Over My Dead Body

The true intention of this blog was to write about me, as I relate to my daughter. These stories are my legacy to her.

When I was little, I loved nothing more than pouring over my own baby book and asking my Grandma or own Mama about the stories on the pages. I loved knowing where I came from, the House That Built Me. But I really loved hearing the stories from the mouths of those who lived them. I have always been an avid collector of stories. For years, I've loved reading obituaries in newspapers. It's not morbid. It's me wanting to know about people. I began writing other's people's stories in high school when I joined my school's paper. I was an editor of my college's newspaper. I read at least 2 novels a week. I read 12-15 magazines a month. I devour stories. I honestly believe blogs and Twitter and even Instagram were made for newshounds like me. I recently "Liked" a new Facebook page called "Humans of New York" where a guy simply photographs strangers on the street in New York and pauses to see what they have to say. I eat that shit up.

So this blog is comprised of my stories for my daughter. It holds more truth than anything else I've created in my life. It might be more than she bargained for, but at least she'll know who I was, and at least I'll be unapologetic for it- all of it.

There has been a topic floating around in my brain for awhile now, and little pieces of what I wanted to say or illustrate started to form just this week. Anyone who knows me knows I love The Today Show. (When I was very young, 3ish, I wanted to be Dan Rather when I grew up. I simply adore the news) The Today Show is journalism at its best. It's delivered in the morning, served with a side of sexy and grace, and as the years go by, so do its anchors, but I remain stoic. I loved Katie Couric. I loved Meredith Viera. I loved Ann Curry. And if (when) Matt Lauer leaves ... oh hell no. I won't even go there. Anyways, last week they debuted a new series called "Love Your Selfie" which is a word play on the social media/pop culture reference of posting your own photos to various streams of publicity. The series went deeper though to the very core of Loving Thy Self, and finally gave me the last bit of whatever it is I needed to write this down for my own girl.

I have spent years ... decades even, hating my body. Not hating myself, there is a very distinct separation of the two. But- one can argue that hate positioned toward one piece of yourself will inevitably lead to letting it seep into all the other parts you find just OK. Do you know what the very first thing I said to The Dad when he asked me to marry him was? (well, for clarity, I said Yes, then I asked if we could go to Maui on our honeymoon and he said Yes) I said to him ... "I am going to go on the South Beach Diet now!" He was still on one knee and kinda just blinked and said, "OK?" That is a sad girl right there on one of the happiest days of her life. That was over ten years ago.

I hated my body in high school because I had to wear two sports bras when I practiced and played sports. I hated my size 10 feet. Hated my acne.

I hated my body in college when I started feeding it alcohol, nicotine, and shitty garbage food and stopped using it for practice and play. I hated it for needing so much sleep.

I hated my body when I graduated four years later, I hated it for being a size at the very end of women's charts in the stores I had always loved- mainstream stores at the mall I was nearly sizing myself out of.

I hated my body when I wedding dress shopped, and I only wanted my own Mama and mother-in-law with because I didn't want any of my girls to see what size I had to order. I hated that I thought they would even remotely care.

I hated my body when I had to have surgery to repair it- ovarian cyst removals, breast reduction, heel surgeries to repair bone structure issues. I hated my body when it took me six months- and what was really only a blissful, clueless six months at that- to conceive the Lil' Dude.

I hated my body when my caffeine withdrawal headaches during pregnancy made my cry most of the first trimester. I hated the stretch marks that lasted to infinity. I hated that I took that body and its amazing baby-growin' skills for granted. I hated my body for not being able to go into labor itself.

I hated my body for three years YEARS IN ALL CAPS of infertility. My infertility. Only mine. I hating ending other's people's dreams with my body. I hated the stirrups, the insurance, the confessions, the pharmacy, the explanations, the endless hoping, the acupuncture, the signs, the no booze-no-gluten-no-caffeine-no-effing-kidding- gig I embarked on. I hate that the only emotion I remember from that entire stint, is hate.

Hate is such an effing waste of time.

Two years ago, I went to see a tattooist alone. I curled onto my side and had him spend two hours drawing a lone blackbird on a branch on my ribs right underneath my heart. I had him write, "Hope is the thing with Feathers" right onto the body I had always hated. I didn't care my entire torso was exposed to this young, fearless kid, right in that expansive studio. He asked me my story with the tattoo and placement. I didn't cry when I told him I was there at age 32 to start taking back all that hate and letting some love in. He stopped working, and commended me and thanked me for letting him do this job he loved so much, because of clients like me.

A year ago I joined a real gym. I funneled all that hate into something useful.

Hate is such an effing useless emotion.

I steeled myself through various training tools. I made myself present when my trainer- a male, no less, recorded my weight, BMI, and body fat statistics. He made me say them out loud. He made me own them. Never again, he said. Never again, I repeated. I took my first real yoga class. Namaste, bitches. I set my alarm for 4:50 to get to Spin. I wear a heart-rate monitor so I don't do anything mindlessly. Chug water, chug life. I can list the caloric content of every single food item on the planet. That doesn't mean I hate myself. I finally don't. I make no apologies or excuses to my daughter when she asks where I am going, what I am doing with my time away from her. Empowering me means I'm empowering her. I fill all my feeds with the honest people who motivate me. And I stopped all that hating. All those decades of being my very last fan ... done. All the mirrors and sizes and scales and photos- no more hate. I wore a bikini publicly for the first time in my life last fall on a girls' trip with the girls I have loved since pre-puberty ... Who have loved me through all my stories. No hate.

Why?

She's six. Right now, she has endless amounts of energy and long, thin legs. She asked us this weekend if she could join dance. That's a separate post for another time. She knows what's healthy and what's reserved for special occasions and treats. She goes to sleep each night and wakes up each day thinking she is the most awesome person on the planet. She loves herself to the core of her being, and with everything she's got. She's her own biggest fan and promoter. She is quintessentially, what every human should be. Born thinking she is only amazing and worthy and capable of such greatness. 

And when the day comes where she thinks she has something to hate about herself, I will be armed. I will not let that word define her life the way it's defined mine.

Over my (ridiculously strong and ever-evolving) dead body.

And I Will Rescue You

No sooner had I pushed 'Publish' on Tuesday's post about the Lil' Dude and her sick day proclamation did the school nurse call. 

'Lil' Dude is back down here again. She was in around 10am but barely registered a temp. Now, she's still around 100* but she said if I called, you would come.'

I didn't even hesitate. I rushed out of my office ... The office I finally stepped foot in after 10 or 11 days, mind you, with a to-do list six miles long and worse.

Long story short, she was fine. Talking a mile a minute on the way home, planning her snack and what her and I would do when we settled in. False, kid. Mama's got piles of crap to do. And you're grounded.

I could have left her at school ... The nurse said she could stay in the infirmary without issue until the bell. But I kept thinking of how I told her that very morning; if you need me, I can be there. Two shakes. It was more on me than it was on her. I made a conscious decision to be true to my word. A little putting my money where my mouth is, so to speak. 

I tell that kid a 1,000 things a day. I bet she hears 996 of that. But if the four items she retains relate to me not letting her down ... To proving her right ... To maintaining her faith in my Super Mamahood ... Then I am doing something right. 

Sorry It Took So Long For Me to Catch Up

Parenthood is a marathon. It's not a sprint.
It's an ever-evolving take on the future.
Planning, planning, planning.
Promising, promising, promising.
And some execution.

With my eye on the future, I write this post.
A day in the life, I suppose.
Ammunition is what it really is.

Hi sweet girl.

I spent last week away from you- not unusual.
Mother Nature stretched it even further than usual.
Nothing we haven't been through before.
So- I missed Valentine's Day. It's just a day, right Hallmark?
I mean ... I missed Halloween this year, too.
I'm becoming an Absentee Holiday Parent.
It's the worst.
It's the life.

When I finally made it home, Daddy handed me your sleeping heft in the middle of the night. You were a sweaty mess, completely drugged up by nocturnalness and a long, busy week. You weren't coherent enough to give me the Valentine you'd made, even though you made him swear on Syracuse he'd wake you up, so I tucked you in and whispered to you ... that I was there. I'm sorry it took so long for me to catch up. I just got stuck, I whispered, a line from one of my favorite novels and movies.

Saturday morning the sun came up and so did you. All was right in everyone's world that February morning, in the 8 o'clock hour. I'll never forget your face.

And since you woke up that morning, you have been more than my sidekick. You have simply been my side. As I shower, you lay on the bathmat waiting patiently. As I take laundry out of the dryer, you're right behind me, handing me errant socks. As I apply mascara, you're entwined between my legs the way you used to do when you first learned to walk. I prefer to do my reading on the love seat due to its proximity to the sunniest window the house offers, and I have been sharing my nook with you ... you're literally cramping my style, but you're indefinitely worth the pain my muscles feel. Up and down the stairs I sprint, your feet quicken behind me. I just need Mama Time, you admit over and over, as if asking for forgiveness instead of permission.

When you were a baby, I'd give you your last bottle in your darkened room, rocking you in the rocker your great-Grandpa R. made. Your little chubby hand would always work its way up my neck, or under my camisole strap. Skin on skin- any restlessness you had would then dissipate when you made that contact. I catch myself remembering that exact touch more and more.

When I tucked you in last night you said you didn't feel good. It's not like you at all to delay bedtime with excuses. You've always owned your defiance- stating with 100% honesty why you weren't interested in sleeping. I asked what I could do for you- handing you a bucket. Just stay with me until I calm down. Let me sleep with you. Let me stay.

Ah. Yes, that makes sense. Three straight days of you and I with little to no breaks and here we were on the cusp of going back to our days separately. My heart splintered. I laid with you awhile, smoothing your hair, humming pop hits to you. You lost the fight and passed out. Quiet for good.

When I eased you awake today, you launched right back into the litany of perils you felt.
Daddy offered to stay home with you but I assured him you'd be OK. Mama's instinct I suppose.
As I buckled you in, I reminded you that if at any time during the day you felt bad and needed me, I could be there in two shakes. You nodded solemnly. How many hours 'til I get off the bus? I told you. I would be waiting.

I have already admitted to not being able to protect you from everything life will show you. It will go down as the thing that rips me apart. That keeps me running near hysteria and my anxiety level sky-high. But that's life, and I am certainly not the first mother on this planet to experience her heart walking around outside her body. And I won't be the last.

So I tell you the story of our last few days of union with the intent that when life gets big and ugly, and I am your target or antichrist or reason, you'll summon up the memories we've made this month, when the only thing that mattered to you was me and how many steps it took to reach me.

You have a heart bigger than Texas and your Mama's sentimentality.
I trust you'll always know the exact number of steps that cover the expanse between you and I.

Mama loves.

Story Time

We sat down for lunch together.

I have a story for you, Mama.

Once up in a time, there was a goat. Her name was LDM.

And there was a bird and her name was Lil' Dude.

And they were the best friends ever.

They loved each other very much.

The end.

It's a very short story. Did you like it?

2014

2014. That escalated quickly. You'll be seven this year; Mama's favorite number and your golden birthday. 2014 is going to be so rad.

I'm not one on big resolutions at all. What I am big on is the good stuff- being a better person every single day of the year. Slowing the eff down. Swearing less (maybe). Detoxing. Unplugging. Choosing people over things. And being the best example I can be to you. This covers all facets of my life, not just the Mama shawl I wear. So that includes stopping at yellow lights just like you implore me to (this is ILLEGAL by the police to drive through yellow lights!) and eating less salt and being more productive in my work days. I need to have the endless energy to embrace all those teachable moments that occur in everyday life instead of just letting them pass because they seem too massive, too rude, too real. So keep asking me all those questions, little badger of mine. Take nothing at face value, and make motherhood sort of daunting for me. I need it. I want it.

My word for 2014 is gratitude. I am challenging myself to find three things a day to be grateful for, no matter how hard it seems, or how trivial my items are. Joy is joy. No one except your own damn self can feel or see the joy that your own shit brings you. Trust me on that. For you, it's plastic horses, CheezIts, and PBS. For me, it's coffee, music, and accessories. People call me crazy, and they call you crazy, but it doesn't matter. My word for 2014 is gratitude. Today I am grateful for steel-cut oatmeal, YouTube, and hot water. And on December 31, I will read you many, many more because I am writing them down. I have always said I want you to know me ... the me that is me, not only your Mama. But I'm proud to say the two are awfully identical.

My goals for 2014 is to resume sending birthday cards and drink more tea. Because? Screw social media. It doesn't matter how many people on your feeds wish you a happy birthday. It's just not the same as a handwritten, snailmailed card. You are going to be part of that revolution, too, because I will not let traditional correspondence die with my generation, and we're coming close to its funeral. Hell no. And tea? Because I love it, always have and know that it would make me happy if I drank more of it.

Your goal for 2014 is to visit the Black Hills. True story. God, I love you. I promise Daddy and I will work hard to make that dream of yours come true.

As ever- lyrics for you on the dawn of this lovely new year- Wild Country, by Wake Owl;

What will become of the truth when we keep it in 
things we don't remember when they ask us when 
we did the things that we learned we shouldn't do again 
what wasn't learned from mistakes, we will make them 

Maybe this is my heart and maybe it is yours 
burns away the eyes peering in our doors 

If I want to leave I will, stand on my feet I do 
only takes these words you never believe are true 
I'm never gonna chase something, it's a total waste running 
after what they take in hundreds, look at what they praise, nothing 

Oh we go where we don't know the way 
fire meets fire we run and it's all the same 
Oh we go where we don't know the way 

Maybe this is my heart and maybe it is yours 
burns away the eyes peering in our doors 

If I want to leave I will, stand on my feet I do 
only takes these words you never believe are true 
I'm never gonna chase something, it's a total waste running 
after what they take in hundreds, look at what they praise, nothing 
If I want to leave I will, stand on my feet I do 
only takes these words you never believe are true

Happy New Year, Kid Rock.

Mama loves.

Hope // Yes, Virginia

Christmas season is in full swing here at the Lil' Dude house. We luckily counted on our fingers the numbers of celebrations we're able to partake in this year- I think six. Christmas six times! Aren't we lucky. Aren't we lucky ... indeed.

We celebrated the past weekend with the Grandparents of the North. My own Mama played Santa for her granddaughter's seventh Christmas (wait, what?) while remarking that when I was a kindergartner, I told my entire class there was no Santa.

Silence.

The teacher had to involve my parents, of course, and mass hysteria I assume from all her tiny believers. I don't remember the event- which is semi-odd given my propensity for recalling every detail of all my years lived. How did I know at five there was no Santa? And why would I tell others? I wasn't mean-spirited as a child. I don't know. But 29 years later it pissed me off.

I held my breath and crossed my fingers when on the first day of her Advent calendar, the Lil' Dude opened a note from the Christmas Fairies and said, look Mama! You have these same gift tags downstairs! It was a fleeting observation but it still freaked me out. She's six. She's in school- surrounded not only by her classmates, but older, seasoned kids and veterans of Christmas. You know the crap that is slung around on buses and playgrounds and cafeterias. She could actually Google "Is Santa Real?" like I did a few minutes ago. I am not ready for that step in our life. I'm not ready to own up to chewing up carrots and spitting them out on Santa's cookie plate. I'm not ready to admit to sweeping up Reindeer Food from the sidewalk, deck, and driveway. I'm not ready to explain filling Advent calendars, St. Nicholas boots, or Christmas stockings and giving imaginary characters the credit.

I am not ready. I want her to be rooted in hope and belief for every Christmas season she sees. If she chooses one noun to be her favorite her whole life, I want it to be hope. If she tattoos one word on her body, I want it to be hope. Even if she forsakes everything else, make hope what she holds onto.

A few centuries ago, a little girl wrote to a newspaper in New York asking the editor if there indeed was a Santa Claus. The answer, as antiquated as it is now, still rings true.

Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world. There is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding. 

Word {From} Your Mama