. Love. Relax. It is amazing how parenting constantly evolves, morphs into completely different spaces as your kid gets older. I kept thinking as she was growing up, this is going to get easier, right? but it hasn't, and it doesn't. It just gets different, and as stubborn as I am, I need to learn that I have to morph and grow along with it, too.

Someone once told me having a child will be the "toughest job you will ever love." Yes. I completely agree. Someone also told me, actually, it was my supervisor from my hospital job, her parting words as I was waddling, very pregnant, out of the hospital from my very last day of work, " Get ready for the biggest love of your life. Get ready for your heart to totally split open."
Oh, dear God, has it ever, many, many times over.

My sister recently called me a "dreamer." I took offence to it at first, but now, I realize, she is right. I dream. They are building blocks, a staircase to the stars. Some of these dreams may live only in my head, and some may come to fruition with a solid plan and some hard work. The one staircase, the most beautiful one, that took every corner of my soul to built, that has every tear from my eyes swirled in, that has every ounce of my love inside, and holds all my deepest sorrow, stands the highest. There are pieces missing, large gaping holes in it, but it is still beautiful, and it is mine. I have built it.

That staircase, is my ultimate dream realized.

It is called: Motherhood.