To become someone

The fall winds whip around the house and catch the back gate, hurling it mercilessly against the hardi board siding. The persistent thumping is like a drum and the creature inside shuffles slowly forward, marching to it's percussive beat. Her slack jawed faced and hungry eyes eagerly search for the thing she craves most. With a stiff arm, and twitching fingers she claws at the Folgers container. The Creature From The King Sized Bed clumsily removes it's lid and breathes in the fresh aroma of coffee...

Only after the brew has hit her lips will she respond to the incessant demands of the children. Soon breakfast is served and the only sound which remains is the hungry slurping of their greedy little mouths and the bang, bang, bang of the gate.

As the coffee works it's magic and life begins to return to her face, the question of who she should become on all Hallows Eve has her drumming her fingers against the mugs porcelain surface. Every day she is the same person, has the same routine, lives the same life. Deviation from the norm is too unsettling for the offspring and so the death of spontaneity occurred the minute they were born.

But for one night every year she can be whoever she wants. Whether that be a sexy doctor, or a scantily dressed nurse, a vampire, or a witch with untold power. There is so much possibility, so much she can choose from and she will revel in this opportunity to become an individual once more.

Then at the end of the night, she'll hang up her costume and don the mask of motherhood - morphing before their very eyes, changing back into the woman they've always known - and becoming their someone.

A mother's light - For Chance.

A mother's Light - For Chance.

it's been four years
and she still grieves
a mother's loss
can not be eased

A twist of fate
that stole your light
four years gone
Since that black night

She smiles and laughs
the tears look dry
But don't be fooled
For she still cries

So in support
we gather now
a life made brief
and she'll allow

The memory which
she holds so tight
a mother's love
her daily fight

A glimpse into
a shattered soul
which she rebuilt
and though not whole

she smiles and laughs
and turns the page
the tears look dry
because of Gage

your little brother
loves you too
her family now
to see her through

so don't be sad
she won't forget
all you were
and all you meant

a hope, a dream, a wish on high
a star against the darkened sky
a boy, an angel, a gorgeous glance
upon your face
her one true Chance.

Murmurs

His bed is a black, 4-in-1 stages crib from Sears. It was originally purchased for his big brother Gabriel and has been passed down from brother, to sister, and now to him. It's full of character...which is a nice way of saying it's seen better days. It's been spat up on, scratched, dropped, chewed and rebuilt numerous times in numerous houses, three times in this home alone. I doubt if it could live through another incarnation, but for now, it serves it's purpose...or at least it would if Preston would cooperate.

He hates it. He hates sitting in it, he hates looking at it, and he loathes sleeping in it.

I know a part of his hatred towards the crib is my lack of commitment in forcing him to sleep in it. I let him co-sleep because it was easier to have him next to me when I was terrified he would die in the middle of the night, just arrest, stop breathing, cease to exist without my knowledge or motherly intuition to guide me to his side. So I kept him in our bed; and I've done it much longer than I did with my other two children.

Gabriel never co slept, Edie co slept until she was 9 months old and we started the arduous process of integrating her towards cribdom; and it was so arduous I promised myself never again would I keep a baby in my bed so long they understood, and preferred to stay there. But Preston, he's different for obvious reasons. He's my last child, one we could have lost no less, and he's my baby...even at almost 12 months old....

He's my baby, and the doctor says his heart still murmurs, some holes are still there, his appointments are still compulsory. So when I lay him down, in that black, 4-in-1 stages crib, I don't see a toddler, I see this tiny frame on this huge mattress...I see my baby. And when he cries for me, I get up, I reach out, and I hold him until we are both fast asleep...because some days I need that assurance more than he does.

And the ugly truth is - there are more nights than I can count where I wake up startled and confused, calling out his name in the dark of night, crying out my unconscious fears that he's disappeared...that the dark has stolen him. And while I'm struggling to find reality -wrestling with the spider threads of sleep - I shoot out my arm reaching for what I'm sure is lost...only to find him nestled next to me, safe and sound, and his crib empty...for one more night.

Coping with womanhood

For seventeen lovely months I've had a reprieve from the fluctuating hormones which punctuate the lives of many women. Periods are necessary to reproduction and the survival of the human species but they are also the complete embodiment of - for lack of a better word - Ugh.

What is Ugh you may ask. It's simple really.

Ugh is the blood you find has leaked into your new pair of La Senza underwear despite the fact you were wearing a "Super" absorbent tampon and long night shield pad.

Ugh is the yawn you can't seem to stifle during the week you are plagued by this hormonal beast of blood.

Ugh is the dishes your husband never put away and you contemplate tossing at his head during a fit of hormone induced insanity.

My Ugh can reach extreme levels where you can almost see the annoyance flow from my body like the blood that marks this most special time. Men are often caught in the crossfire because of their innate nature to leave their socks lying in the middle of your living room, or to forget the toilet seat lowering requirements of living with a woman, or who can't help but say things like "Jesus, are you on your rag or something".

Yes Scott I'm on my rag and just so you know...I did notice that you took the garbage out but didn't replace the bag, and the chewing of your bagel this morning was unnecessarily loud and irritating, and maybe tonight when you fall asleep, you could avoid laying on your back so I can have a chance of falling asleep too; instead of laying awake listening to the lawn mower beside me...

Ugh.

Resuscitation

I needed a doctor, that much was clear. My eyes swam out of focus and finally closed, and I could hear my children feverishly trying to revive me.

    "One, two, free" they said while compressing various parts of my torso - from chest to naval.

I could smell the grilled cheese they ate for lunch as they leaned over my motionless frame. Their spittle flew and landed directly on my eye lashes as they blew hot air onto my face. This is their understanding of CPR, and I'm content in the knowledge that I would not be saved by them if I ever truly needed this life saving act.

    I restrain a smile as Gabe proclaims quietly, "She sick".

     "Yes Bro", Edie answers, "I sad".

Suddenly I take in a shaky breath and my eye lids flutter open, "She awake!" Gabe cries and both of them drag me upright while I feign catastrophic injury - weaving back and forth - and finally collapsing onto the couch.

The two of them work quickly, jabbing me with hot wheels "needles" and fixing my hearts apparent arrhythmia with their Tupperware lids. Gabe wraps my arm with a dishtowel and Edie checks my throat with a flashlight. Soon they declare I am healed and I thank them for their vigilant attendance to my wounds.

At dinner that night we speak about our day and suddenly Edie's voice falls silent. I glance over and am immediately panicked. Her face is beat red, her chest no longer rises and falls, her fingers eagerly search for the food obstructing her windpipe and her eyes...her eyes are filled with the chilling knowledge that she cannot save herself.

In one quick movement I jump from my chair, knocking it backwards, startling my sons whom are oblivious to the drama unfolding around them. I pick up her 31 lb frame as though it weighs nothing, thrusting her diaphragm across my forearm while applying one quick pound between her shoulder blades with the heal of my hand.

Instinct rules my actions while my brain works overtime trying to determine what the best course of action is. Thankfully the situation doesn't need further analysis as her cries indicate the food has been dislodged and I scoop the offending piece of meat from her mouth.

I begin to shake as the adrenaline ebbs and I realize how bad it could have been. I think back to our doctor play that day and am reminded of their ineffectual attempts at CPR. I mistakenly believed I would never survive if I ever needed life saving intervention from them; but the truth is, they have already saved me. It is their lives which beats my heart, and without them...life would be breathless and resuscitation useless.

Written

Check out my new blog friend's! No it's not replacing this one. "Written" is a short story fiction blog. Just an outlet for my ever busy and creative mind.


http://writtencrave.blogspot.com/

A rose by any other name...

I've been married for a year and some and still haven't bothered to change my name. At first I assumed my reluctance towards moving from my maiden name to my married name was the hassle it entailed. To drag three kids to the DMV, wait god knows how long in line, and then pay to replace all my ID is a pain in the ass I just didn't want. But the more I contemplate the name change the more I wonder if I'll ever get there.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm not a feminist, or a person who rejects traditions. I don't hate my husbands last name or any of his relatives. I just find it hard to reconcile the idea that marriage automatically equates to an identity change. Or maybe it's that my identity has already changed so much I just wish to hold onto this one last thing.

There are moments where I feel like I'm not Carrie Middleton anymore, probable relative -okay not really- to Kate Middleton; instead I'm mom and wife, maid extraordinaire, chef and referee... I'm everything but the girl I used to be. Don't get me wrong. I love what I am now, but there are moments where I miss that carefree kid who thought she knew everything - confidence, arrogance, and ignorance all wrapped up to make one silly girl from the wrong side of the tracks.

So is it too much to ask that I retain the last name i've lived my whole life with?

I understand my husband's point of view, I know he wants us all to be a cohesive family in name as well as practise. I know it irks him a little that I still haven't changed my name to his - but after everything we've been through as a couple, and a family - I just want something that doesn't have to change. Something stable and familiar... something uniquely mine.

Maybe I'm being selfish, I'm sure many people see it this way. And maybe one day I'll relent and spend eight hours in line waiting to change the name I've always known, to the one I now respect.

But I'm just not there, yet.