Last Year...

Last spring there was a lot going on.  I had started going to a marriage counselor with my husband.  That first session we both cried a lot.  What surprised me was after months of tears, bitterness, apathy and emotional stand off our wonderful counselor made the simple observation that we were two people who obviously still cared for one another and we were both hurting deeply.  I didn't know if therapy would work for us.  I didn't have much faith that it would.  But as the weeks went on and we began dating each other and being honest with each other I began feeling as if things might be okay. 

Something else happened.  Something unexpected.  This time last year I was in a state of denial.  I can't be pregnant, can I?  What fool conceives a baby with someone that they have been contemplating divorce with?  Me, I guess.  Let me tell you that I've never felt so sheepish as when I sat down with my father and told him I was pregnant.  Yes, yes, we were married after all.  Still I felt like I did when I was sixteen and had received my first speeding ticket.  Telling Dad was enough to turn my fair skin permanently red.  After all, hadn't he been my savior who had swooped in one very sad day in February, packed up my few belongings and sheltered me in his home after I had cried to him on the phone about how unbearable everything had become for me?  Dad was watching T.V.  I went in and sat next to him.  He put his arm around my shoulder and said before I could confess anything, "I hear we are going to have a new grand baby born in December.  Maybe you could name him Michael David and he'd be known as MD for short."  We chuckled as tears stung my eyes.  He continued, "I love you, Neesie.  A new baby is nothing to be sad about, no matter the circumstances." 

He didn't tell me how reckless I had been, how incredibly fickle this new development made me seem.  He told me exactly what I needed to hear.  Exactly what any child needs to hear when they are hurt, or making poor decisions, or in my case getting knocked up by my estranged husband...that they are loved.  I'll always be grateful for that moment.  It gave me the courage that I needed. 

It seems like a bad dream when I think back to last year.  That couldn't have been me, could it?  That wasn't us, was it?  I've been thinking about what happened last year a lot.  I was driving in the car one day this week and as I was thinking about how horrible it had all been I had the strongest urge to go home right away and tell Brigham how much I loved him.  I wanted to hug him and touch his face and make sure he was real.  I don't know how to explain it other than now that we are back together, pushing forward I'm on edge quite a bit of the time, Zoloft be damned apparently.  We almost threw this away.  Eight years and two children and the moment I looked in his eyes and knew I wanted to marry him.  Gone.  Disappeared.  What if now that we know how precious this family is, what if now one of us is taken from the other?  Wouldn't that be the ultimate lesson in humility?  I try to reassure myself that this won't happen.  But it's hard.  It's also a good thing, because it reminds me to take nothing and no one for granted.

The baby I was carrying in the above picture turned out not to be a Michael or a David, but a beautiful happy little girl named Brielle.  When I look in her eyes I know that we knew one another in another time, another place before this.  She grabs my fingers and hands when I am feeding her.  She strokes my arm, puts both hands on either side of my face, screams with delight.  And I know without a shadow of a doubt that even if things had ended in the worst way, if my marriage had gone down in flames that I would not regret for one second having conceived this baby.  She was supposed to be mine.  And I'd relive it all again if it meant that's what I had to do to get her here. 

It's Ava that had to deal with all the crap at the time and she may have to deal with it for years to come.  She is highly sensitive and attuned to any interaction her father and I have with one another.  I feel a great deal of guilt for putting her through it all.  I hope in the years to come she will see the happiness we share and the memories of turmoil will melt away.  She was also a baby who came to me right when I needed her.  She was my first experience with unconditional love. 

Why am I writing about all of this?  Because it's what I've been thinking about.  Many times marriages do not last, even having exhausted every resource available.  Families unravel.  Regardless it's important to tell those we love that we love them.  Hold them tightly.  The only thing that is truly valuable at the end of our lives is the love we give to others and the love we receive in return. 

Too Much Information

My whole blog could probably fall under this category.  The thing is I tell too much sometimes.  It's a nervous habit.  One I think I inherited from my mother.  I recall standing in numerous lines at the customer service desk of dozens of stores listening as mom told the bored cashier why exactly she was returning a pair of shoes, or a set of sheets, or what have you.  I didn't understand the glazed look that would come over the cashier's eyeballs until I became a cashier myself.  Behind the mask of apathy that cashier is thinking Listen I'm getting paid peanuts to stand here on my aching feet and do this lousy job in which the highlight of my day is the moment I get to clock out and run for my car.  I'm not your therapist.  Tell someone who cares!  

And yet as I returned a bathing suit the other day for my baby girl I found myself telling the cashier the in and outs of why I had purchased the wrong size in the first place.  She smiled and nodded.  She asked how old my baby was.  I turned the cart around so she could see my four-month old and replied, "She is a year old."  It was only as I was walking away that I realized I had told the lady that my baby was a year old!  I rushed back to the counter and said, "I told you she was a year old.  She's four months.  I have no idea what I was thinking.  I haven't been getting much sleep blah blah blah blah blah."  The cashier looked at me like I was crazy.  In fact I'm prone to agree with her.  I ended up walking away feeling more embarrassed because I had talked and talked and knew that she didn't care what I was saying. 

There was one time I mortified myself and a co-worker whose upcoming nuptials were imminent by communicating to her what my honeymoon night was like.  Not in detail, but enough to freak her out.  We weren't strangers.  We talked every time we worked together.  I definitely crossed a line though.  And the thing was I knew I was crossing it.  It was like I got flustered and embarrassed.  It's like when you get to the top of a water slide with a whole line of people behind you and your feet start to sweat and you feel a bit dizzy from the height.  All you can think about is whether you will go down the slide that didn't look that tall from below until you got up there and realized that the life guard is the size of a ken doll from up here, or if you will turn around and say excuse me dozens of times while everyone knows you're the coward who didn't dare go down the slide.  Once I'm in an inappropriate story I either have to commit to it and push off down the slide, so to speak or fumble down the steps gracelessly.  I'm pretty sure said co-worker began avoiding me, especially after she got back from her honeymoon.  I'm bet she thought the dirty old bird she worked with wanted to know all the intimate details.  For the record I did not. 

My husband is a quiet man.  Not shy.  Don't mistake his quietness for shyness.  He's quite comfortable in his own skin.  And in complete silence.  I on the other hand am not.  This is why when we meet new people together as a couple I often overcompensate.  In my mind I'm panicked at the silence.  I know he's not talking, but I am.  I'm talking, talking, talking.  Suddenly I find myself spilling out conversation like this: Did you know I once plastered my hair with Vick's Vapor Rub because I ran out of hair gel?  Why didn't I go to a store and buy more?  I grew up in a small town.  It's like Siberia out there.  I once went to school with a Russian girl, did you know that?  I saw her on a college shuttle bus years later and thought she was enthusiastically calling out to me by yelling, "Hey D!"  I waved back and then realized that she was waving to someone else.  No I wasn't known as "D" in school.  No she never called me that.  I can't remember ever having more than a two sentence conversation with her....."

If only I could control myself.  Catch the copious amounts of nonsensical words mid-air and shove them back into my mouth.  Unfortunately I believe this is a trait I passed on.  A woman in the neighborhood stopped by shortly after Brielle was born.  I don't know her well, but she was dropping off a card and a gift which was sweet.  She was talking to Ava.  Maybe it was the stress of a new child in the home, I don't know but out of nowhere she started in with her story about when she was an 18 month old and while I was neglecting getting her right out of her crib after a nap one hot afternoon she began finger painting on her crib with her own feces.  I stared at her dumbfounded.  How does one explain to one's offspring that it's not polite to share gross out stories with near strangers the first time you speak with them?  The woman said things like, "Oh my goodness!" and "Really?" All while backing towards the nearest exit.  Freaks.  We're a bunch of freaks in this household.  It's genetic.

P.S. I wanted to acknowledge all the nice things you said in response to my rambling break down last post.  I had just tried on a swimsuit I bought over a year ago because I had to take Ava swimming the next day.  Who knew a navy blue swimsuit could send me over the edge?  I'd like to report that I stared cellulite in it's ugly mug and won.  By won I mean I threw a cover up over it waded into the kiddie pool like a soldier marching off to battle.  I told myself to get over myself and for once I listened. 

Heavy

I'm going to dive right in here.  This post is about weight.  Too much of it.  It's no secret I've always had issues with body image.  For 25 years of my life I thought I was fat.  For 15 of those years I was wrong.  Which is so unfair now that I look back at my womanly figure that was in no way fat.  For me when I compared myself to my peers I was bigger, when in truth I was just more developed.  I have freaky fast growing genes.  Thank you ancestors, or milk hormones or mutant chemicals floating around in our environment.  Whatever it was I can't go back and change all that. 

The point is seven years ago when I recognized I'd let my weight get away from me I started trying to fix it.  Then I got pregnant.  Then I ate whatever I wanted.  Then I had the baby and still ate whatever I wanted.  Then I began working out and trying to eat better.  I even had a brief affair with running, which lasted approximately three months.  It was a summer romance.  Gone with the first chill of fall.  I realized that I hated running for the same reason I swore off running back in the sixth grade...boobs.  I said it.  It's the truth.  Also I tried to take my mind off of the sweaty monotony that is jogging with an ipod, but no amount of Justin Timberlake, Aerosmith, or Taylor Swift can prevent my mind from repeating with each pounding step This sucks.  This sucks.  This sucks.  

So here I am again.  At the beginning of this pregnancy I day dreamed about the kind of shape I was going to get in after I had the baby.  All the salads and veggies and water that I was going to get thin with.  I'm approaching 30 and it seemed the perfect time to get healthy.  I don't want to spend my thirties feeling like I have in my twenties.  Now five months after I've delivered said child I'm nowhere closer to the size 6 that I would like to be.  Not even a size 2 or a size 0 which seems like the magical number nowadays regardless of body type.  I'm not ever going to be a supermodel.  I've got curves and to get rid of them I'd have to starve myself which I just won't do.  

It's hard enough reading about famous women who have had babies and are frolicking on sunny beaches in a bikini mere weeks or months after giving birth.  I can usually shrug that off with the old well they have trainers and nannies and housekeepers, of course they have time to dedicate to getting back into shape.  But lately I've felt like I'm the only one who can't do it.  There have been three women in my ward give birth within months of me and it seems they are back to their old sizes.  Not to mention the girls on facebook who publish status's declaring things like Hello size 4!  They have everything together.  Not a hair out of place and definitely not frazzled and self conscious like me, knowing I still look about four months pregnant in my maternity dress I'm wearing because it's the only thing that hides my stomach.  I'm sure their intention is not to make someone else feel bad, and I'm glad for them because I wouldn't want anyone else to have to feel the way I do about myself.  And although I know I shouldn't compare myself to others it makes me feel like a total failure.  I imagine how happy their husbands must be that their wives still have it going on.  Although my husband doesn't say anything I feel like he must be so embarrassed when he introduces me to people.  I always think they are wondering why on earth he's married to a fat frumpy housewife when he obviously cares about how he looks and takes care of himself. 

I know that sounds shallow.  The funny thing is I would never look at someone overweight and make any sort of judgment about their character because I know how many factors play into the why of being overweight.  Weight has nothing to do with whether a person is warm and caring and genuine.  Yet I imagine everyone thinking the worst of me because of my weight.  I think deep down I think the worst of myself.  It's true for me that it's easy to love others but very hard to love myself. 

Sometimes I am stubborn.  I am bitter about the way women are valued in society.  Sometimes I think I don't make the effort to take care of myself and lose weight because then it means I'm playing into the way that society thinks I should be.  That only thin women are beautiful or worthy of love and attention.  And yet I'd be lying if I said my weight and how out of shape I am isn't making me miserable.  I want to be a good example to my girls, but I don't want them to think they are only valuable because of their bodies.  I don't want them having to obsess about every piece of food that goes into their mouths, but I also want them to love themselves enough to take care of their bodies. 

And around and around it goes.  I'm frustrated.  And about right now if you're still reading you're thinking I'm a total head case.  Which I am.  Only someone with a PhD in psychology could even begin to touch my issues.  I've violated my one rule for this blog: don't blog past 8 p.m.  Otherwise you get posts like this one spilling all my insecurities that I'll probably be embarrassed by later.  I just feel very alone in this problem.  I don't know what to try next.  I don't want a quick fix, but I don't know how to stop eating the way I do.  Food is my salve for all my hurts, past and present.  It's not healthy.  It doesn't make me happy in the long run.  What do I replace the food with though?  Honestly if anyone has any answers I'd love to hear them.  I don't even know how to begin believing I am worth it.  I know that sounds pathetic, but tonight I feel pathetic.  And there you go.  All my bleeding truths out on the page. 

Random Pics

Brielle is loving the rice cereal.  With apple juice mixed in, of course.  Ava feeds her most of the time and it helps me out a lot.

Today while I was eating a turkey sandwich with one hand and holding Brielle with the other arm she leaned over and plucked a piece of bread right off my sandwich!  She tried to eat it, but having no teeth I decided it wise to pull it out of her salivating jaws.  She was none too pleased.  She eyed my sandwich hungrily the rest of the time. 

Brielle's teeth still have not come through.  She is sleeping better though, which is a big relief.  I even managed to get out of bed this morning and workout before the house was up.  It's amazing what a couple of extra hours of sleep can do.

I love the two girls together.  Especially when Ava is not teasing her sister. 

Ava came into the bedroom yesterday and said, "Hey mom, do you know what a Boogey Man is?"  

Me: "What?"

Ava: "It's a man who comes into little kids' rooms at night and picks boogers out of their noses and wipes it on himself."  

Me:  "That's pretty gross!"

Ava: "That's why he's called the Boogey Man."

She is one of a kind, my Ava girl.  That's for sure.  

Oh Ava!

From time to time I like to write down some of the things Ava says.  Since I am in no way crafty and swore off scrap booking circa 1995 I've got to find a place to record some of these things.  Sure, keep a journal.  But we all know how fabulous my journal skills are.  In case you missed it, here is a sampling.  I always have felt weird about keeping a journal.  It's like talking to yourself but recording your crazy ramblings on paper for posterity.  When I've attempted to start up a journal in my adult life I always clam up thinking about who will be reading my innermost thoughts.  I find myself writing things down as if speaking like a person out of a Jane Austen novel.  Very proper and all that, Mr. Darcy.  I can only imagine what  Sophia Concetta Bellasario, my great-great-great-great granddaughter will think of me.  Hopefully by then one of my grandchildren will accomplish my life long dream of marrying a foreigner.  Preferably, Italian.  European variety, not Jersey Shore variety.


The point is, these types of posts are mostly for me.  I have been thinking of making my blog each year into a bound book so I won't have to print off photos and put them into cheap photo albums.  I'll cherry pick the posts of course.  I don't think anyone twenty years from now will be interested in my opinion on booty bling.  Without further ado....

I went to pick up Ava from preschool the other day.  Let me preface this by saying that Ava has transformed into such a girly girl the past couple of years.  I swear when she was three she was playing with dump trucks and trains.  I remember singing Thomas the Train songs to her repeatedly: They're two, they're four, they're six, they're eight.  Shunting tracks and hauling freight.  But now it's all tutu's and princesses all the time.  Oh and she's in the market for a husband.

I can't tell you how many times I've caught her blowing kisses to boys from ages 18 months to 55 years in stores and restaurants.  She giggles and says, "He's so handsome!"  So on that day one of the preschool teachers pulled me aside and told me that while they were finger painting that day, Brewster, a boy in the class said casually to Ava, "Ava, why don't we just get married already?"  Ava was mum while her best friend, Zoe told Brewster that they were too young.  Good girl, Zoe.  She's a keeper.  Let's hope that friendship lasts through their twenties.  Steer Ava clear from any premature marriage offers.  Sheesh.  A marriage proposal before the age of six?  We are in trouble.

Recently I signed Ava up for swim lessons.  A neighbor of mine recommended the facility and said it was also fun to just do open plunge in.  I smiled politely, thinking to myself that I'd rather be caught dead than in a swimsuit in public in the worst shape of my life.  But as Ava and I talked about her swim lessons she was getting so excited.  I remember as a child seeing other children's mothers sitting fully clothed pool side.  I always wondered why they wouldn't get in with their kids.  I mean, now I know.  So in an insane burst of bravery I said to Ava, "You know, we can go swimming too during the summer without lessons.  Me and you and Brielle.  Although I'll be uncomfortable in a swimsuit I won't let that stop your fun."  She looked at me with empathy in her eyes and said, "Mom, I understand.  Is it because your swimsuit gives you wedgies?  Mine does too sometimes, but it's okay.  I just pull it out!" 

This last story qualifies me for Mother of the Year award.  It's literally an anti-Debbie moment.  Ava really tests my patience at bed time.  She does whatever she can to drag out the whole pajama/teeth-brushing/praying routine.  So on this particular night I had had it.  I wanted to have just an hour or two to myself before Milky Von Milkensmirtch, my greedy little milk baron was up and suckling again.  My temper flared and I said, "Just brush your damn teeth!"  Ava without missing a beat said, "You brush YOUR damn teeth!"  I said, "Ava, don't you swear!"  To which Ava said, "Why?  You just did."  Touche.  I guess I missed Parenting 101 where the first rule is Say what you mean, and mean what you say.  She's caught me before in a hypocritical situation.  Coca-cola.  Need I say more?

Mom's Garden

My mother has working hands.  Hands that over the years she has professed to be embarrassed of.  They are not hands that are smooth from idleness.  They are beautiful hands to me.  They have rocked me and soothed me and fed me and provided every comfort a child could need.  Her hands are especially familiar with the turning of dirt, the nurturing of plants from seedlings to bloom.

The summer mornings of my youth would find mom in the garden.  I'd wake around 7 a.m.  I've never been one to sleep in much, even when I could have got a pass for it in my teen years.  I'd put on a robe and open the front door onto a cool Clarkston morning.  If I close my eyes I can almost feel the way the still country air felt on my skin, that delicious crispness of morning.  Mom would look up from under her wide brimmed hat and smile.  Most of the time she'd be wearing a long sleeved t-shirt, to keep the sun off of her arms to prevent age spots later, she'd explain.  I'd sit on the step and we'd visit while she pulled weeds and watered flowers.  She'd tell me about how she wanted this or that flower bed to look.  I'd go into detail about the plot of the latest book I was reading.

I don't remember us ever discussing any heavy topics, but those talks meant so much to me.  It gave me alone time with a woman and friend I adored who happened to be my mother.  We'd stay out there until it became too warm for gardening.  It's never occurred to me until now that one of the things that mom must love about gardening is that it is something that is all her own.  As a mother I know now, you don't get much of anything that is all your own.  I can't even finish a can of soda without Ava or Brig sneaking a sip out of it.  

Over the years Mom's garden has become something beautiful and delightful to look at.  Her green thumb was passed down from her own mother who has also always maintained a beautiful yard.  My mom has sometimes said she isn't very artistic, but she is wrong.  I know how much thought goes into which variety of flower or plant should go where to compliment it's neighbor.  She paints a landscape with the sweat of her brow and a shovel and spade.

That she is so good at nurturing things isn't a surprise to someone who has felt the full effort of her love and care.  I'm grateful each day for the mother I was born to.  For the wonderful qualities she possesses.  There are some summer mornings when I wake up and light is coming through my window that I imagine just for a moment that I can rise and join my mom in the garden.  We'll talk and laugh and the day will be bright with possibilities.  I am lucky for the years I had in my childhood home.  I may never be the kind of gardener my mom is, but I hope I can give that kind of gift to my own daughters, to plant a garden of love and affection in their hearts.  I love you, Mom.  Happy Mother's Day!

Backyard Fun

Our backyard is unique.  Upon first seeing it I was a bit disappointed because there is no grass to run and play on.  Having grown up with no neighbors to the right or left of us I had not only the acre my parent's house sits on, but the alfalfa fields to run around in.  Knowing what I know now I'm sure the farmers loved that I'd smash down little trails through their fields.  Part of the compromise that city dwellers make is less yard.  It's something I'm trying to come to terms with.  Of course since we're renting I have no say in the landscaping which is quite beautiful actually.  Just not a country girl's dream yard I guess.  Ava on the other hand...

I don't know why we didn't think of it before.  We had already been to Liberty Park in the afternoon but Ava still had a need to be outside.  I get it.  As a child it was much better to play outside than in.  Still is, really.  Anyway it was sprinkling out but I sent Ava out anyway.  Then I remembered her boats she takes in the tub with her.  So I brought them out while Brielle was napping.  We tried the boats, but they kept capsizing.

So we tried her prized pink ball next.  It worked much better.  Ava's face is great in this picture.  The suspense is killing her.  Will it make it down all the way?

 Not quite.  We had to get out her microphone stand to help it along.

We tried the boats again after a while.  They definitely are not sea worthy.  That's okay though.  Ava had a blast.

Who needs grass anyway?  In the city that's what a park is for.

Cache Valley Easter

Ava's cousin Ellie invited Ava over for a sleep over at her house while we were in town for Easter.  Brielle and I came along too.  Holly and I had girl talk and the girls had great fun.  Ironically, Ellie is not pictured because she was still sleeping when I took this picture.  I think it's funny that both my girls have their fingers in their mouths, while the twins have their binkies.  Cousins are great!  Although I will say this: the term sleep over is such a misnomer.  I hardly slept a wink between Brielle's insatiable hunger and Ava's tornado legs.  In the morning when we woke up Ava looked confusedly at me and said, "What are you doing here?"  I don't know if she thought we were at Grandma's or our own house.  Silly girl. 

Gotta love Easter.  Candy galore.  Ava didn't have much competition as there were only six or seven other kids in her age group.  As you can see she is not exactly rushing. 

I love going home and seeing people from my hometown.  It leaves me feeling great affection for the people and the place.  I'm not sure I could go back to living in a place that is at least twenty minutes from the nearest grocery store.  Or braving snow drifts up to the bumper in the winter time.  It's a lovely place to visit though.

Belated Brielle Blessing Photos

Confession: These photos were not actually taken on the day we blessed Brielle.  Between the bathing and dressing and feeding and everything else we never took a single photo.  Lame I know.  But we wanted pictures with her in her dress anyway.  Confession: I'm not sure why I have my head tilted so far to the right.  I think it's in response to Ava annoyingly bouncing around and grabbing onto Brielle's legs while we were taking the shot.  Yes, I'm certain that's it.  If you look at my smile it says Hurry and take the picture.  Our first born is driving me crazy!

 Brigham and Brielle.  Brielle and Brigham.  What can I say?  I love 'em.

I like this picture even though Ava is not looking at the camera because Brig and Ava were laughing really hard over something.  I can't even remember what it was.  I couldn't get the girl to look at me though.  P.S. We blessed Brielle two months ago.  Most of Brig's family was there and both of my sisters were there and my parents.  We had lunch afterward and it was a very nice day. 

Sunday Walk

Her little hand in mine, we set out together
Her yellow flip flops slapping against the sidewalk
She says we are on a walking date
Just the two of us
We giggle
She stops every few feet or so
To point out the color of a flower
Or an abandoned snail shell
Or an interesting looking bug
Together we drink in Spring
Drink hungrily with our eyes
The vivid purples and pinks and reds of the tulips
Drink deeply smelling the sweet flowering blooms
Arching above us in extravagant sprays
We drink in the sunlight and the green and the crispness in the air
A thirst born from wandering too long
In a wintery desert
We touch a plant that I have always called Rabbit's Ear
Though I've no idea if that is it's real name
She says "Hello!" and "Good morning!" and "Hi there!"
To the woman pulling weeds, the family on their bikes, a man running
I smile to myself
My trusting, friendly girl
My first baby as she has taken to calling herself lately
I wonder inside of myself with a love that is so intense it's almost painful
That this beautiful being is my daughter
That what she wants and needs most from me
Is to simply be with me
To talk, to laugh, to touch
Through her curious eyes I see the goodness
The mystery, the blinding beauty of the world
I pray that she will always hold that same sense of hope
About others, about the world within herself
She kisses the palm of my hand and indicates
That I should then press it to my cheek
She got this from a book she has read in pre-school
I know what is coming and I smile in anticipation
She looks at me with those clear blue green eyes and says
"Whenever we are apart, you can put your palm to your cheek, Mom
And it will be as if I'm kissing you.  And you say to yourself
Ava loves me.  Ava loves me."
I press my fingers to her sun warmed hair
Look at her face trying to fix this moment in my memory
To save for the years to come when she won't be five years old
When her faith in the world and in my omnipotence wanes
The bittersweet irony of motherhood is this
You try to equip your children with the tools they will need
For the life they will live out there on their own
Pushing them forward
While desperately grasping at these little moments in time
Bright hot sparks of their childhood
Holding them to your heart in an effort to dull the ache
Of the knowledge that what you've brought into this world
Will leave you one day as is only right, only natural
We walk back home the way we started out
Her hand in mine
My heart in her hands

- Denise Cooper Smith -