Broken

 Broken

Broken

brkoen

bokern

brkeon

broken

breken

broken 

broken brken

broken brken broken

Tears

Keep falling

can't stop

crying

nothing is fair

and nothing is kind

and everything hurts

all of the time

everything 

is twisted

in lies

and untruths

and gaslighting

and manipulating

and guilt tripping

and making me crazy

like I have lost my mind

like I am confused

like I can't remember

like I remember wrong

I am always wrong

and he tricked me

He tricked me

He.  Tricked.  Me.

He! Tricked! Me!

He tricked me

and I am the fool

and I saw the red flags

but I thought it was fine

I thought I was strong

and could handle it all

but he lied to me

and he tricked me

and then he made me feel crazy

and twisted and turned

the truth and the lies

until I thought it was me

For years and years and years 

and years and years

I thought it was me

I was so twisted up in his love

in his lies

in his tricks and deceit

and I loved

and I loved and I loved

so I forgave

and blamed myself

and carried on

and carried on

but the lies never stopped

and it just got worse

and one day I saw the truth

and I can't extricate myself from the lies

I don't know where they end

or begin

or if there is truth

or if it is all lies

Which part was true?

Is my entire marriage a lie?

What do I do?

and how do I carry on?

when the person I love

isn't anyone I know

when his lies are more normal

than truth is to me

When a lie is as simple as breath

and his subterfuge is impossible to see

and he twists and he twists

everything that I am

everything that I see

and I do not feel safe

it is like my whole life is a game and I have to question every single thing

was any of it real?

he has messed up my mind so completely

I don't know

except that I am broken

and he doesn't even flinch

when he tells me a new truth

that was a lie for so long

doesn't even flinch 

or show any emotion

when I am on my knees

unable to breathe with the shock of it

He just keeps on 

like it is normal

to drop a big lie bomb on your wife

like she should just endure it

just accept it

like she has for 14 years

broken

broken

broken

broken

and I don't know if theres enough

gold glue to piece me back together again

January 7, 2024

My Skin

My skin is soft
It is warm and silky
It is familiar and comfortable
It has speckles, freckles, spots
That are unique to me.
It has kept me together for years now
It has embraced eight babies
without a single mark
It has healed over every wound
It is supple and smooth
It is the only skin I have ever known
I am impressed and amazed
at the things my skin can do.

My skin is white
It has no olive, no red, no brown
It turns red in the sun
and, if I am lucky,
it holds some gold for a few weeks
But always, always
it returns to this pale white color.

I always loved golden skin,
tan skin, brown skin, creamy coffee-color skin.
As a teenager I marveled at the rainbow colors of skin.
I felt enchanted by the darkness it could reach
I wondered how the sun felt when it wasn't burning you
I wanted another skin.
It intrigued me, but always, always I came back to
my white skin.

I have learned to love this white skin
I have learned to smile at the tan girls
(at the wrinkles and cancer they will have)
And I protect this white skin.
I am comfortable in this skin of mine
It has served me well.
And I have learned not to wish it away
I love this skin.

My white skin.  I didn't know...
It is a key to a secret club above suspicion
It is a password to the gate of opportunity
It is a blessing I never could see
This pale, white skin
This skin that I have always had
That keeps me warm, that feels so soft
This skin has kept me safe
from prejudice, from hate, from fear.
This skin has let me in to places
only reserved for those like me.
My skin that I love.
My skin that protects me
in ways I never saw before.

My white skin
It is a pass, a weapon, a defense
I have escaped suspicion, hate,
discrimination, and fear
I have walked in ways that many can't
I have done this all unknowingly
I didn't know.
I didn't know.
I DIDN'T KNOW!

My skin.
Is it wrong to say I love my skin?
My white skin?
That I love what it has done for me?
That I am grateful for my opportunities?
Can I love my white skin...
and still love your brown skin?
Can I love what it has given me...
even as I loathe what it has given you?
Or must I hate this skin?
This beautiful, white skin?
My white skin.
My skin that holds all that I am.
MY skin.

em

On Post-Partum Depression

The bathroom stall wall is cold against my forehead.  I focus on that feeling, of cold, solid against my warm flesh.  I focus on what is real.  The ground beneath my feet.  The purse, heavy on my left shoulder.  I breathe in, “I am strong.”

 I breathe out, “You can do this.”

 I breathe in, “stop crying now.” 

I breathe out, “You are in control.”

I breathe in, and as I focus on my breath, I blindly grab a tissue from the plastic holder and blot away the tears as I breathe out.

I am standing in a bathroom stall at a restaurant just south of Dallas, Texas and I am crying.  How in the world did I get to this point?

I think through my day.  We woke up at the hotel and ate breakfast.  My boys were well-behaved, my husband happy.  All was fine then.  We went to my daughter’s swim meet.  It was hot, the air full of chlorine, and there were many people making lots of noise.  I was fine then.  We went to IKEA, and it was very, very crowded.  Every time I stopped walking, someone would be on my heels, or a stroller would stop just short of mowing me down.  My son was hanging on one side of me the entire time.  My other son was pulling my arm forward the entire time.  I was not fine then.

And then it was time to eat.  And we walked in to this restaurant.  The noise of people happily chatting became a loud, raucous sound in my head that made it hard to hear individual voices.  The haze started to slide down my vision like a screen being pulled down.  The menu was so full, there were way too many options.  And the waitress asked what I wanted to drink, and though I could barely hear her, I knew the routine.

“Water,” I whisper as I avoid eye contact.  She doesn’t hear me and my husband has to repeat my order because I cannot look up at her, I cannot look at anyone.  I stare at my phone like I have some online conversation I am too wrapped up in to focus on my family, but I don’t.  I am just trying to look normal.  I am just trying to keep the tears away, but I can’t.  And as they start to flood down my cheeks, I stand up and quickly make a beeline for the safety of the bathroom.  I am fairly certain I knocked into a woman in a sari on my way here.  I couldn’ t see through the haze, and  there were so many people I couldn’t look at. 

And here I am, head pressed against the cold metal of a bathroom stall.  A tissue is blotting the tears as quickly as they come, pitifully trying to make them disappear.  I try to get a grip, and that is when I realize what is happening.  It is back.  It is back.  Oh, dear God, it is back.  And I stifle a sob, and I breathe, and I breathe.  It is back.

It is back.  And although the words flow through my mind and I realize with perfect clarity why I am standing in this stall crying for nothing, I dare not speak the words out loud.  It is back, and it is worse than before.  I breathe in, and I breathe out.  And I open the door.  And I wash my hands.  And I walk back to the table- eyes averted down.  I sit down.  I lie to my son when he asks if I am okay.  He is smarter than he needs to be and after I reply, “I am fine,” he replies, “no, you’re not. “

And I tell him that I love him and I watch as he and his brother play a game on the table of the restaurant.  And when the waitress comes to take our order, I whisper the daily special, the sides I want, and when she asks for a clarification, I look down at the table and my husband replies for me.  I was not prepared to say another word.  I am not okay.  It is back.

We get back to the car, and I am so grateful to be in the quiet, peaceful, nobody I don’t know, nobody crowding me, I don’t have to say a word or pretend that I’m okay.  I tell my boys mommy is tired, and I am actually exhausted from what has happened to me.  I fall asleep on the way home.  I wake up, and the fog that rolled down like a movie screen is just a light mist now, and I can pretend to be okay.

Night falls, and the children go to sleep.  I tell my husband, through the mist of “It” and the shame of what I must say, “It is back.”

“Fix it,” he retorts.

And I stare at him in shock.  I just told him what I can bear to tell nobody else, and this is the reply I receive.  “I can’t just fix it,” I implore, “I am broken.  Not like a broken ankle, but broken in a way that can’t be quickly mended.  Just don’t worry about it.”

And my husband, who believes anything can be fixed with a pill, leaves the room.  And I am finally alone with “it” – again.

And it is time to face what I am dealing with.

The first time I faced it was three months ago.  I had delivered surrogate twins via an emergency c-section and was home, trying to physically and emotionally recover from the trauma of nine months of carrying twins and emergency surgery.  I received an email from their parents accusing me of “exploiting” them.  I cried.  I cried.  And I never stopped.  My body tried to heal for six weeks, but the physical and emotional pain was just too great.  “It” came as a dense, weighted fog, obsidian anguish rolling through my soul.  It covered every thought with darkness and sent a veil of bleakness over my mind’s eye.  I sat in my semi-dark house all day long alone, not wanting to talk to anyone, silent.  I watched mindless TV shows so I wouldn’t have to think about the pain, the grief, the sorrow.  The funny thing was, I had nothing to grieve over.  I had nothing to feel sad about.  I was just anguishing for nothing.  And that’s when I knew something was wrong.

My doctor told me it would subside with time.  Stay active.  Exercise.  Keep your routine.  Don’t take on any extra work.  You are strong.  Just give it time.

I did all of those things, and it finally stopped.  I was relieved.

And then last weekend happened.  It has returned.  This time, it didn’t roll in like thick fog.  This time, it crept in like an evil twilight mist.  Thin and gray, it slithered right into my soul unseen, and then, like the mist that rolls in off the ocean, became thick fog without warning.

I sit on the side of my bed.  Broken.  Afraid.  Overwhelmed.  Indecisive.  These are the words that I use to describe myself now. 

Utterly ridiculous though it seems, it has completely irradicated the person that I used to be.

I am 1220 words into this essay, and I still haven’t been able to bring myself to speak “it’s” name because I am so ashamed.  Because it is so misunderstood by anyone who doesn’t know it.  Because even I scorned the women who had it.  Because it is so hard for somebody strong, determined, decisive, and proud to admit to such a weakness.    

Sometimes I weep over the grocery list because I just don’t know, because I just can’t.

Sometimes I spend thirty minutes in my closet trying to decide what to wear because I can’t figure out what to wear. 

Sometimes I stand in the kitchen staring at the counter because I can’t figure out what I should cook my family for dinner.

Often, I don’t go to social gatherings because it is too hard to be around people.

Often, I cry over nothing. 

Often, I spend my day with a floating, quivering, invisible haze over my eyes like a dirty shower curtain I can’t quite see through. 

Every day, getting out of bed in the morning is as difficult as it used to be to take a college level exam because I have to psych myself up to swing my legs over the side of the bed and face the day.

Every day, I feel anguish and loss for nothing.

Every day, I come home exhausted because just making it through the day without crying or hiding or running away has taken every bit of energy I had.

Every day, I know I am broken.

Every day, I know nobody I know will understand. 

Every day, I am the unseen face of post partum depression.

em

#momsmatter

Nice Mommy

"This hurts me more than it hurts you," mother says.
"That's not even possible!" angry child yells.
And stomps off to her room.
I remember being that child, and I remember hearing those words. 
I didn't believe them then.  I don't think any child in the history of the world has ever believed those words.  I grew up, forgave my mother for the lie, and became a mother myself.
For fourteen years, I mostly forgot about those words. 
And then it happened.
My daughter- my sweet, precious, beautiful baby girl who I adore more than life itself- turned into a teenager. 
And there came a point where I had to give a consequence- a big one.
I went through the motions, did what had to be done, told her that I could, in fact, make her life worse than it already is, and I had.
And a little piece of my heart broke when I saw the pain in her face.
I had just taken something important away from my baby girl.
And for all her back talk, and all her attitude, and all her teenager-ness, she still wanted to be tucked in at night.
And after I kissed her head, she asked if she could please go.
And I had to say no.
And as I walked out of her room, I could barely remember her disrespect, could barely remember her disregard for others, all I could think of was my baby asking please.
And it hurt. 
And in that moment, those words, those terrible words, echoed through the bowels of my memory, and I thought, "this hurts me more than it hurts you."
The irony of that statement hit.
Finally, I know what my mother meant.
Finally, I realized the truth of these words.
To take something away from the child you love more than life itself is devastating. 
It hurt me to the point of tears. 
But my goal is not to save myself heartache, my goal is to raise a strong, capable, kind, and educated human being.
And to reach this goal, nice mommy has to walk away and let mean mommy straighten things out.
I have undergone a mommy rite-of-passage, and I am not sure if I am glad for it or not.
I only pray that my daughter will be stronger for it.

Music in my Soul

 

I learned to play the piano when I was a little girl.  I took lessons from a woman who lived by a small lake with paddle boats.  I loved going to her house.  Her piano was in the back, beyond the living room, and in a corner of her kitchen.  I don't really remember anything about her house, but I remember the piano.  It was very old, it was black, upright, and it had real ivory keys.  They weren't bright and shiny like the keys on my piano at home; they were chipped and a bit broken, but I loved to touch them.  I loved to feel the weight of them beneath my fingertips and I loved to hear the sound her piano made.  It was so rich, so deep, so beautiful.  I remember her voice as she counted the beat.  I remember her pencil tapping the piano when her voice wasn't enough.  I remember the metronome she took out when she was desperate to teach me to keep time.  I still have all the books, with the dates, the stickers when I accomplished my goals for the week, and the memories of the songs I learned to play piano on. 
I never became great at playing the piano.  I never seemed to be able to keep time properly, and I never seemed to understand that the volume should increas and decrease- not just get loud and echo on the pedal the entire time.  I chalk these defects up to the love I feel for the music.  I am so excited to hear the notes that I can't stop to count.  I am so wrapped up in the beauty of the echo that I don't realize I am the only one who hears it growing and changing in my head.  I love the music.
 
As a young mom, I moved to a ward where there were few piano players, and even me with my limited skill became a comodity.  All of a sudden, I had to relearn how to play the piano. 
I practiced.  I played during the week on a piano my mom bought from a neighbor.  I played in the Primary- and learned all of the children's songs.  I played in the Relief Society- and learned many of the Hymns.  Sometimes, I even played in Sacrament meeting.  Through my grown up years of playing for church, my music repertoire evolved into a collection of church music, with very few exceptions.  Playing for church allowed me an escape that all young mothers crave, and it allowed me to worship God through music.  The scripture "a song is a prayer unto me" became meaningful to me.  I worshiped God every time I played.  I brought His Spirit into the meetings I played for, and it brought happiness to my heart to be able to develop a talent and bless others.

Three years ago this month, all of that ended.  It is a long, sad story that ended with me being damaged and broken.  I could not attend church. I could not even pull into the parking lot without feeling sick to my stomach.  I lost so much of my faith and hope and trust in the Church that I did not even know where to turn.
Eventually, I sat down at the piano to play.  I looked at my music- all hymns, songs we had performed for Relief Society, songs I had played for the children's program, songs I had loved and played in the church I had loved.  I cried.  I tried to play something unrelated to the church.  I could not.  I could no longer play the piano.  Every time I sat down to play, I wept.  I did not understand why I could not play, but I could not.  I would shake.  I would cry.  I would scream in frustration. 
I couldn't believe that my music was gone.

As the years have passed, I have learned to play other music, but not very much.  I play occasionally.  On Sundays, when I am missing church, when I want to pray but I don't have the words, when I am missing my babies, when my heart is aching and I need release, I sit down to play.  Sometimes I can play for 30 minutes, sometimes less.  Sometimes I start to play and I stumble, and in frustration I give up because I can't play a song that used to come so easily.  I have fought to bring music back into my home. I want my children to be able to sing with me as I play the way they did when they were small.  I have been trying to salvage this talent I once possessed.  It is hard.  Music has been a casualty in the loss of my faith and I still wonder why.

Today, I decide to play for a few minutes while everyone was busy.  I walk into my new piano room, pull the French doors shut behind me, pull out the bench, and sit down at the piano that used to be my mother's.  I lift the lid and run my fingers over the keys- shiny and smooth, the piano of my childhood.  I look at the books, and oddly, I open the Hymn book.  I open it up to "Tis Sweet to Sing the Matchless Love," and I play.  Tentatively, hesitantly, and quietly, but I play.  The sound echoes off of the walls and the wooden floors.  It is loud, even without the pedal, and my heart swells with the full, rich sound.  I play a few songs, and my fingers feel loose, so I keep playing.
I play in peace for 45 minutes.  When I finish, I realize that I have not felt one moment of sorrow.  I conclude with a piece entitled, "This is the Christ," a song that I used to play in Relief Society, but I don't feel sorrow or grief.  I remember our chorister increasing and decreasing the volume, and I remember the sound of the ladies singing, but I do not feel pain.  I feel love, I feel joy in praising God, and for the first time in years, I feel the music in my soul reach to the heavens.   

On becoming a working mom

Of Dreams and Reality

As a little girl I dreamed big dreams.  I dreamed of being a lawyer and a child psychologist.  I dreamed of travelling the world as a sign language interpreter.  I dreamed of going away to college and studying abroad.  At the end of all of these adventures, I would meet a man and fall in love.  We would marry, and I would have beautiful children to raise in a beautiful home.  I dreamed such beautiful dreams that I never made a plan to turn them into a reality.  I was so busy dreaming and living a “fun” teenager existence to worry about such trivial matters.

When I was eighteen, I awoke from my beautiful dream with a harsh reality.  I was going to be a mother.  I had a high school diploma, one semester of college under my belt, an ex-boyfriend who adored me and wanted to marry me, and a basket of dreams.

I reached into that dream basket and pulled out the dream labeled “motherhood.”  I set the rest of the dreams up on a high shelf, not knowing if I would ever return to claim them, but not able to leave them within sight for fear my heart would break.

I spent the next few years young, poor, married, and raising my daughter.  When my husband told me that we might go bankrupt, I sent my eighteen month old to a sitter and got a job as a secretary.   He went over the road driving a truck, and I lived in a trailer with a hole in the floor and opossums living underneath us, but every month I paid down those bills.  I bought milk with pennies in a Ziploc bag, but I always fed my child, and every month I paid down those bills.  A year later, my son was born and we moved into a small house with real floors and real walls.  I quit work to be a stay-at-home mom, and I finally felt like I was living the life a good Mormon woman should live.  I stayed home with my children for a year.  We lived a step up from poverty, but I stayed at that little house with those babies and we built forts and we colored pictures and we created games and make-believe worlds where my children rode horses and discovered new lands.  It was a type of paradise, but always there was a nagging feeling in my mind. 

Always, there was this feeling that I was not me.  One day, I looked in the mirror and saw what I had become.  I wore baggy pants, tshirts, and clogs every day.  I wore glasses, no make up, my hair in a ponytail.  I read voraciously, but I did not learn anything new.  I was a housewife, a mother, a Primary teacher, and a good Mormon woman.  All of these are beautiful things, but I knew that this was not what I was meant to be.  I looked at myself, and I realized that this is what I was telling my daughter she should be.  I was 21 years old, I had been married for three years and had two children.  I was poor, bored, uneducated, unhappily married, ignorant to the world, and all I had that brought me any joy was my children. 

I thought of what I wanted my daughter to be.  I thought of my mother’s words of wisdom, “you are living the life you choose.”  I knew in that moment that I did not want this life for my daughter.  I did not want to be this person.  I did not want to live this life.  I grabbed my dream basket off of the shelf, and I made a bold choice.  I applied for college that day.  I applied for financial aid.  I made a choice to become the person I wanted to be- the person I wanted my children to look up to.

I am grateful that I lived by a university that offered the program I wanted to take and cheap family housing.  I am grateful that I was able to receive enough financial aid to pay for my tuition, my education expenses, my children’s day care, and my fuel so that my husband would allow me to go to school. 

It was easy for me to decide what I wanted to be.  I didn’t have to worry about choosing a career that children would fit into one day.  I had to worry about choosing a career that would fit my life, where I spent most of the week as a single parent.  I had always loved English and I had always been a teacher at heart, so I decided to become an English teacher because it is the “perfect mom job.” 

Going to school as a mother has huge disadvantages.  There were no fun parties, no study groups, no late night library excursions, no clubs, no sororities, or any other activities pertaining to “normal” college life.  I never got to study abroad, and when the trips were announced, my heart would always sink.  I never went to a single football game or choir performance- my children were too young to sit through that. 

Contrary to popular belief, going to school as a mother does have advantages.  I excelled in all of my classes. Every professor I ever had knew me by name.  I sat in the front of all of my classes, asked questions, and listened to every word the professors said.  I went back to class four days after my son was born, and received a standing ovation from the professor and the other students.  I was different, and everyone could tell.   I worked hard.  I took so many hours that I had to receive special permission from the Dean.  I worked straight through the summer, and I never stopped.   I achieved consistently high grades and graduated summa cum laude.  Why?  Every moment I spent in school was time away from my children.  It was my money (that I will be paying back forever), but more than that, it was my sweat and my tears, and the tears of my children when I was away.  It was the hours I spent on the porch in the summer watching my children play while I read “The Tempest” or “Macbeth” and the neighbors looked at me strangely as I held one end of a jump rope as I continued to read.  It was the nights my children fell asleep on the couch watching a show because I was writing a paper. 

In the end, I graduated from college with my husband and all three of my children in the audience.  I had the announcer include my maiden name when he called me. “Emily Grace Miller Chidester,” he said, and my heart nearly burst.  It was my dream to graduate as “me,” and I did.  My daughter and my sons heard my name as I walked across the stage and received my diploma.  It was as if I had been given back myself, and it was liberating. 

I became a teacher two weeks later, and I have been teaching ever since.  I not only became a teacher, but I became the mother that I want my children to have.  I became a woman who does not accept the reality I am given.  I became a woman who holds onto her dreams and never loses sight of them.

This is the reality that I leave for my children.  We do not have dreams; we have plans.

Sabbath Day

Sunday morning dawns bright,
clear and radiant
It is early, but this day is here,
and I must embrace the end
of my week as a mom
I must begin the last day
of joy
We will eat a large breakfast,
and smile and laugh
We will sit through a service
at the church my children choose
we will sing hymns and pretend that
the world is wonderful
We will go to the standard Sunday meal
at Grandma's ranch,
but I will hurry us home
to clean,
to fold laundry,
to play a game,
watch a show,
walk the dog
anything that gives me time
to touch,
to kiss,
to ruffle the hair,
to laugh with,
to share with
the children I will lose
I have enjoyed this week
this glorious week of motherhood
Sunday twilight falls quickly,
dark and empty
It is early, but night has arrived
and I must let go
of my time as a mom
the Sabbath Day ends
I let my children fly away
sit in my empty nest
and wait

em

50% Mom

When I found out that I was going to be a mother, I changed the course of my life.  I quit thinking about what was best for me, and began thinking about what would be best for my child.  I went from being 100% self-centered to being 100% child-centered.  I spent the next 14 years of my life putting my children first.  I spent my days revolving around the universe I built with them- I was the sun that warmed, fed, clothed, nurtured, bathed, entertained, scolded, hugged, loved, and cuddled their small, growing celestial bodies.  Oftentimes it was frustrating.  Often times I felt alone with the weight of our little universe on my small shoulders.  But every day I found joy.  Every day I found at least a moment of pure bliss with my wee growing children.  It sometimes was found in a giggle, a hug, a pat on my cheek, or a stolen moment of my three loves reading to each other on the couch. 
The point is that every moment, every day, every year was spent on growing my children.  Their projects were my projects, their successes my success, their bedtimes my bedtime, their waking hours were my waking hours.  And it worked.  For 14 years, we lived in our beautiful universe.  We lived through storms and hurricanes and breezy, summer days.  For 14 years, I was a full-time, 100% mom- and it was everything I was meant to do. 
After five years of divorce and their father asking at various points along the way, my children decided they wanted to live with their dad 50% of the time.   No matter how it broke my heart, I knew there was no holding them in orbit around me forever.  It was I who had allowed their father to leave our universe, and I could not ask them to stay with me alone any longer.  I let them go.  Now, I get to have them every other week.  Every other weekend.  Every other holiday.  Every other riding lesson, and every other Wednesday night dinner at Grandma's house.  I thought that- with time- it would get easier.  I thought that the grief would lessen and I would adjust as time went by.  I thought as we worked the kinks in our schedule out, everything would be okay.
My children say they like it.  They say they are adjusting well.  They like the day and time we switch.  They want things to be fair.  Oh, the double-edged sword of teaching my children justice!  My children are happy- so they say, and who am I to know if this is best for them?  I want them to be happy.   I want them to know we are all here- holding them in orbit between us.  They are always held up in the gravity of our love, they just rotate around us now, instead of us around them.  They absorb my love and my strength as they circle around me, and then they fling out further than I ever wanted them to and grow from the strength and the love of their father.  Their world is bigger than my world now.  They have grown and continue to grow with such a galaxy to explore, and I cannot deny them that.
But I am not okay.  The grief does not lessen, instead it grows. 
I have my children for one week.  On Sunday, their father brings them home at 7:00 pm.  Jason and I are anxious.  We have made a late dinner because they are always hungry when they arrive.  The house is clean, our arms are open, and the children come banging in- scriptures, backpacks, helmets and all.  They pile it up and we start talking about the week.  My butterflies begin to fade as they settle in and I hear about the week.  They show me their tests, their papers, and share the details of a church lesson, an event from school, or a list of all the things we have to do this week.  Within an hour, I am overwhelmed with chores, and lists, and schedules.  My mind is frantic with all the work there is to do, but my heart is full, my arms are full, and I can smell the warm and sweaty smell of my babies as I snuggle into them and say, "oh, how I am glad you are home with me."
I run myself ragged through the week.  I feel guilty if I try to take a moment to myself.  If I want to read a book, or write a blog entry, or hide out for a moment of peace, I instantly berate myself, "how could you want to be away from them?  How can you waste one single, precious second of your time with them?  You have only half the time now, you cannot waste it!"  There is no rest.  I run until I literally can run no more, and then I collapse into a dreamless sleep and begin again with swim at 5:30 am.  Exhausted, but contented, I live my week 100%.  When a child wants to go to a friend's house, I have to overcome the desire to say, "No!  I only have you two more days," and let them go without an ounce of sadness in my voice. 
On Saturday before they leave, I wash all the clothes.  The laundry must be done and folded and put away before they go, or I will have to look at it, and fold it, and put it away in their empty rooms.  Rooms are cleaned, beds are made, and all their rubble is picked up and put away.  It hurts too much to find that errant shoe on Tuesday night.  I unplug the nightlight, or I find myself looking into the room where my son should be each night.  Their doors are never closed, or I would find myself peering in, half hoping that a child is accidentally behind.  And so our last day ends in chaos, with mom stressed out about everything being done.  We try to play one last game, or watch one last show, anything to keep me from looking at the clock- but I always do.
On Sunday before they leave, I begin counting down.  I look at the clock, "5 more hours."  I look at the clock.  "Only 2 more hours."  And I start to get shaky, and nervous, and my stomach begins to churn.  I can hardly sit through dinner, but we will eat this last meal of the week together before I send them off. We load them up in the car- scriptures, backpacks, boots and helmets.  We drive them over and I squeeze them each one more time before I send them off.  "I'll see you Wednesday," I feebly say as I kiss their little heads and send up a silent prayer that they will be at church on Wednesday night. 
The week rolls by- quietly, peacefully, painfully.  I work late every night.  I clean the house, or go to my mom's, or write in one of my blogs (obviously, the kids are not here tonight).  I get so much accomplished, but the emptiness is never quelled.  I cannot seem to fill it. 
This week, I cannot be a mom  I try to shut off the worry, the concerns about homework, the desire to hug and kiss and say I love you to each child every morning and every night.  I turn it off, or I go crazy.  I turn it off, or I annoy them with persistent messages and frustrate their dad with a gazillion texts and emails about everything they should be doing.  I am a 0% mom this week.  I think to myself, "this is not what I was born to do."  I think to myself, "this is the price I pay for divorce.  This is the price I pay for my children to have the life they want," and that is enough to shut off the selfish voice in my head.  It is a busy week- full of all the things the childless woman does to keep from remembering she is childless.  Is it bad for me to say that this is worse?  Because I have children, but I am not with them?  They are out there playing, eating, learning, smiling, laughing, and I am not there to witness it- is this a failure beyond the inability to conceive?
The worst- the very, absolute worst feeling about all of this comes on Sunday night before they get home. This is the part, the secret, hidden, evil part that I don't want to write, but it is a part of this cycle, and I must.  Before they get back home, even as I anxiously prepare, a little, evil part of me is overwhelmed and frightened to become 100% mom again.

And so the cycle goes.  I bounce between 0 and 100- and average out at 50.  I feel such feelings that I never thought were possible in motherhood.  I ache for that feeling of safety and routine that comes with the motherhood of my early mothering years.  I remember each time I wished for a break from my babies- and I cringe.  I yearn for my children to be home with me every night.  All the time I took for granted, all the minutes I wasted or wished away, I want them back.  All those moments I will never have- they are already lost- lost before they even are. 
I think sometimes I am a failure, but I know sometimes, when I see my kids in action, that I have succeeded somewhere along the way.
Joy and Pain.  Full and empty.  100% go.  100% stop. 
This is my life- the life of a 50% mom.

Mama Bear

There is a Disney movie that came out last year called "Brave."  I love this movie for two reasons.  First, because it shows the strength of women. Secondly, because it illustrates the strongest emotion I have ever known.
In one of the final scenes, a mother (who has been transformed into a bear) is chained down to the ground so that she, in all her bear strength, cannot move.  Then, in a twist of action, a gigantic, freakishly ugly, mean bear races toward her daughter.  There is a moment where the mother bear's eyes grow large with the realization that her daughter is about to be killed.  Then, before you can blink, the mother bear, who could not even raise one paw under the weight of the chains, breaks every link in the restraints, battles the fierce bear with a ferocity and violence that causes fear in small children, and eventually outwits the behemouth as she crushes him beneath a giant boulder. 
By the end of this scene, I had tears streaming down my cheeks.  Never- never- have I cried at a Disney movie, but I cried in this one.  Why?  This movie shows the true strength of a mother.  If she is attacked by a stronger or braver opponent, she will die.  If her child is attacked, she will destroy the danger, no matter how big or strong.
This is the thing I know for certain.  God may not have embued me with great strength, ability, or imagination.  He may not have made me to rule governments or build companies.  He may not have made me as anything other than a puny, blonde-headed, school teacher, but he made me a mother.  And in so doing, He made me mightier than the mighty and braver than the brave.
I have always cherished my role as a mother.  I have always been willing to do for my children what I am not willing to do for myself.  I have always worked to care for them, even at the expense of my own well-being.  This is what mother's do.  This is what I want to do. 
During the last five years, my family has endured significant change.  We went from a traditional nuclear family to  a divorced family, and now my children have two families- one with mom and stepdad, and one with dad and stepmom.  It has been a roller coaster of emotions, as every time we all adjust to one lifestyle, another change occurs and we all have to redefine our roles.  It is rocky, it is frustrating, and so many days I just feel like bashing somebody's head into a rock (usually my own).  One of my major problems is that I believe there is a distinction between parent and stepparent.  There are many things that stepparents are great at, many things they are learning to do, and many activities that are wonderful for them to do with kids.  The problem is that there are many things that I don't like them doing with my kids.  I am the mom.  And I do not accept anyone else sharing that role (I also believe this about their father). 
Today, after my ex told me that I was being hateful and jealous of his wife (don't get me started on this one) because I do not want her to be the one taking my son to the doctor when he is sick, I stopped to meditate and see what my problem actually is.  This, of course, led me to the conclusion that I seem to end up at often, divorce never stops hurting.
I realized there were two reasons I did not want my son's stepmother to take him to a doctor's appointment.
First, I don't trust her.  I just don't.  Their father loves her and trusts her, which is good, but she is a virtual stranger to me, and in this divorced world, I am being asked to put my children's safety and well being into the hands of someone I do not know- which goes against all parenting instinct.
Secondly, I had to address the issues of hatred and jealousy.  I do not hate her, for I believe to hate someone you have to love them first.  But jealousy, that is different.  I realized I am jealous of one thing:  She has fifty percent of the time with my kids.  Time is everything.  This woman gets to spend fifty percent of my children's childhood with them, and I don't.  Damn skippy I'm jealous of that.  Those are my babies. That is my sick son who she is holding.  My son.  My blood, my tears, my bones, my years, my baby in someone else's arms. 
And there you have it.  Another woman, who I don't trust, is holding my sick son tonight.
And then, as I am frustrated with myself for feeling this anger, for not accepting the situation more gracefully, I think of that mama bear.  I think of how God created me.  He made me a mama bear.  He made me this way for a reason.  He made me to rage at someone I don't trust taking my child.  He made me to want to protect my child from the unknown.  He created me to protect, to comfort, and to nurture my son.
If I weren't upset about this, I wouldn't be what God made me to be.  I am supposed to be a mama bear.  And what our society is doing, what I have done to myself by getting a divorce, is to try to stop that mama bear instinct.  I have to overcome it. 
On the one hand, this makes me less frustrated that I feel this way.  This is how God intended me to be.
On the other hand, this makes me more frustrated that I feel this way.  It is so unfair to all of us.
And after this discovery, after the tears that will not end, after the rage that consumes my mind, after I have made myself sick with the grief of it all,  after all of this-  my son is still hurting.  My son still needs me.  My son is still in another woman's arms.
And the mama bear dies a little inside me. 
Does this make me a better mom?  Does this make me less of a mom?
And the mama bear roars in agony
and slinks back to her cave
to mourn
to rage against the walls
where only she will hear
the echoes of her breaking heart.

Dyslexia

My son is strong,
My son is kind,
My son loves animals,
And babies, and outside.
My son is funny,
And my son is dyslexic.

My son loves to run,
My son loves to ride
On bikes, and horses,
and tractors, and bulls.
My son is outgoing,
And my son is dyslexic.

My son is loving,
My son is courageous,
My son likes to hear stories on tape,
And stories I make up.
My son loves to snuggle,
And my son is dyslexic.

My son is unique,
My son is smart,
My son is a good friend,
and brother, and son.
My son is creative,
And my son is dyslexic.

My son hates to read,
My son hates to spell,
My son is terrible at sounding out words,
with letters, with books.
My son loves to learn,
And my son is dyslexic.

My son is amazing,
Dynamic and charming.
My son is a ray of light in my life.
He is going to be successful he tells me.
My son is dyslexic,
And my son will succeed.

em

My daughter, my swimmer

My daughter competed in  a swim meet today. 
We have done this before, several times.
But always, always, there comes a moment
when I am awed, inspired, amazed
at the wonder of this daughter of mine.
Today was no different
I watched her, as I sat on the timers' bench (a front row seat)
She stood beside her teammates, lined up
ready to take her turn to climb up the step
onto the platform, and dive in.
I watched her standing there,
tall, thin, fair-skinned
in her yellow and black swimsuit
her shiny black swim cap snug on her head
her last name bolded in white capital letters on the side
her goggles, white straps around her head, blue-framed on her forehead,
her hands twisting back and forth, her arms swinging
stepping from foot to foot
as she tried to get the blood pumping,
her nervous energy used to rev up
she cheered her teammate on,
she took the steps to the top and leaned forward,
bouncing on the balls of her feet
her arms never stopping their swaying motion
the judge looked at my daughter and I saw her through his eyes-
a competitor, an athlete-
my baby girl, my katie may
my eyes filled with tears
as my heart filled with pride
there was my daughter-
a young woman
a competitor
an athlete chasing her dreams
fulfilling mine.
em

Dreams and courage

  On a day like today, when I am feeling down on myself and wishing I were more outgoing, more friendly, more creative, more talented, more sociable, more patient, etc., I find myself aimlessly wandering facebook and blogger.  I find myself reading a blog by a friend who is wishing she had the courage to live the life she wants.
And then, I realize, I have courage.  And finally, my depressing and pitiful mood changes as I realize that I am courageous.  I may not be achieving all my goals, and I may not have changed the world yet, but I am not done.  I may need to be more- (insert something here)- but I am many good things.
One of the things I often find myself doing is dreaming up new goals, new ideas, new things to do and places to go to add to my list. And, as I think about it, I realize that I don't make "wish lists", I make "to do" lists.  SO, I am going to torture you (if you continue to read) with some of these endless lists I keep in my brain.
Things I have done:
I am there for my children every day that I possibly can and be there for them every time they do something amazing, every time they fall, and support them in everything they do.  My current mission:  I will be at every horse show my children compete in with their drill team.  I will not miss a single swim meet of my daughter's.  I will not miss my boys getting Scout medals, pins, belt loops, or patches.  I will be there.
I want to help couples become families. I am at two families, three babies so far, and I am not done yet.
I want to live a life where I can be me. I spent many years in a world where it wasn't safe to be me, so I make sure that I am being true to myself.
I want to spend my life with a man who loves me and supports me in all these wild adventures I want to have. I am.  He does.

Things I am doing on my "to do" list:
I want to travel the world.  I am, slowly, but surely, travelling every time an opportunity presents itself.
I want to have a beautiful home to share with my husband, my children, and more children.  I have a nice one, but I am looking for a new one every day.
I want to give my children everything I had that was beautiful and good, and everything I didn't have that I think they should have.  I am doing my best every day to give them those things.

It is sometimes mind-boggling to try to keep up with all the plans I make in my head every day.  I want to do so much more than I am:
I want to get in shape and be able to run a marathon like my father has.
I want to foster or adopt children in need.
I want to open a crisis pregnancy center with no political or religious view- just helping girls do whatever is best for them.
I want to be an advocate for surrogacy.
I want to be a CASA (Court appointed special advocate for children)
I want to be an advocate for gay rights, equality, and marriage.
I want  to write a novel, but can't seem to wrap my head around the right topic.
I want to stand as an example of Christ so clearly that His love can be shown through my actions.

It is not enough for me to be mediocre.  It is not enough for me to have simply lived.  It will not be enough, at the end of my travail on this earth, to say, "life was good."  I want more.

I want, quite simply, to change the world.

I just need to find a way to do it during the course of the day where we:
Wake up
Take K to swim
Come home, get ready for work
Kiss boys and husband, go to work
Work all day (this should really be about 12 lines with work capitalized)
Pick up K
Come home to T and B
Homework, papers, read notes, read novels with children (Or run all over town to activities, depending on the day)
Make dinner
Clean up
Run around town to all of our activities (or do homework, check and sign papers, read novels with children)
Come home, get ready for bed
Read with my children / Watch a family show together
Collapse in exhaustion and go to sleep
Repeat

I feel like the man in the famous poem by Robert Frost, "but I have miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep."
Life is short.  I have my oldest child for only 3 1/2 more years.  There is no time to live in doubt or fear.  There is no time to wait for the right time.  There is only time to enjoy every moment because- I have learned at least this one lesson- you only get it once.  No moment ever returns the same way twice.  I love my life.  It is my life and I choose it every day.  I may lack many things, but I am no coward.  I will never back down when I can step forward.  I embrace this life, the challenges, the smiles, the sorrows, the blessings, and I plan to live every moment of it with gusto.
Courage.  It's everything.  And after many years, it is mine.

The results are in...

So, I had forgotten all about my previous post about heading out to Guatemala.  I have been home for almost a month now and been busy with life- as usual.  It is only now as I look at my blog that I remember vaguely...
I went to Guatemala with a heart full of love and hope.  I was not disappointed.
My team was a group of ten people, only one whom I already knew (my friend Denise).  There was a couple and their daughter who is only a year older than my own daughter, a couple and their daughter who is about my age, a young man, and a young woman- all of whom have a deep and abiding faith in God and in service.  These people, who started out strangers, became a family to me this week and taught me things I needed to know and reminded me of things I had forgotten.  I know they were put in my life for a purpose, and I am so grateful for each one of them.
We arrived in and drove through Guatemala City quickly and within an hour had arrived in Antigua.  It is a beautiful, old city with volcanoes around it.  The properties are all enclosed in walls, so the roads abruptly end at tall walls and the city is hard to see- except central, open areas for some churches and parks.  We ended up staying not at the team house, but at a bed and breakfast type home.  It was beautiful and cool and peaceful and I could have stayed forever!
We spend Sunday in a market, purchasing supplies for our trip down to the village, and worshipping at Iglesia del Camino (church of the road).  We sang songs in Spanish and English all at once and listened to dual-pastors share the message.  The song Guia Me El Cruz (Lead Me to the Cross) will always remind me of this trip and the beauty of celebrating God's love through music.  I think this was the moment that I started to feel His love again.  I didn't want the song to end; I wanted it to play forever and continue to fill me with joy.
We headed out Sunday evening for Hotel 6 in La Maquina, the area we would be serving in.  We waved goodbye to the cool weather and comfortable housing, and headed down toward the coast.  La Maquina is not quite to the coast, so we didn't go all the way to the ocean, but we did drive for about four hours.  The hotel is very modest.  Three of us ladies shared a room with three twin beds, three big fans and two small fans, ventilation in the tops of the wall and a window, and a bathroom with one knob in the shower with one little pipe sticking out of the wall- the cold water shower.  Mind you, I did not say the words air conditioning or window unit.  These things do not exist where we were.  And the initial horror of no hot water ends abruptly after a day in hot and humid weather.  The cold water shower was the blessed end to every day of heat.  I don't know that I will ever be so grateful for a cold water shower again!
We spent Monday through Friday in a village called Linea C-6.  The villages are all spread down a main road (the line), and each line is given a letter (C) and each village is given a number (6).
We built the well at the Asemblia del Dios (Assembly of God) church, so that all people would have access.  The drilling team spent the week drilling the well.  I, along with two other ladies and our hygiene leader (an awesome lady named Blanca), went into the school (K-6) to teach the children every morning.  We taught them about washing their hands, brushing their teeth, keeping their food safe, and taking care of the well.  We played with them at recess and we held their hands while we talked.  We made salvation bracelets with them and acted out Bible stories.  We were silly and we were honest.  We were loving and we were friendly.  We fell in love with these kids!
We spent our afternoons teaching the ladies of the village the same lessons we taught the children.  They were sweet women and had such a sense of community.
The entire time in the village was amazing.  These people that we, as Americans, look at as being poor, needy, third world, and lacking- these people, taught us about community, kindness, laughter, hope, and peace.  Their lives are simple in worldly things, but their hearts are full of friendship, patience, and faith.  A few scenes that stick out in my mind:

• Our first day in the village, the four of us who composed our hygiene team went walking through the village with a guide in order to invite the women to the church for the lessons.  At most homes, we were invited to sit down and the hostess would not be satisfied until we did.  At most homes, the outside rooms with dirt floors were swept so the lines of the broom showed that it was a well-cared for home. 
• Our team went down to the river Samala one day.  It is the river the entire area is named for, and we loaded up in the back of a pick up truck with a few of the men and a few of the boys, and took off.  When the drivable road ended, we walked through cow fields and crossed several small rivers (I think I counted 10) to get to the big river.  It was beautiful and we played in it.  We sat on the bank and played with the kids in the sunshine.  When we returned, we were an hour late for our meeting with the women.  I ran up to them- covered in mud and water as I was- and apologized in my poor Spanish for being so late because we had been at the river.  The women smiled at me, and one woman asked, "Isn't it beautiful?"  I said yes, and we carried on. 
• During a lesson with the women one day, I noticed a mother and daughter using sign language.  After the lesson, I went to ask if they signed.  It turns out that the daughter is deaf and has been educated at a school for the deaf.  Her sign language is different than ASL, but we worked around that.  I told her we had a young man on our team who was hard of hearing, and went over to see if he knew sign.  He didn't, but another team member was sitting next to him who works with a group that provides hearing aids to people!  He had a great talk with the girl, Keyla, and her family.  I was able to translate between Adam (our team member) and Keyla's parents.  I was able to speak Spanish and convert it into sign (which I had to translate in my head from English to Spanish) and translate back to English as Adam told them he would work on getting her hearing aids.  I was then able to, the next day, stand there and translate that he was able to promise hearing aids for Keyla.  Coincidence?  I just happened to look at these women in a moment of signing, David (our team member who is hard of hearing) just happened to be sitting by Adam, and a hard of hearing man, a woman who signs, and a man who provides hearing aids, all just happened to be on the same mission trip?  This was a God moment. 

I learned so many things from the people in this village.  I spent four days focused on serving these people- my brothers and sisters- and giving all that I had.  My days taught me patience, humility, kindness, love, and gratitude.  I learned how to see people as Christ does, and truly SEE them.
I spent four nights praying and having devotional with my team and discussing what we learned that day over dinner.  My nights taught me faith, hope, forgiveness, and friendship. 
We left the village Thursday afternoon amidst hugs with our friends and tears from the children.  I have a family in Guatemala now, and I will hold the people of Linea C-6 in my heart forever.
We went to an orphanage, Amor del Nino (Love of Children) on Friday morning.  I played with children, held sick infants, and fed two month old babies their formula.  I toured the orphanage and saw a place full of love.  The nineras work 7 day, 12 hour week shifts for these children.  I was amazed at how many kids there were.  No matter how much love these women have, it is not enough for the 50 kids they are trying to care for.  I just held babies all morning.  I couldn't leave.  Every time I got up and put down a child, someone else would cry.  It was as if their little voices were just pleading, "what about me?"... "please pick me".  I loved every minute I spent there.  I did not cry as we left as I thought I would, but my heart was full of love for these children and I realize that I love children.  Period. 

Now, to the big question.  Did I find renewed faith?  Did I find God through serving others? 
Let me share a few more experiences:

• Liz, one of my roommates, told me, "you were put on this path for a reason.  This is part of the journey God has for you."
• After my devotional, when I shared some of my life with the team and cried as I sometimes do, Ken (our team leader), pulled a chair into the center of the group, where I sat wide-eyed, as everyone formed a circle around me, put their hands on me, and several of them prayed.  It was not a blessing as I am accustomed to- but there were prayers sent up from a group of people who were my family that week.  There were words sent up to God from the lips of the faithful on my behalf.  And I felt God's love.
• I went to Guatemala with the difficult choice of allowing my children to go live with their father every other week.  I kept this pain at bay, and every time I thought of it, I just said, "God, I can't take this one.  I need you to take it now."  And the pain would leave immediately. 
• Every night, I heard the testimony of someone in my team.  I saw what we did every day, and I heard and felt how it impacted each of us every night.
• For much of the trip, the song "A Window to His Love" played in my head.  I was to be a window to the pure love of Christ, and I was able to see Him because of it.
• I had scriptures I hadn't thought of in years pop into my head while having conversations with my team members.

In short, I felt God in my life more powerfully than I have in a long time.  The weight of deciding if  should let the kids go live with their dad every other week left me.  I knew that I needed to let them go.  God made this answer for me, handed it to me, and carries the weight of the pain- when I let him.  I am far from being the devout Mormon woman I once was.  I don't know that I will ever find absolute trust in a religion again.  But my faith in God is absolute.  The answers, the safety, the pure joy of His love has renewed my faith.  When I decided to stop questioning and just believe, I was able to see Christ again as my Savior, my brother, and my path to God.  When I just stop and believe, I am filled with a peace that I have missed so much. 
I believe, as strongly as ever, that it is in serving others that we serve ourselves.  The pathway to God is in following the example of Jesus Christ.  It is not a narrow path to Heaven, but a straight and purposeful one. 

Guatemala, yes. A mission trip, well...

I am leaving tomorrow to go to Guatemala.  It is a trip that I had not planned to go on, a trip that I just kept thinking about (thanks Denise), and finally decided to go on only three weeks out.
I am excited to see a new country, meet Guatemalans, and try new food.  I am hopeful that I can help change the lives of the people in the village we will go to. 
I am hopeful that we can bring them a well that provides water- clean, pure, drinkable water, and teach them how to use proper hygiene skills.  Mostly, I am hopeful that we can love them, serve them, and learn from them. 
I am terrified of contracting malaria, getting nasty diarrhea, or being assaulted by gangs (thank you dad for pointing out that Guatemala is home to the most violent gang on earth!). 
I am afraid that I am not strong enough to endure a week without air conditioning, seeing poverty to an extreme I have never been exposed to, and, finally, I am afraid of my heart breaking when I go to the orphanage we will visit to take supplies to.

I really had to think about going on this trip because it is, in fact, a mission trip.  These people that I am going to be travelling with are going in the name of Christ, to serve as His body and do His work.  I had to ask myself if it would be okay for me to go, since I don't know much about faith anymore.  When I filled out the application, I looked at the box with "name of your church" for several minutes before leaving it blank.  I don't have a church. 
When I came to the blank asking me for my covenant statement, I didn't know what to write.  What do I believe?  What is my testimony?  What can I honestly say about my beliefs?  I wrote something to the effect of,  "I want to follow the example of Jesus Christ in serving and loving other people."  I figured that, regardless of the reality of Jesus Christ, His is still an amazing example to follow.  I figured that would be enough.
What I have noticed these last few weeks though, is that it is not enough.  I have realized that, deep down and climbing further to the surface each day, is a belief that if I go with an open heart and do His work, that God will talk to me once more.  That if I serve Him, and share His love, then I will feel His love again.  That if I give enough of myself to others, that He will restore to me the part of Him I once held in my heart.  This is what I pray for- that in bringing God to others, they will bring God back to me.
I fear it is a wasteful hope.  I fear that I will feel only emptiness and an even deeper loss, but I hope.  I hope that I am still worth the gift of His love.

Does this make me selfish?  Probably. 
But here's hoping anyway.

The baby is here

The moment is perfect- as if it were straight out of a movie:  My children walk into the hospital room.  They see their beautiful new baby sister from the doorway.  The baby is pink and chubby, snuggled into the crook of her mother's arm.  Her father stands beside the bed, leaning over the white sheets to lay one hand on his wife's shoulder and another on his newborn daughter's cheek.  My children are overwhelmed with excitement as they race up to the edge of the bed.  Their smiles grow so broad their faces look like they are about to burst.  My children start talking all at once- how cute she is, who will hold her first, all of the giddy comments of a new-made brother or sister.
I, of course, am not in the room.  I, of course, am walking down the hall, tears filling my eyes.  Down the elevator, across the parking lot, and into the car.  It is there that the tears begin to fall.  It is there that the weight of the moment hits me.  My children are bonding with their family- and I am not in the room. 
Another consequence of divorce.  Another piece of my heart gone.  Another ache that must be forever hidden from my children. 
Divorce never stops hurting.   

When I grow up

When I grow up
I want to be pure Spirit
So I can be everywhere
I will watch my children and hold them in arms of love
They will feel my warmth and care
I will soar to hospitals
And heal the heart of grief
I will float through school houses
And hold the hand of children lost
I will fly throughout this world
And share the gift of love and peace
I will do the work of Angels
I will spread the love of God
I will know who is in need
I will make weak souls stronger
And I will bring hope to the despairing
I will complete my life this way
And when I need His love
I will beam myself to Heaven
And sit in company of Gods.

But

When I was a little girl
My momma took me to church
and I learned the names for God and Jesus
I learned all the songs and how to pray
They told me to love my Heavenly Father
and I would be happy and go to heaven

So,
I am a child of God
God is love
And families are forever
I understand,  okay

When I was eight they baptized me
One dunk, and I was purified
They laid hands upon my head
and gave me the gift of the Holy Ghost
They promised His spirit would go with me
as long as I lived the way they said

But
I am a child of God
God is love
And families are forever
so that's okay

When I was a teenager
I didn't know if I believed them
I sometimes didn't do what they said
I was told I just had to repent
and I could be clean again
they always forgave me, and it was enough

But
I am a child of God
God is love
And families are forever
so that's okay

When I was a young adult
I lost my way entirely
I didn't believe them, they didn't care
I was pregnant and eighteen
They said get married, it will be okay
I pretended to believe them, and they let me stay

But
I am a child of God
God is love
And families are forever
so that's okay

When I was a young mother
I went back to the church
I took my baby girl, and then my baby boys
My children learned the names for God and Jesus
My children learned the songs, the prayers
And I believed we would reach heaven together

And
I am a child of God
God is love
And families are forever
and we'll be okay

When I was fully grown
I went to church each week, I served the people in my ward
I taught my children all their stories
I loved God and Jesus and I prayed
I believed what they said- most of it
And when I didn't, I convinced myself to overlook it-

But
I am a child of God
God is love
And families are forever
so that's okay

When I went through a terrible divorce
I went to church for guidance, for help
Nobody had time to talk to me, to comfort me
I was alone with three small children
So I turned to God and prayed and wept
I couldn't think of a reason they left me alone-

But
I am a child of God
God is love
And families are forever
so that's okay

When I was a wayward woman
The bishop pulled me in (he had found some time)
He told me that I was not forigven
He told me I was outcast
He ripped my heart out of my chest
He turned my soul to blackened ash
Repentance and forgiveness lost-

But
I am a child of God
God is love
And families are forever
so that's okay

em

Love. (See the period there?)

As a gestational surrogate (surrogate mother), I am often assailed with questions about how I could do this to my body, my family, yada yada.  The only answer I have is:  love.  When I see somebody hurting, I want to help.  When I see a woman/man/family that can not grow, it breaks my heart. 
When I realize how easily I could help them fix that, how can I say no? 
If you saw a wounded child on the side of the road, how could you not help them?
Would it matter if that child were your own?  Would it matter if that infertile woman was your sister?  Sadly, it would. 
And then I think of all of the other ways in which we, as a society, do not show love.  When we hate people because of their race, their religion, their gender, their sexual preference.  And I realize that even though we claim to love each other, we pretty much pick and choose who we want to love.
And then I get angry.
I was raised by a mother (and, I must give credit, a religion) that taught me to love everyone.  I was taught that every single human being is a child of God, regardless of anything else, and that was the most important thing.  I was taught "Jesus said love everyone".  I never thought to question that statement.  I love everyone.  Well, I don't love everyone, honestly, there are people I really don't like.  But I don't like them for personal reasons, not for anything silly like the color of their eyes.
I didn't realize at the time that most people teach "love everyone" to their children, and then, through their actions, teach their children who "everyone" really is.  Luckily for me, my mother really did love everyone, so I never learned how not to love everyone.
As I have grown, my view has changed on many things.  I don't know that I even know what God is anymore, so I don't know how well I can connect everything to Jesus, but I do know that whatever you believe God is- whether He is a She, Mother Earth, a pantheon of gods, a spirit that lives in each of us, the power of our own minds, the collective spirit of all living things, whatever- that that God is love. 
I no longer prescribe to any specific religious views.  The only principle that I really prescribe to is love.
I am going to love everyone I can. 
When I look at people- it will be through the eyes of love.
When I vote- it will be through the eyes of love.
I am totally, completely, undeniable, and irrevocably imperfect.  I  make bad choices all the time, but I live with them, and when I can fix them and apologize to those I hurt, I do.  I say stupid things all the time- and I apologize all the time as well (my husband perhaps may disagree, but overall...)

I guess the point to this entire rant of mine (written while some Indiana Jones movie plays and my husband and father in law chat in a decidedly distracting manner) is to convey my frustration with all the time our society spends on issues like immigration, racial equality, gender bias, gay rights, and so many other "people" issues.  We are all people.  Can we just put our common humanity above the many differences between us?  Can we not just look on one another in the way my mother taught a young and innocent me?
It's all about love people, it's all about love.

My grandmother

My grandma Mary died on Saturday.  She wasn't my biological grandma; she was technically my step grandmother.  But that sounds so ridiculous, don't you think?  In my heart, and in hers, she is my grandma.  Since I was ten years old, she has loved me, fed me, hugged me, taught me, and laughed with me.  She accepted me from the first moment I walked into her home.  When my daughter Katie was born, a relative stated that my Katie "wasn't really the first grandchild".  My grandma said, "oh yes, she is." 
When my son was born, my grandma flew down to visit.  She laid down on the couch with that baby, and she sang and cooed to him for so long I thought they would both fall asleep.
On the day she died, I felt so empty, so helpless and pitiful.  So, my daughter and I went and bought a beautiful candle and a candle holder.  We lit it in rememberance of our beloved grandma. 
I lit the candle
It was golden and beautiful
As I looked into it's flame
I realized that my grandma was a light
She taught us a love of good cooking
She taught us a love of travel
She taught us to live each day with joy
She taught us to chase our dreams
She taught us how to laugh
She taught us to be strong women
She taught us to stand up for our beliefs
She taught us how to embrace every day like it were the only one
She taught all of this by her example
She didn't just tell us stories
She lived them!
My grandma is a light
People were drawn to her because she shared that light
And now that light lives on
in the hearts of all she touched
We carry on her flame
it will never grow out.
As she dances with my grandpa Jack tonight, we remember not the darkness of her passing, but the bright, unending light she passed on to all of us.
Her flame grows brighter still.

Oh dear lady, how I miss you and love you.  I will hold you in the light and you will live forever in my heart and in the hearts of my children.  Three generations call you blessed, and generations to come will shine with the light you have left to us.

Sharing

Divorce never stops hurting.  I can't even count the number of times that I have said this sentence or had it run through my head.  As a child, the pain of not being able to be with both my families, of never having my whole family in one place, was sometimes overwhelming.  Perhaps this is why as an adult, when I have my husband, my children, and myself all together, I feel an overwhelming peace.  Maybe that is why, as an adult, when one of my children is gone, it is like a piece of my heart is missing.
I knew when I got a divore as an adult, the guilt and pain would be infinitely worse.  I KNOW what my children go through, and I know that it sucks.  I do the best I can, I will never leave them, and I will never move them away from their father.  But I know it still hurts them.
But it hurts me too.  Today brings fresh woulnds and new tears- but wounds that must be hidden and tears that must be held in.  Because, as a parent, I cannot let my children see how I hurt because that is unfair to them. 
I have been planning to take my daughter to Taylor Swift the next time she comes.  Yesterday, my husband told me to buy tickets.  Today, I found out her stepmother is taking her.  My dream.  My daughter.  Another woman.  Divorce never stops hurting.
Just when everything is going along just fine, just when everyone is getting along, just when I am accepting a life in which my kids have two families, just as I think everything will be okay, BAM.  Divorce never stops hurting.  So, all day, I hold in the tears.  So, all day, I stifle the pain.  So, all day, I tell myself I have no right to be upset.  I have no right to be selfish with my child's time.  I have no right to let her know how I feel.  I have lost those rights.  I have lost that dream.  I have lost that moment with my child. 
I am the every day.  I am the routine.  I am the safety.  The reliability.  The one who will get her to school on time.  The one who will make sure her homework is done.  The one who does the laundry.  The one who pays for the braces.  The one who shows up to everything.  The one who lets friends come over.  The one who always has food on the table.  The one who holds it all together.  And it is expected of me.  And I am glad to do it. 
But sometimes, I want to be more than that.  But that is wrong.  And I just remind myself that this is my fault.  That this is my doing.  That as long as she is happy, I will be happy too.  But that doesn't stop the pain. 
Divorce never stops hurting.