It's a full moon at the end of July

My mother in law would always assign psychotic behavior or events to the full moon.

I happen to have a certain offspring that I think is under the same spell from the full moon that would cause her to defeatedly throw her hands up and say, "It's the full moon!" I'm fairly certain that is besides the point here.

What I'm trying to say is that it's the end of July. Every year, this deep melancholy tries to swallow me whole---and every year I'm blind sided by it. It causes me to defeatedly throw my hands up and say, "I hope it's a full moon" because, you know, then there's the scape goat.

But it's that heavy hearted, bone aching kind of distortion that has me wringing my hands and furrowing my brow, "What is this?"

And then, as if like clock work, I notice the date. And it causes me to pause and do a crooked half smile---the one that is to say, "darn it", as my hands reflexively reach up to touch my face in anticipation of the hot tears that will begin to flow. I hold my breath and just try to envision him for as long as I can.

Five years seems so far away. You know, we probably would have held him back this year. He would have been small like his brothers, and his birthday is so late in the year; I wouldn't want him to be the youngest in his class. And then I think, well, he wouldn't have been born for a couple more months, really, so of course, he wouldn't be starting school until next year, anyway.

That's right.

I see him so clearly. Lighter hair than J. Darker skin than Hugh. Our only blue eyed boy. Oftentimes his face morphs to become other little almost-five-year-old-boys that I know--- you know, the ones that didn't die. And it doesn't make me sad for a moment, but laugh about the thought process there. Because, while I know him, I don't get to squeeze those cheeks or snuggle that rascal, so I've watched the other little boys that were born around the time as him. They've all grown, and learned how to run and jump---it usually makes me cry; however, at this moment it gives me something to say, "yeah, that could be him; he could have really been here," and for a strange reason it's not sad. For this moment. Because it reminds me that he is real.

But five just seems like such a big boy. A big boy that could swim, ride a bike, write his name. And he could teach his little brother so much. But then again, his little brother wouldn't be here if he were, and how do you consolidate that.

So I don't.

I take a deep sigh.

And then my heart starts doing that heavy achey thing.




It's a week from his birthday.
And my bones always feel it before I my brain does.

And it's ok. It's like the full moon. It comes and makes us feel unrecognizable for a while, and then we are fine again.

Full moons and the end of July hurt the most. But August eventually comes. And then September.

When my former self talks to my former self.

Oh man. I did it. I went into the vault of this here blog to the large stack of drafts, and started reading. Some of the things I've read made me shake my head in shame for ever writing such tripe nonsense, and some just left me laughing and thinking, "Oh, silly girl." In order to be true to my former self, I'm going to post some, because, well, why not?

Excuse the formatting of all of them. I was planning on editing them and changing them to look like an adult wrote it, instead of a Junior High student, but come on... this juvenile hoopla is more endearing.

I mean, girl's got spirit!!




ORIGINALLY SCRIBBLED TOGETHER IN September, 2012.

I was snuggling Hugh on the big blue chair. He ended up falling asleep in my lap after I tricked him into pretending like he was asleep---- uhhhh me for the win! Anyway, it was wonderful. I got to sit and stare at him for an uninterrupted hour or so. And I thought about how badly my heart longed for him, years before he even came. How difficult my pregnancies have been. How much loss has/is associated with growing my little family.

I told myself that I have felt really jipped.
I surprised myself with the sincerity in my voice. I meant it.

In no way has this journey been easy.
I have not been given the easy card. Not once.
And that is just so unfair.

And I just sat and stared at my second born with this lump beating in my heart.

Then something happened.
My voice from 2006 spoke to me. It was the voice a different defeated and heart broken soul. Yet it was all familiar. I remembered her. This girl wanted babies. Buckets full of babies. And she had not one to call her own, instaed several miscarriages under her belt. That girl had been to infertility doctors, and taken several medications to try to remedy this, and honestly, at this point, she didn't really know if it would ever happen.

And that girl spoke to me.

"You have everything I've ever wanted."

And I sat. Frozen. "But my heart still hurts..."

"But you have everything I've ever wanted."

And I brushed the hair out of my three year old baby's face. My fingers circled his eyes, and traced his bright red lips.

Tears ran down my cheeks.

I thought of his big white haired brother. That boy. He made me a mother. He made me.

And the voice seemed to nod.

But my heart bulged: what about the other brother. My Walt. He died.
He died.

I want him here.

My own heart started to beat faster. And this body. This good for nothing body, that can't procreate to save it's life.

It has failed me.

"But you have everything I've ever wanted." continued to echo in my ears.

Trying to grasp at strings in order to hold my ground that my life has been so unfair. I closed my mouth to keep from shouting: but those failed placements!! They still hurt and taunt my aching heart. The babies that I gave my whole heart to, that took a piece of my heart when they left my life.

But then, our curly haired baby brother sleeping in the other room. Those curls! His smile. He miraculously found us. He made it home, too. To me. My son.

And I had to hold my chest, because I thought it was going to break right open:

"But you have everything I've ever wanted."

And I sat.


I held the words in my hands, as if tangible.

Turns out,

I have everything I've ever wanted.

Right now, in my life, there is something that I wanted at sometime, more than anything in the world. There is a lot of turmoil, disappointment, and frustration, but there is something. Something perfect. Something that at one poing in my life was the only thing. And I have that. Right now. Something.

I clearly have some damage control going on in this heart that continues to surprise me with it's depth of those dark holes of pain, packed full of "what if's" and "I wants".


So, I decided to be happy. That part is up to me. Nothing is going to change. I can't take back the wrongs or to fix all the hurt and unjustices. Choices have been stripped from me; there will always be things that I hurt for, and long for. But gosh dangit, for the dreams that have come true, for the impossibles that did work out in my favor, for the "something" that is a part of my life everyday, for the"something" that I prayed for and has graced my presence, and for every breath held, every hope dreamed, all the love of 2007, I am choosing to be happy.

Because in her eyes, I'm living the dream!

Is this thing still on?

Man, oh man, it's been a while. I supposed I could click on my blog to actually figure out how long it's been since my last post, or where on earth I left off, but that would take a lot of effort. I think. And I don't really care to explain each meal I've eaten, or tell you how many times I've tried to quit swearing since then, so I say, "Carry on!"

I've gotten really good at not doing the things I actually want to be doing. Like, blogging. I mean, I hate blogging, but I like writing enough, and I like reading about my own family enough, and apparently I'm self centered enough, that this whole blogging gig should get a lot more stage time. But, you know, Gilmore Girls came on Netflix, and I became crazed-obsessed about finishing it. And well, you should know that Tay Tay is nothing, if not an over-achiever; so, I decided to stop showering, eating, and/or sleeping, in order to achieve my lofty goals.

Now that that's out of the way, I suppose I can get back to my other goals in life, like writing about myself.

Lofty goals. High achiever. Self centered.

Really, when I blog, I see myself and my kids (who are still in that whole needing-to-be-raised stage) sitting out on the porch of a wood cabin, some 20 odd years from now, reading this stuff and laughing about it. I really try to focus on that whole concept, and less on the whole annoying part about writing in cyber space and people getting pissed off because you didn't use the right comma, or you write a crass phrase like "pissed off", and you wrote about someone getting mad about someone getting mad about someone getting mad....

Yawn.
I don't know.

So me. This blog is going to be about me. I promise to offend, and show no propriety. It comes naturally to me. But I really just hope I write more, and watch less than acceptable television...less.

Opposites attract.

ORIGINALLY WRITTEN MARCH 2010

My boys basically won the genetic jack pot: super intelligence, less-than-average stature, shocking good looks, love magnets to the entire human population, with shoddy immune-slash-respiratory-systems. Lucky!! This time of the year, without fail, their eyes get hazy, and their chests get heavier. And this process just drags on and on and on. It's lovely. Tons of fun! Come over! 

So, I finally decided to trudge into the Dr. office with my brood in fairly sad shape. Considering I'm the adult in this get-up, I was ready to wave my white flag; a girl can only handle so much wheezing from her mini-men-folk.

Turns out, the drugs used to kick the asthma attacks out of the park, weren't doing the job because the little boyzzzz were clogged up with unrelenting ear infections, and one equally awesome sinus infection per child. Bam! Mother of the Year award!!! I immediately started fumbling my purse, searching for a pen and paper to write my acceptance speech. Job. Well. Done. To me.

But here's the fun part: The Dr. also told me, with a very serious tone of voice, that I need to "watch Hugh very closely all his life, because he has a very high pain threshold." And I actually laughed out load,  which did not impress the doctor. He was meaning business. It's just that, well, Hugh has always been a freak of nature. We know this. He's that kid in our family. J has problems with absolutely needing things to be in order, and clean and controlled and just-so. Germs sincerely frighten him. As in....he will freak out if you leave the toilet seat down because there is justnowayinhell he is capable of lifting the seat himself----THE GERMS!!!! THE GERMS!! and he will always (ALWAYS!) wash his hands at least 7 billion times after he possibly things there could be any chance of contamination. Are you getting this? That's J. And Hugh? Well. He's not. Hugh is is always in a constant state of disaster. He is messy, and filthy, and gross, and brave, and so so freakishly super tough.

So, while the Dr. made that claim considering the severity of his ear infection with absolutely no indication of pain what so ever, I have also come to that conclusions years ago through daily activities that include him leaping off the top of J's loft bed onto the floor and laughing, falling down our flight of stairs and just standing up like it was no big deal, and other completely irrational and frightening, very normal occurrences of him leaping, jumping, throwing, diving or flipping off various objects and landing on his head without making any notion of it effecting him. WHEW! That was one long run-on sentence. Made me super tired.

Yes. Hugh has a very high pain threshold, and patience for all things scary and dangerous and gross. And he is the biggest blessing slash worst nightmare for his poor clean, particular, orderly brother.

God must have thought that was pretty funny to send them together.

.

I don't know why this randon post about nothing, was never posted. But I really liked the pictures of the boys, so I'm pushin' publish.
I do what I want.

My favorite thing to do.

We spoke in church on Sunday.

You know how that always goes? The itchy, sweaty, shaky? Oh. Maybe that's just me. But sitting on the back row (Oh no, I wasn't about to sit up on the stand to await my impending doom, looking into the eyes of the humans that were ready to witness death-by-public-speaking), waiting for the youth speaker to finish his whole 5-second long talk, made me want to jump up and down and throw a tantrum.

What IS that??

I am not 2. Or even 12 for that matter.Why should this be such.a.big.deal? Oy.

And I'm not even shy. At all. I never have been. Ever. But, whatever. Ask me to speak in church, and I feel like you are asking me to saw off my own appendage.

If you're wondering, I survived.

And I'm sure, per my usual self-evaluated performance, that I got across about 4% of the intended content. Sigh.

Oh, and that Chris guy? He took a whole five seconds to "gather some info" on the topic, and then just winged it. No notes. He says he likes to "follow the spirit" and "speak from the heart" or some other sort of made up method. I mean, who DOES that?? Following the spirit as you speak to a church congregation? Who does he think he is? A Mormon?

Show Off.