···Mama Scribble···: 02.2012

Proof of little wonders

A little over a month ago I wrote the story of my temporary parents in, 'Once upon a daughter.'

"Just when you least expect it,

a little piece of wonder smacks you to tears and sheer smiles..."- vj

Allow me to express that my goal in sharing my deepest emotions and struggles here on my blog is to allow myself to further edify my mere existence, perhaps figure out a thing or two and maybe, just maybe, inspire one person while I'm at it.

My dear and loyal readers, what I am about to share with you has 'proven' a response to the one question I've grappled with for most of my adult life:

Was there ever a time where I was a genuinely happy child?

I've shared some unfortunate things here on my blog as well as, emotionally draining issues and some scary stuff, among others. Today, I give you my 'proof' of little wonders.

I finally received the answer to my one question. Here's the story...

Monday, February 27th

I recognized the handwriting immediately. There was a small box sitting on my doorstep. It was addressed to me. I love receiving personal mail. I'm a geek like that.

A package from my Aunt Mary (my memory keeper) instantly put a smile on my face. I truly had no idea what to expect.

I excitedly brought the box into the house and immediately began peeling away the layers of packing tape from the edges. The box was methodically stuffed as to protect something valuable. My heart began to race.

I don't know why but perhaps I felt that something wondrous was going to be uncovered?

Next, I pulled out one, then two, then three crumpled pieces of brown paper out from the box.
Then the note appeared.

As I read those beautifully written words, my heart fell to my feet and I was overcome with heavy emotions. I held my mouth in complete 'awe' of what I was about to view for the very first time in my life.

My hands were trembling with excitement and my heart continued to pound against my chest.

I unwrapped a beautiful little box with a dragonfly on it! (Dragonflies are my absolute favorite insect. They're like little magical creatures to me.) Inside this special little box I found a perfect collection of memories. Memories I thought I was NEVER lucky enough to have or own.

Carefully contained in this little box were 68 perfectly preserved slides. All of them were photos of me just after I turned two in August 1979.

Tears thickly welled up in my eyes as I gently removed each slide to hold up to the pendant lamp above me. My husband was standing beside me, holding my back and simply 'awe' struck with what he was witnessing. Photos of a little me that resembled each one of my little girls (especially our Kalina.)

You may be wondering why all of this is so incredibly precious to me? You see, I was a neglected and oftentimes abandoned child and up until now, there had been little 'proof' of a time when I was genuinely happy and safe and enjoying every waking second of my little life.

On this particular day I held 'proof' of joyous moments.

I held 'proof' of a loving mother (Aunt Mary) to me.

I held 'proof' of a loving father (Uncle Julio) behind the lens of that camera documenting and capturing the little wonders happening before him.

I held 'proof' that my psyche was indeed marked with the deepest form of love and compassion by two very special and selfless individuals.

I held proof.

"A mother does not solely have to be the person who gestated you

but can also be the person who nurtured and loved you beyond understanding..."- vj

Gratitude is an understatement.

I bawled and whimpered and held my heart with each breath I took.
I worked hard to sniff up my snots!

"One click of a shutter can freeze and contain all the love and beauty

that a loving father beheld in his eyes..."- vj

Because I was moved to sobs of joy I felt compelled to reach out to someone that also held a piece of my past with him, my 'brother' Chris (Aunt Mary and Uncle Julio's youngest son.) Something inside of me felt that there was a possibility that he had played a role in this amazing treasure given to me.

Well, it turns out that he had played a role in this and for that I am ETERNALLY GRATEFUL.
Weeks ago, Chris and his lovely wife had gone to visit my Aunt and Uncle and he stumbled upon them going through all of these old photos and slides. When he saw this, my dear Chris told my Aunt Mary that I 'needed to see them and have them.' He swung this incredible pendulum into motion.

I love you, Chris. No matter how much distance is between us or the many years that have overlapped our lives, Chris IS and will always be my big brother. My heart is drenched in absolute appreciation.

Chris & little me circa 1979

Tuesday, February 28th

Just as Aunt Mary had written in the note, the photo album arrived in a separate box. I happened to be on my porch when the box arrived and I mentioned to the mail carrier that he had just 'delivered a treasured gift' and he smiled and said 'enjoy!'

My Aunt Mara was visiting me at the time and we had been talking about and viewing the slides. Tears and smiles were abundant.

I tore the new box open and it revealed a personal album.

The album

The dedication

Aunt Mary put time, energy and a ton of LOVE into making this album for me. The best part was finding small notes from her memory bank describing details that only a 'mother' would know and share.

Our time together was special and sacred and I now own this 'proof' to share with my own daughters.

I look at these photos and cannot help but to bathe myself in tears...

"You were still in diapers but going from toddler to little girl in a hurry."-Aunt Mary

'Proof' of a happy baby girl...

"Every morning you would pick out what you wanted to wear

including your socks and shoes." -Aunt Mary

Little 'fashionista'

"...Some of our friends gave you a baby shower with lot's of clothes as gifts..."

"You loved bubble baths... the more bubbles the better..."- Aunt Mary

Look at that smile! Pure joy...

"You loved playing with cousins Chris & Mike's hamster, 'Poncho Bandito' "- Aunt Mary

Fascinated...

"You loved books..."- Aunt Mary

My Aunt Mary made that 'princess' costume for me and

I was able to have an 'early' and safe halloween experience before returning to my birth mother.

The bottom photo is Aunt Mary and me on our last day together.

33 years ago I was gifted with unconditional love and affection, not to mention all of the contagious giggles.

10 years ago I was gifted with pieces of my past in the form of timeless images capturing the sweet baby 'daughter' I was to Uncle Julio and Aunt Mary and little 'sister' I was to Mike and Chris.

Today, I've been gifted with a precious memory, my childhood happiness. Thanks to my first unconditionally loving parents, Uncle Julio and Aunt Mary, I can hold this close to my heart forever.

I love you both beyond what my words can ever express here.

Uncle Julio & Aunt Mary,

As a small token of my immense gratitude and absolute love for you both, I'd be honored to gift you the chance to get to know, be a part of and share in the lives of my three daughters. It is the least that I can offer with what you have forever seared in my heart and soul so long ago.

Love and compassion grew out of my time with you. Our time together was pivotal in so many ways. Thank you... thank you... thank you... from the deepest corners of my heart...

All my love,

"Compassion, from birth, is in our blood."- Dalai Lama

Sabrina's Birth: An unexpected arrival

Sabrina's pregnancy brought a tsunami of complicated emotions for me.
Since I'd had a miscarriage almost one year prior to her conception, I was nothing less than a worrier with a 'bump.' My biggest angst with her pregnancy was 'making it' to full term.
I didn't want to lose another baby.

{Pregnant in Paris}

November 2003. I was 6 months pregnant with Sabrina and very tired.
That's the Louvre behind me.

{Musée D'Orsay: Paris, France}

I loved walking the streets of Paris while being in full gestating bloom but when I visited the museums, I took 20 minute naps on any ottoman or bench I found.

Sleepy was an understatement.

On January 7th, 2004, I woke up feeling emotionally down. I don't know why because I was only tired and swollen and always hungry and did I mention, tired?

I ate a slice of cinnamon swirl toast lathered in nutella spread for breakfast (I'd pay for that later!) while listening to Norah Jones on my iMac. I was in a crabby mood, nevertheless.

Aside from being in a terrible mood that day, I was obsessed with having to go shop for baby booties and newborn hats. No idea why this was a huge 'to do' being that I was so very tired.
Regardless of all this, I ended up dragging my mother out with me to TJMaxx.

The entire time I was shopping I was having low back pain and some little cramps here and there. The baby was constantly moving about. Oddly enough, in addition to shopping for baby booties and newborn hats, I also shopped for after delivery pajama's. While shopping, I kept telling my mom that my low back hurt but I immediately blew them off as 'normal pregnancy' symptoms.

Just before we were about to pay, I mention to my mom that I needed to use the restroom. So I waddled my way to the back of the store with what I thought was the need to relieve my very full bladder.

My khaki maternity pants were way past my knees as I attempted to half squat over the toilet when I noticed a drip, drip, drip. 'Not normal', I immediately thought.

'I think I'm dripping' I told my mom.

'What? Dripping? What do you mean?' She questioned hysterically.

'Mom, yes, dripping. You need to relax.' I told her.
You'd think that the nervous one at that moment would be the very pregnant woman with her pants down to her ankles and an uncontrollable drip? Ha! Right!

'Well...what'r going to do?' She nervously asked.

'I need to call Sheila' I said.

Sheila was our midwife. We had been planning a homebirth all along. I spoke too soon because the first person I ended up call was darling hubby.

'Hello?' He said.

'Honey, I think my water broke.' I said in my calmest voice.

'What? Oh shit. Did you call Sheila?' He panicked.

'No, not yet.' I responded.

'Okay, you call her and then call me back.' He said trying to sound completely in control but I knew better.

Of course I KNEW what my midwife would say to to me once she'd learn that I was potentially leaking amniotic fluid. I was not happy. Not one bit. Since I was 3 days shy of 35 weeks, I knew that I'd HAVE to go to the hospital because in my state, a woman MUST be 37 weeks or more in order to deliver her baby at home with a midwife.

In a matter of minutes my baby had changed all of our plans. FYI, birth plans are never etched in stone. My BIG lesson here.

Since I knew that I wasn't leaking pee, I waddled my way back to the front of the store with my mother. Never mind the huge wet spot on my khaki maternity pants I was sporting while shoppers just starred at me hoping I wasn't going to plop, squat and push my baby out right THERE in front of them. Still, so embarrassing.

We made it home. I was scared. Really, really scared because I was still not due for another five + weeks. I lost my mucous plug at home after going to the bathroom and my crazy dog was trying to lick up my amniotic fluid off of the bathroom floor, "No! Miss Goldie!"

The back up OB called and asked me to go to the hospital within the next hour or so.

I cried while I laid on my side. I whimpered for the home birth I knew I wasn't going to have.
I was terrified of having a baby too vulnerable to live outside of my womb.
It was a heart wrenching feeling to go through.

My normally frenetic mother carefully packed my hospital bag and even remembered to pack my make-up and warm fuzzy socks. She'd later surprise me even more when she'd show me that she'd also brought my 'Birth Art' (from my Birthing From Within class) for me to look at during my labor.
I was so proud of her for being so helpful and quick thinking.

DH and I headed to the nearest hospital and I was given a wheelchair upon arrival. Next, my leaky fluid was tested to confirm that it was indeed my amniotic sack that had ruptured.

It was.

I was admitted and before I knew it, I was hooked up, IV'd and pinned to a bed. Yes, 'pinned' because they did not let me get up ONCE to pee in privacy, let alone the freedom to walk. Awful.

I was not having a positive hospital 'labor' experience. I ran a low grade fever and soon thereafter was put on an antibiotic drip, 'in case' of infection. (I'll save the worry and tell you now that I nor baby had an infection. It was simply 'protocol' on the hospital's part.)

The worst part for me was having the nurses randomly come in, slip on a latex glove, slather their latex'd finger tips with cold K-Y Jelly and say 'We're going to check you now, mommy.'
A feeling beyond uncomfortable. I didn't like that part either.

A few hours after I was hooked up to monitors, the back up OB ordered a 'Pitocin' (PIT) drip to be started. I refused an epidural.

The 'real' pain didn't get started until that terrible PIT got working into my system and uterus.

I. Wanted. To. Die.

But still, I refused that pesky epidural because at THAT point, I had no idea just terrible the PIT was going to make me feel. Truly. No. Clue.

The night continued on and I rode each contraction with a deep 'humming' sound that I carried from my pelvic floor up and out through my throat. My visual was 'an opening flower' and an 'open' and safe passage for my baby to come through. Visuals helped me tremendously during my labor. That, plus the instrumental music that wonderful DH remembered to bring to the hospital. Thank goodness!

January 8th around 9:30 a.m. & beyond

My contractions are so intense I cannot cry. Instead, I whimper a like a puppy needing its mother. I whimper from the harsh pain that invades my uterus, my lower back and my baby. I cannot escape the pain. I sit with it like a thrumming engine that will not cool down.

My labor music plays subtly in the background. Soft notes played by wind chimes, flutes and tibetan prayer bells. I carry myself with each individual chime whenever a deep contraction begins.

I cannot move from my bed. I cannot wriggle my baby through the birth canal into a better position because the hospital has limited my movement.

I am on my back. It hurts to lay down. My body does not want to be in this stifling position.
I resist to conform to what the nurses 'want' for me to do. I'm listening to my body and my baby, not the nurses.

The nurse continues to ask me if I want an epidural. "No, I'm sure." I say firmly. Her voice, like a distant echo I do not want to comply with. My husband is by my side, he's rubbing and soothing the pain shooting from my sacrum and breathes along with me through each intense contraction.
I squeeze his hand so tightly, I leave the imprints of my swollen fingers in his palm.

I feel like a wounded animal unable to do much but BE with the pain.

I've been given a sedative that makes me groggy. It shoots up my IV like an unstoppable force. I cannot keep my eyes open. I feel drunk. I don't like the feeling and the pain is more intense.

The OB walks in and attempts to instruct me on how to birth my baby. He is a 'man' but still, he gives me instructions. "Oh shut up you idiot!", I tell him 'in my mind' because he'll never know this kind of pain or this amount of unrelenting intensity, ever. The mind shuts off in labor. It's not an intellectual act, it's a physical force to be reckoned with.

I am in a dance with my baby. No one else will 'do' this for me. I know I am strapped to a bed but my mind and body imagines a beautiful dance with my baby. We are both working together to meet one another, a painful but most anticipated welcoming into the world. We are both very tired, still.

I'm in an out of groggy sleep and I want to meet my baby. I begin to push without instruction.
My body takes over and all of my mind shuts off.

I'm scared but I push.

I'm scared but I listen to my body.

I'm scared but I intuitively 'know' what I'm doing. This amazes and bewilders me.

I close my eyes tightly. I don't make a sound. I push with all the force I can muster down to my bottom. I'm sending love down to my baby for a safe passage through me.
I am the vessel within which is honored and blessed to carry this incredible feat forward.

Strength and love envelopes my baby and me.

I feel a powerful heat rising to my face as I push with a sort of strength that only nature and the mysteries of life has granted me. I'm incredibly exhausted but still, full of strength and elation to bring my baby forth.

My mind is not thinking, only my body working together with my baby.
I'm in blissful shock from the unimaginable strength that nature has bestowed upon my body.

As my body and my 'will' pushes with each contraction, I soon feel a burning sensation from the baby's head crowing. It's what I've heard the midwife call, 'the ring of fire' and I welcome it because I know that I'll soon meet my baby.

The room was saturated in the early morning sunlight as I danced my baby out into the world.
We danced while others watched us, breathing along, anticipating the arrival while we worked incredibly hard.

"Open your eyes, mommy", I hear the OB say to me. "Feel your baby's head!", others say.
But I cannot open my eyes because somewhere deep down inside of me I'm still scared and cannot understand what I have been able to do with my body. Nerves still exist in spite of the courage and strength I've mustered up.

"One more strong push, mommy!", the OB cheers on. Within minutes of my last strong push, I feel my baby's entire body slip out of me.

Relief overcomes me.

I've birthed my baby.

Immediately, my body releases more of the wonderful hormone 'oxytocin' in copious amounts. The 'love' hormone. The pain subsides... the physical work ends... and I cannot wait to 'see' my baby.

"Open your eyes, see your baby, it's a girl!" says the OB. I peel my eyes open and reach down to receive my seconds old baby girl. "Oh, it's my princess Sabrina! Hello, my Sabrina!" I elatedly exclaim to my new baby.

Tears fill my tired eyes. My heart is swollen with joy and love and pure bliss.
This day marks a moveable miracle in my life.

The birth of my first daughter and myself, as a new mother.
I am forever changed.

On Thursday, January 8, 2004 @ 10:56 a.m., while the brilliant sun spilled into the delivery room, my splendid daughter, Sabrina Isabella was born.
A brilliant star in our lives and a most genuine and humble soul to many.

My Sabrina, minutes after birth. 5 lbs 6 oz. 18 1/2 inches

Hardworking and tired mama...

We couldn't believe she was here!

Exhausted and elated...amazing!

Her first photo with her Daddy...

My sweet baby girl... I love you, my Sabrina ♥

To the Unsilenced

Image via Google

Today, I am UnSilenced. Again.

I voiced my story to the world and again, I. am. heard.

My heart will always be heavy but my voice will NEVER be silenced.

This is my call to the 'silenced' ones... come and BE heard.

Our pain is REAL. Our pain is RAW. Our pain is NOT our fault.

No matter how much time passes or how many times you remind yourself that the 'little person' that those awful things happened to is now stronger, braver and loved more than ever, it will never erase the images and emotions that seared a permanent scar onto the soul.

I carry myself with the confidence to know that I AM a survivor because I AM brave and
I AM strong.

I also KNOW that in no way shape or form am I defined by WHAT happened TO ME but more what I CHOOSE to be. My VOICE is heard loud and clear.

My daughters know what I, their mother, has experienced and how I have leaped forward in spite of my pain.

My daughters will understand all the troubled moments I have gone through because they will NEVER have to experience the terror and shame of abuse, so long as I am their mother.

My duty to them is to continue to be open and honest and raw. Authenticity IS the cornerstone to my mothering them.

Another voice, I am. Another 'unsilenced' survivor, I will always be.
Another echo of pain clearing the way...

The soul that resides in this body of mine will continue to move forward and BE heard no matter what lies ahead because this VOICE of mine, will NOT shut up.

To BE?

Every kid is asked, 'What do you want 'to be' when you grow up?' My personal take on this question is this: It can stifle a young person.

Why? Because you don't have to BE anything to be important, loved and valued.

I don't ask my children this question nor do I pressure them to decide on a single thing about the future because the only thing that they 'need' to 'be' right now is a child full of life, wonder and curiosity.
This is what 'being' is (to me.)

I was asked what I wanted 'to be' as a child. These are my stages of 'to be.'

At age 11, I wanted to a Lawyer. I 'knew' that going to 'Law School' would give me the ability to defend the rights of children and help those in real need. My desire to study law arose from my need to prove something to those who'd otherwise think that I'd turn out like my mother, i.e., married several times and have children from different men with zero education to fall back on.
Not the case. (no pun intended)

At age 13, I admired Barbara Walters and her stories on 20/20. I decided that I wanted to be a 'Journalist' because I felt that being a journalist meant that the stories that I'd tell would somehow impact people on a personal level and bring out the endearing quality of the human condition.

At age 18 I wrote my first children's story, 'Gordo the Green Penguin' (I still have it.)
I never knew that I had a children's story in me. I surprised myself.
A couple of years later I decided that I wanted to be a 'Writer of children's books.' I wanted to color a children's world with the canvas that I never enjoyed or imagined because being a child only happens once. I wanted to capture the essence of innocence through a tender story.

I didn't become a lawyer or a journalist or a children's story book writer. I do still desire to write children's books (I will!).

I write.

I believe that my purpose for writing is first for the absolute LOVE it and second, I think that perhaps through my words, I will inevitably touch the lives of those who find some resonance with my thoughts, ideas and creativity.

Still, it doesn't matter because I'm happy being myself, raw, open, honest and real.

Whatever it is that my children end up doing when they become adults is not up to me. I can only wish that whatever it ultimately is, makes their hearts happy. I can only continue to inspire their senses and spark their creativity in subtle ways. This is all I want for them.

What am I? I am a writer, from the heart.

The Year of the Horse: A Love Story

It's the year of the horse and I've been invited to a Chinese New Year's party
by my apartment neighbor.

I'm reluctant to go. I'm not much of a 'people I don't know' party person. But my neighbor convinces me after he tells me that I don't have to stay too long. I live alone and my only two obligations are my school and full time job. I'm 24 years old and my big plan is to attend law school.

I don't get too dressed up for the party; simple black leggings, a black microfiber tank, a long-sleeved burgundy crocheted sweater that ties only at the center of my torso and black thong sandaled heels. I leave my hair in it's natural state with curls and locks abound.

I arrive at the party after passing the house twice before. The house is bursting with people.

There's a large rectangular table at the center of the dining room with an assortment of Chinese food—Chow mien, Lo Mien, Fried rice, Won Ton soup, ribs, sweet n sour chicken and fortune cookies. Also, beer and wine galore.

I don't drink much alcohol and I'm not that hungry. I see my neighbor.

"Hey! You made it! Come, come, let me introduce you."

"Hi! Yes, thanks for the invite again." I say.

I quickly meet a couple of his friends and then he ushers me off to serve myself a plate of food.

I serve myself a spoonful of fried rice and one piece of sweet n sour chicken, to show that 'I'm eating.'

Thirty minutes slowly pass by. I'm not enjoying myself. I prepare my car keys to leave but my neighbor spots me trying to dash.

"Hey, you're leaving so fast?"

"Yeah... I had a long day at work. Preparing for trial. I'm a bit tired." I say.

It's a half lie. The work part is true but my real plans for the evening include going to read a book at my local Starbucks. But I'm grateful that he invited me.

"Wait, before you go you have to participate in the ritual!"

"The ritual? What ritual?" I say with all the skepticism I can muster up in one sentence.

"Come, come, you'll see." He says excitedly.

He takes my hand and we walk out to the backyard of the house.

I'm a little nervous. I'm not the most trusting of people. I begin to ask myself dumb questions like, 'Why did I agree to come to this stupid party. I hope this isn't an swingers gathering.

Goodness, I need to get the hello out of here!'

There's a gigantic bon fire in the center of the yard. There are double the amount of people in the backyard.

My friend hands me two items.

"Here, take this fake paper money and candle."

"What's this for?"

"Go over to that bon fire with your items and make a wish. Then, throw your candle and paper money in."

"A wish? Are you serious?"

"Yeah! Come on! It's the Chinese New Year!" He smiles and directs me to the flames.

I think this is so ridiculous. I don't make wishes. What in the world am I supposed to wish for?

Some minutes pass. I watch others dance around, kiss, throw their candles and fake paper money into the flames. I stand there, still trying to think up a wish.

I slowly walk closer to the flames, I look up at the night sky, laughter and voices all around me. Then it comes to me, the wish. I repeat it to myself: I wish for happiness. If something is bound to bring me happiness, I welcome it. Otherwise, I want nothing to do with it.

I close my eyes, kiss the fake paper money and toss it in along with the candle.

I say good-bye to my friend and head on home to pick up my book to go read at Starbucks.

I'm happy. Alone and very happy.

I stop at a local 7-Eleven before going home. I purchase a lottery ticket. I never do this.

I arrive at Starbucks, grab a table in the patio and finally sit to read my book.

Thirty minutes of reading pass by when a handsome gentleman approaches me and asks,

"Excuse me?" I raise my head from my book. "Do you think I could share this table with you? I'd hate to hog one up all for myself." His crisp blue eyes and gray knit shirt make a perfect pairing.

"Sure! Go right ahead." I say as I motion to the empty chair in front of me.

He sits, turns his body away from me, plugs in his earphones and cracks open his book. I resume reading my book. His Starbucks 'Venti' cup has a tea tag hanging from one side. I'm not drinking anything.

It's Saturday night and there is no other place I'd rather be than right here, at this table, reading.

The corner Starbucks is saturated with coffee drinkers, social groups, book lovers and smokers on this crisp February evening. I enjoy being out alone with zero obligations. The gentleman now sitting across from me seems to be enjoying the same.

I continue to read. He also is reading. After twenty minutes, I take a break, place my book face down, remove my reading glasses and stretch a bit of my sleeves down to my hands.

"It's a little chilly tonight, eh?" He asks.

"Yeah. A bit." I respond.

We start to converse. Small talk at first which later leads to more engaging conversation.

"Are you married?" I ask.

"No." He says.

"Any children?"

"No." He responds with a slight smile.

He asks me similar questions and I give him exactly the same answers he has given me.

The hours at Starbuck's pass by quickly. Our conversation goes on for hours. We realize that it's closing time and an employee kicks us out of the patio.

We're not ready for the evening to end.

It doesn't end.

We talk until 7:30 a.m. The time does not matter to us. We've spend a total of nine hours talking, sharing and laughing. It seems like just a couple of hours to us. We are enthralled with each other's company and conversation.

It has remained this way ever since...

That evening became the beginning of our love and life together. I would have never imagined it to happen this way but it's what was meant to be.

Ten years ago today, on a chilly February evening, my husband and I met at Starbucks.

It was an evening where the stars were aligned, a wish was made and a lottery ticket bought, which resulted in a chance encounter. We were two people wanting to do the very same thing on the very same night which was simply to enjoy a night of reading a book while perfectly content with our own company. Now we get to share a lifetime of love and 'happiness' together...

Happy 10 year Anniversary, my love...♥

Here we are, today, at 'the' Starbuck's we met at 10 years ago.

Gratitude and following my heart

Image via Google

One of the things that I've often felt compelled to share here are the memories of my childhood that inevitably intertwine with my mothering.

I'm constantly peeling away the layers of scabs that allow me to heal and that ultimately permit me to mother my three sweet daughters in the ways that I myself dreamt of being mothered.

One might say that it's a form of therapy. I'd agree.

I have much to be grateful for. Becoming a mother has been the cornerstone in allowing me to face and sit with the sometimes unpleasant and oftentimes painful events from my past. Ignoring it would be foolish of me. Pain comes with growth. Becoming aware takes time. I am solely responsible for my actions. Overall, I am grateful for being able to love and mother my daughters as I do.

Love is a road we all trek down and sometimes we stumble upon rocks that leave us bruised and scraped. The most painful ones often intersect at a very young and impressionable age (at least for me.) Sometimes not for others. But still, love is unrelenting and the heart, when followed, is full of gratitude for the chances at loving and being loved...again.

Nothing is ever single facetted. Life is complicated. People are complicated. Moments are gone so quickly. The feeling always remains.

The crevices of my world hold nuggets of time and people and places. Because my life was threatened at a very young age, I've learned to be grateful for the mundane things that truly make me happy and to always find some form of solace in simple pleasures.

Each time I sit to collect my thoughts, fears, dreams or joys and record them here, on this blog, I'm following my heart. You see, my writing IS my life line. Stringing my words together to form the thoughts that make up my emotions is like peeking into my heart.

I love big. I dream often. I am full of gratitude. I write from a place from within that I've always known existed but was too afraid to give a voice to.

My children are often my muse. My husband is my constant. My family are the link to my past, present and future and for this I am grateful.

I don't know what else this life will hand over but what I do know for sure is that I'm following my heart, am full of gratitude and there is nothing wrong with that.

Crayon Characters

"It's so quiet." Luna says to me.

"Yes, it is." I respond.

It's just her and I here at home. She's working on a Kindergarten workbook while sitting at the dining room table with me. At the center of the glass table, a sandalwood scented candle is lit.
Warm notes of vanilla and musk collide with the sandalwood and waft in the air.

I look at her, her little hands, her perfectly clean nails, the way she carefully grips the pencil in her right hand. She loves to write. She's practicing her alphabet. She's writing the letter 'P' over and over and over again.

Luna's energy and presence is ethereal to me.

Her box of crayons sits opened in front of her thick workbook. She's just taken a three minute break and ate a small bowl of vanilla goat yogurt I recently served her.

Luna choosing

The silence in the house is meditative. Luna begins to softly hum the tune to a 1920's song off of a CD I purchased at Starbuck's some months back called, 'Speak Easy.'

She loves music. Lyrics stick to her mind like molasses.

She often hums a tune or sings a random lyric she's made up when she's focused. Her methodical inclinations and disciplined nature remind me of her grandfather, Oscar. I think she gets these two qualities from him. My husband and I have agreed on this.

I admire this quality in both my daughter and father-in-law.

I get up and walk toward our book shelf. It's a fourteen foot wide freestanding bookshelf brimming with books. The right side belongs to my husband. The left side, mine. This arrangement just happened this way.

Our books

I'm looking for a writing reference book.

"I like the silence, mama."

"Yes, me too!"

"Silence is peace." She adds.

I smile as I run my index finger across the spines of the books, reading the titles with my head cocked to the left, 'Write is a Verb', 'Hooked', 'Plot & Structure', 'Character Traits', 'Dialogue', 'How to write a book proposal.'

"I agree." I respond back.

I walk back empty-handed to my chair at the dining room table. Luna is choosing the next crayon to color her picture of a rocket ship with.

"This orange looks a little red, right mama?" She says as she raises the crayon for me to see it.

"Kind of. It's like a burnt orange." I tell her.

I watch her color her picture. The back and forth strokes of the crayon to paper sounds like the sweeping of cement, subtle and deliberate.

How easy it looks to color a page? You choose a crayon, your crayon kisses the page and a color appears.

My thoughts remind me of my novel characters. They sit quietly. Waiting. Sometimes, my characters are like crayons you'd select from a box. Most of the time, they select me and then I must color my writing canvas with the colors of their world.

Still, I sit and watch my Luna color her page in perfect silence. She IS peace.

An Open Letter to Parents

Dear Fellow Parents,

I've found that being a parent has its rewards and struggles. Not everyday is a lovely, happy, exciting or spectacular day.

Then there are days that you feel like you're walking on a happy cloud, completely sober and actually enjoying every single moment with your child(ren). I love these days. I want to savor and soak up every single ounce of it.

Parenting is hard. We love our children like we've never loved a living creature on earth before.
We wish upon them all the beauty and love that this life has to offer.

We make mistakes along the way.

I was raised by an emotionally absent mother and my father was absent from my life until I was seventeen. I had to make the best of my situation. It was not easy. Still, I love both of my parents and forgive their mistakes. I'm no better than anyone else out there. We all have a story to tell, some worse than others.

But this is not about my story, no, this is about parents as a whole.

I'm often struck at the level of unkindness and judgments that are placed upon parents.
Parents are not perfect in any way shape or form. Parents are regular people trying to make the best decisions for their children.

There seems to be a giant void in the circle of parents. This void encompasses all of our fears, challenges, struggles, inadequacies and insecurities. These emotions are not easy for most of us.
We are complex in every way.

My question to most parents out there is this: Who are WE to judge other parents?

Why?

How does judging our fears, challenges, struggles, inadequacies and insecurities make us better parents?

Why?

How does kicking another parent when they're down make us better than them?

This makes me hurt. This makes me sad. This makes me question my fellow parents' level of love and compassion toward me and other parents.

I believe that every parent may face an incredibly challenging, scary or even life altering moment at some point in their parenting lives. If and when this happens, parents will come looking for other parents' support and compassion, no matter what our differences may be.

I'd like to know that no matter our differences in parenting styles, disciplinary choices, rearing choices, etc., that parents as a whole will *try* to embrace a broader level of compassion and love toward one another.

No one will ever know what it's like to live in another parents' shoes because we are all unique in our own ways. No one will ever truly know our own children the way we the parents do.

Parents, let's be a bit kinder toward one another.

Parent's, let's be more compassionate toward one another.

Parents, let's be more respectful toward one another.

Parents, let's SHOW our children that we can live in a world where there are many differences but the one thing that speaks a universal language is LOVE and COMPASSION.

Sincerely & Compassionately,

My Top 5 Down Sides of Parenting

Parenting. It brings about a whirlwind of positives and negatives.

Sometimes the negatives can really be a let down (no, not breast milk.)

I love my children, but after having three, there have been moments where

I literally want to yank my hair out. No. Joke.

Yes, I know, it comes with the territory but sometimes these moments call for a nice

glass of ANY red wine or white wine because frankly, I like my hair.

Here are my top 5 down sides to parenting (in no particular order.)

Image via Google

1. Potty Panic...

You're finally out the door and on your way to that way overdue grocery shopping. You can't take another day of canned sardines. You look through your rear view mirror and are happy to see your beautiful children smiling and carrying on in their car seats when out of the

wee corner of the backseat you hear, "I have to go pee!"

THIS is what I call 'potty panic', yes,

because this shit puts me in a friggin' frenzy.

Of course, I end up asking the same stupid question of,

'WHY didn't you go BEFORE we left the house??" (nose flaring and buggy eyed)

Which of course the answer is ALWAYS "I didn't have to go before."

Makes me want to just have them pee themselves. Ugh.

Image via Google

2. Sibling Bickering...

There is nothing worse than trying to intervene in my children's bickering. I don't know if it's a girl thing but their level of loudness is way too much on the ear drums. They. Are. Loud.

"StopitnowbecauseotherwiseI'mnotgoingtogetyouthatwhateverthingyouwanted!"

Is what I sound like.

Image via Google

3. Brushing Battles...

I can probably play an entire game of 'Words with Friends' with the many times

I have to ask the girls to "go brush your teeth."

What is it with kids and not wanting to go brush their teeth when their asked?

I don't get it. It's like, pulling teeth!

Image via Google

4. The Nighttime Thirst

It never fails to happen, this one.

You tuck them in bed, give them their hugs and kisses,

tell them how much you love them

and wish them 'sweet dreams.'

You leave the room door ajar and finally go and plop yourself on the couch next to

your partner, significant other or your cat or dog. You choose a flick or TV show, you exhale in exhaustion and then a little voice calls out, "I'm thirsty!"

What the F*ck??

Image via Google

5. Fried Brain...

I give you, your NEW brain.

This is your brain on PARENTING because no matter what we say or do

or don't say or don't do, the results are the same. We. Feel. Completely. Fried.

Sunny side up, anyone?

The End.

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The 7 Things About Blogging

There are some things I'd like to share about blogging.

I didn't go to school to become a 'blogger' but I did get a nice degree for other talents, thrice.

Blogging is a job description in and of itself. It deserves merit, recognition and respect.

I'd like to hope that through my blogging I'm either inspiring, encouraging, sharing, divulging

or simply allowing for someone to delve into my world.

Blogging IS a world that encompasses so many things.

Here are seven of my blogging observations:

1. Lonely...

Blogging can be a lonely task.

Although my children are always around me, I'm basically doing this alone.

I don't ask any of them for their input because, well, it's a complicated issue.

They'd say, 'mommy is always at her computer.'

Source

2. Lurkers...

Blogging brings about the inevitable. The lurkers. Yes, many many lurkers out there that LOVE to come to your blog (yes, we know who you are—our stats give us your websites) and simply peek around not leaving a comment or even say "Hi, I came, I saw. Good-bye." :)

(smiley faces are good too!)

Source

3. 'Open Book'

Blogging is what the cliché idiom of 'An open book' would be.

Here, I share my life, my struggles, my fears, my challenges and many photos of myself and my children. As do MANY other bloggers I admire, read, follow and continue to visit.