Stumbling Towards Perfect

When I was 16 years old, I tried to ignore the sleek black antique Mustang my best friend drove to school. I looked over the roof of my other friend's brand new Mustang convertible, gleaming brightly from its parking spot. I pretended I was completely okay sauntering up to my nice Reliant K automobile with its faded blue interior and cracker box shape. I pretended I didn't mind the fact an 80-year old woman had driven this same car maybe two miles a week for the past fifteen years. But the truth is, I did mind. I thought I deserved better. Never mind the fact that my father labored for hours in a too hot, dimly lit, loud factory for more hours a day than I worked total in a month in order to get me that car. Never mind that my daddy searched for the safest car he could get me for the money we didn't have. Never mind that there were four of us kids crammed within 5 years of each other, which meant cars every year and overtime every chance it was offered. No, I thoug...

It's funny; when people are alive we do a lot of relating through the things we have in common with them. We find that common ground and cling to it. It's comfortable. It's enjoyable. It's what we know. When someone precious to us dies, we frantically try to figure out all that stuff that we didn't have in common. Who were they really? What thoughts did they have before falling asleep at night? Why did they enjoy so much the things that we couldn't relate to? Although, as my daughter, I knew her very well, I didn't know Avery as a classmate, or as a friend, or as another kid in gymnastics class. Who was she when she wasn't my daughter ? I had always known that Avery felt called to help others. She was drawn to the kid who sat alone, felt the need to protect the kid who was made fun of for being too nerdy, felt it her duty to extend her hand to those who had fallen.  I just didn't understand why. I knew that she would spend her life quiet...

I've always been sensitive. If there is a slight breeze, I'll feel it. If there is a whisper of an odor, I'll smell it. If there comes a chill in the air, my body feels it. And if there is a word or deed that hurts, my fragile soul will begin to crumble. I understood at an incredibly young age the power of words. Not just the words themselves, but how they're delivered. The passive aggressive comments that are meant to attack. The back handed compliments whose only purpose it was to damage. And while, of course, when directed at me, my heart would break and I'd start to cry, it was when I heard things about my children that the pain  I felt would just about almost crush my spirit into nothingness.  I have been so stuck lately on a comment that was made many years ago about Avery. It hurt the first time I heard it, but the remembrance of it makes me angry. And I can't understand why.  And so it is that I write. Because for me, I don't know what ...

When Avery died, all the dreams and expectations I had for her died, too. Of all the things she wouldn't do, the fact that she wouldn't attend prom was one of the toughest for me to accept. See, I had always wanted to be that mom who drove to the big city (in my case, Milwaukee) in search of the perfect prom dress for my baby girl. We'd shop and eat and laugh and shop some more. We'd make a big deal over getting her hair and nails done and I'd take no less than 117 photos the day/night of the infamous prom. I'd stay up ridiculously late reading and not watching the television just waiting for my baby girl (who was growing up way too fast) to come home, fall onto the couch with a huge smile and announce that she had just experienced the best time of her life ever. Jadrian had little interest in prom. She had even less interest in sharing that experience with her mother. And so, in a way, everything fell on Avery. And then she was gone. Just like that. O...

About thirty-seven seconds after finding out one is pregnant, comes the rush of realizing that somehow this human life form will need to exit your body. And that it will  hurt. Pregnant women hear a plethora of tales from used-to-be pregnant women detailing the horrors of childbirth (whether they want to or not). Woes of failed epidurals, the horrors of the Ring of Fire - " don't worry, it's just your flesh tearing " -  thirty seven hours of torturous labor; all will be told. And yet, no matter how many stories are heard, each delivery is as unique and individual as the person giving birth. Yours may be better, or worse, or eerily similar, but never exact. The thing to remember is that every ache, pain, and sensation will only be felt by you. Others can try to empathize. They can rub your lower back, remind you to breathe, spoon feed you ice chips - any myriad of ways in an attempt to ease your pain, but they can't do it for you. Funny thing is, enduri...