Wednesday, September 11, 2013

On change. On growth.

Four years ago, I reached out into a void in an effort to have my pain dispersed out amongst the endless reams of internet information available to us all.  I never expected anyone to read, I just knew I had to write.
So, I wrote.
And wrote.
And cried.
And wrote.
And fumed.
And wrote.
And pondered.
And wrote.
And questioned.
And wrote.
And wrote some more.  And some more.

Years have gone by.  Four of them.  Like lightening.

As I type, at this very moment, a wee lass with sparkling blue eyes is nursing at my breast while hopping on one foot.  A toddler.  Only yesterday, it seems, she was nearing the day of her birth.  Being very coy about her entrance.  She had her own plans about her birth day and it had nothing to do with charts and assumptions about estimated due dates.  She took her time.  It is her way.

As the mother of many, I am not surprised at the lack of time I have for myself...for my writing...for my other interests.  As the woman who has known the sting of losing children, I am not taken aback by the massive desire I have to embrace my daughters every moment of existance.

I was always attentive to my older children.  My son's have known no lack in my love, though they have experienced what it looks like to have a grieving mother.  In that, they have learned empathy.  Compassion.  A massive respect for the amount of love a parent has for a child.  Even, and perhaps especially for, a dead child.

However...attentive as I was, it was nothing like the magnitude of my attention for my rainbow daughter.  My Ali Ve. I know.  I know I can lose my children.

That is a truth you can't unlearn.

So, four years later, I am a new being.  A mother to six living children.  And dead twins.  I love them all and am influenced by all on a daily basis.

To celebrate life, and the metamorphosis that occurs when one is LIVING this life--in all it's twists and turns and ups and downs, I am venturing out into cyberspace again.  My sweet toddler is easily satisfied playing at my knee.  She hops back and forth from blocks to my breast, and from my breast to her dolls.  She has no interest in weaning, and I have no interest in pushing her away.  Change is happening in it's own way, in it's own pattern.

I'm writing today to talk about change.  Change in the reality that is loss.  This post is for all you momma's who doubt you will ever know the ability to smile again.  I was in your shoes four years ago.  I was in agony.  I remember hearing babies crying in the night....only to wake and find that I was baby-less.   Only in my dreams could I see their faces.   I walked with my eyes averted to the ground, in the hope that no one would make eye contact with me, least I crumble into a mess of despair.  Nervous breakdowns were my new normal, and I assumed I would be crippled by them for the rest of my life. (and for all of you who fear the same...I promise you, with all of my heart, you WILL smile again.  You WILL heal. will never be the person you were before losing your child.  And even won't want to be the person you were before, because the person you were before never knew what it was like to love that deeply.  To lose that much and to live to tell the tale--You will be bigger than you ever dreamed you wanted to be.  And you will have your loss to thank.  I'm's just true.  It's true that loss can and will be be the catalyst for everything beautiful in your future.  Everything.

When Ali Ve was born, a new kind of terror was born along with her.  It took the past two years of vivid adoration to understand that she wasn't going to evaporate in some mysterious way.  She wasn't going to drown in a glass of water.  She wasn't going to be eaten by a rouge squirrel.  She wasn't going to disappear and only visit me in my dreams.  She was

Ali Ve.


I woke up this morning, thinking about how we grow.  How we change.
I am not the mother I was 24 years ago when my first son was born.  Time and circumstance have altered all that I was at that tender young age.  I am a different mother.  An older mother.  I am no better, though I am more experienced, and am certainly not worse, even if I am more aware of the realities life can deal out.  I have changed.  And grown.

This blog is changing and growing along with me.  I am not sure where it is going...yet.  But, today, I knew that it was growing.  That there were new things to talk about.

Everything that I AM is colored by my loss.  Everything I know has been shaped by my journey.

I am excited to share my reflections with you.
Let's grow together. 

Wednesday, April 17, 2013


I remember being a kid.

Even in my broken, backward home, I remember childhood.  I remember running around train tracks, and in empty almost built homes in the desert.  I remember Saturday morning cartoons.  I remember the bully named Jennifer who seemed to delight in personal torture of me, for what reason, I will never know.

But, mostly, I remember being a kid.

With innocent pictures in my head.

And silly jokes that consisted of "Knock Knock" and "Why did the chicken cross the road?"

And sitting in trees writing poems....about trees.

On Monday, my son walked upstairs with his baby sister on his hip.  "Someone just bombed the Boston Marathon."  he said, trying to look like it was no big deal.  I could see the pain in his eyes.  "A little boy was killed.  Lot's of people were blown up."

I put my head in my hands.  And then, looked up at him.  "Are you sure?"

He rolled his eyes, and said, "Yup.  I'm sure."

This morning, that same son came upstairs with his little sisters hand clutched tightly in his as she skipped around his feet.  His I-pod was in his other hand.  He gulped, "Someone tried to send poison to president Obama and some other people."  He looked down at his I-pod, shuffling through his music.  Trying not to make eye contact with me.  Then, he looked up.  "What the hell is wrong with people?"  he said, his voice quivering.  "Why is this shit happening?"

I overlooked the colorful language.  "People are angry from the inside out.  Lashing out is their way of showing their pain.  It's a horrible way to show pain, honey."

"Well, how can we make things safer?"  He scooped up his little sister and snuggled her softly.  She clung to him in loving adoration.

"We can make sure we know peace in our home.  We can make sure we share peace with our neighbors.  We can make sure we express peace to the world.  We can actively work for peace. We can vote for peaceful policy.  Every day.  Every single day.  And that is all we can do.  It's all we have left."

"What if it doesn't work?"

"It might not.  But, we have to keep trying baby.  We just have to keep trying.  An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind."

"A tooth for a tooth makes everyone need to eat blended hamburgers..."

"Yes.  And that's disgusting."

He smiled softly and sighed.

I remember being a child, with child thoughts.  My children haven't gotten to experience that.  They are growing up in a world where towers fall, and people are dieing in movie theaters, school rooms, and in celebratory races.  They are growing up knowing that crazy people have access to weaponry that NO ONE should have.  They are growing up knowing that their dad works with people struggling with poverty and mental illness and anger management issues...and that he spends every waking moment trying to help.  And help.

They are living in a world that needs peace.

So that the children can be children.

So that we may all know what it's like to open up the news, and see.....that the day is just beautiful, and a baby was born, and someone helped a neighbor, and the world was safe.

What will you do today, to make sure it is so?