In the wake of unspeakable tragedy on Friday, millions of people are trying to find the right words.
To comfort the grieving.
To say to their children.
To describe how they feel.
To end the violence.
To ease the pain.
"I'm sorry" falls so pathetically short. "I'm here for you" just doesn't seem like enough. "Heartbroken" can't even begin to describe it. Even "I am praying" can't do enough to take away the pain.
Many seek comfort in the Word of God when the words of man cannot speak strongly enough to their hearts.
I am sure that nothing can separate us from God's love - not life or death, not angels or spirits, not the present or the future. (Romans 8:38)
Jesus then said, "I am the one who raises the dead to life! Everyone who has faith in me will live, even if they die. And everyone who lives because of faith in me will never really die. Do you believe this? (John 11:25-26)
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. (Matthew 5:4)
But Jesus said "Let the children come unto me, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven." (Matthew 13:14)
His Truth lends aid to many, its worth cannot be overestimated, and yet, even the Word cannot erase the pain. God did not promise that all our days would be without pain - on the contrary, he told us they would come! In the same breath, He promised to guide us through them.
Two years ago, I remember discussing this very topic with my best friend after the bad news had come that her cancer could no longer be treated - when the 'if' we hadn't even dared to consider instead became a 'when'. Angie was an amazing and unique person - there's not a soul on this earth just like her and there never will be. As we had that serious conversation one night, we came to the conclusion that the 'right' words just didn't exist. For as much as we both loved words, loved painting a picture with them, finding just the right one for every situation, they fell far, far short in times of grief.
Then, because we were both silly and couldn't stand to be serious for too long, we decided to make up our own word, to say all the things words couldn't say. To say I love you, I'm with you, I'm sorry, I wish I could make it better, there are no words to express to you the depth of my emotion. The word was "spingledon". Then we had a good laugh about our new made up word, and like words themselves never could, each other's friendship and understanding comforted us both.
Another time, I remember agreeing with her that, "It's not what you say - it's that you cared enough to say it." And that is what I want to leave you with tonight. My best friend Angie was wise beyond her years, and a year and a half ago, she herself went home to be with God far too soon for any of us who knew her. But I draw comfort today from the knowledge that she and her wisdom are there in Heaven, lending love and comfort to the children we are all grieving.
If you are grieving, if you are seeking to comfort the bereaved, if you are trying to put your feelings into words and coming up frustrated and empty handed, take heart. No one has the 'right' words. We all feel our way through the darkness, doing the best we can, and in the end, it's not what you say, it's that you cared enough to say it. Your sentiment will shine through.
My choice of words for all of you?
"Spingledon."
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Friday, December 14, 2012
I miss you.
I just do. And I needed to say it even if you won't hear it. I love you, princess, always and forever. I'll never stop waiting to see your beautiful face again.
I'm writing you a letter tonight. You'll read it someday.
<3 - Your "Kai"
I'm writing you a letter tonight. You'll read it someday.
<3 - Your "Kai"
Thursday, December 6, 2012
The Story of Us, Part 2
(I'm just going to jump right into this, because if I don't, I just won't write it. As time passes it gets harder to write, even though this particular post is about happy times, relatively speaking.)
In my last post I wrote about how I met A, and the first day I babysat her... how I knew something was different, something was going on with her, but I didn't know what it was. Also, how I vowed to myself to give her every possible moment of happiness that I could. In this post, I'll write about the first few months in which I tried to do just that.
The next day after school, I drove to A's house to watch her again. Being the first Wednesday of the month, I had a Spanish club meeting that I didn't want to miss. I had the last period of the school day free, so I was allowed to leave early, and customarily came back for club meetings and events. I wasn't sure if I'd make it to Spanish Club that day or not... spending time with A was more important. But when A woke up well before the beginning of the meeting, I decided to call her grandma and ask her permission to drive A down the street to go to Spanish Club with me. I'll never forget the enormity of her words to me that day on the phone, "Of course, that's fine! As long as she's with you, I know she's safe."
As long as she's with you, I know she's safe.
I always took the safety of the children I cared for seriously - I even had my own car seat (although I didn't know at the time that I was violating about a million car seat no-nos)... but this felt different, maybe because of A's strange behaviors, maybe because of the mysterious 'bad situation' that had been mentioned... I felt as though I was taking a sacred vow. As long as she was with me, she would be safe. I was so determined to keep that vow.
But back to that Wednesday. When I hung up the phone, I hunted down some clothes and a hair brush for A, which took longer than I'd expected, and then encountered a battle trying to get her to allow me to brush her hair, which was pretty tangled. On the plus side, I was spared a repeat of the previous day's diaper change incident - A seemed to feel more secure with me, and though she fussed when I changed her, it was no more than I'd previously experienced with other children. I assumed the newness of the hair brushing was what threw her off that day.
When she was ready I packed a bag. Diapers, wipes, a change of clothes, a color wonder coloring book and markers, some books, a few random toys, and a baggie of animal crackers (which had been left open and were somewhat stale, but once A saw them, she insisted on eating them and refused to do anything else until I gave in). She seemed satisfied with them, so I figured what the heck - if she wanted to eat stale crackers, so be it. The car seat was already in the car, I kept it there just in case I needed to transport one of the many children I watched, but I hadn't actually been expecting to be able to go to the meeting, so I hadn't brought along a stroller. Oh well, I thought. It would be an experiment.
Together we set off for my high school. I talked to A on the way there, told her where we were going and what we were going to do ("Speak Spanish like Dora? Uno Dos Tres? Yeah, that's right! Vamonos! Hablamos Espanol!") because while researching the previous night, I'd read that her speech should've been further along than it was (still no words from A) and that describing what we were doing, where we were going, objects we saw, etc, would be beneficial to her. It would also help to assure her that she was in a safe environment and could relax.
That was the first day I, a sixteen year old junior, walked through the doors of my high school, its hallways still brimming with people, with a two year old girl in my arms and a diaper bag, not a bookbag, slung over my shoulder. Yes, in retrospect, I should've realized the rumors that would have set off... but in retrospect, I realize I still wouldn't have cared. I probably answered "Is she yours?" about twenty times that day - from everyone - students, teachers, even the custodian. My Spanish teacher told me she looked like me. Other students stared at us. I smiled. A was doing remarkably well around all these people. I was just proud of her.
During that meeting, she fed my friend Alex stale animal crackers out of her baggie, some of which she had pre-chewed. After the first one, Alex discreetly stuffed them in her pocket. The next day, she told me in English class that she'd gotten home and stuck her hand in her pocket only to find a wad of soggy animal cracker pieces. Yum. And Alex still liked me after that! What a friend! :)
We had a good time. I introduced A to everyone, all of Spanish club. Someone came around and took pictures for the yearbook - later I saw a picture hanging up on the student activities board of me, A perched on my lap, at that meeting. A got bored a couple of times so I took her to walk (run) the hallways a bit. It made her happy... so it made me happy too.
And so began a routine. I was very active in my high school - I often had meetings two, maybe three days a week, and sometimes two meetings in one day. So I packed the stroller, kept a bag of toys in the car for A, and most days, when she woke up from her nap, I'd get her dressed and we'd go back to the high school. I got compliments all the time on how well behaved and quiet she was. The only time we had trouble was our first Key Club meeting - it was considerably more formal than Spanish Club had been, and A had missed her nap and just wasn't up for it. She had reverted to her old behavior of crying to be held, then crying to be put down. Eventually we just left early. But every day after that, she did remarkably well, even as winter came and Mock Trial started, bringing with it meetings that were sometimes two hours long, when I had to give long speeches and work on notes while doling out animal crackers and coloring pads with my other hand. (By the way, the color wonder thing was ditched after the first attempt. A apparently had a habit of biting the tips off the markers. I swear the child put everything in her mouth).
The teacher who ran Mock Trial kept a cup of dum dum suckers in his closet and gave A one at every meeting, after asking my permission. That's one small act of kindness I'll never forget. Classmates, some of whom knew what it was to be responsible for a little one, played with her and helped me out, to the point that if I ever appeared without A, everyone missed her. In Spanish Club, she and I split a 'skull cake' (a cupcake shaped like a skull that you decorate - it's tradition) on Dia de los Muertos. It had pink frosting. I let her have most of it.
Our routine was not without its trials. Sometimes naptime ran over and we missed meetings, and that was okay. I remember once in particular, a couple classmates were incredibly disturbed by the necessity of performing a diaper change in the lay-down stroller, because high schools really don't think they have a reason to equip their bathrooms with baby changing stations, or even make them remotely stroller-accessible. I remember the whispers that went around about me... and I didn't care. The worst it got was toward the end of my junior year, when I ran for vice president of Key Club. I gave my speech from behind A's stroller, pushing her back and forth as she was having a fussy day. Unfortunately my opponent chose to prey on my perceived weakness and spread the rumor he knew was false, that I was an irresponsible teen mom who couldn't be trusted. I was admittedly hurt, for about a day... not even so much about what was said about me, but that people would choose not to trust me because they believed I had a child. It made me feel sad about the attitudes in my school. But the hurt didn't last long at all, because, as a guidance counselor pointed out to me the next day, I was doing something none of them could understand... giving myself to a child who needed me. And I was okay with doing that over attending hoity-toity officers-only meetings anyways.
In an ironic twist of events, which I'll discuss more at length later, A began to speak this year, and she said her first words at Spanish club: "Uno, Dos, Tres!" My Spanish teacher couldn't have been prouder. Later in the year she learned "Mommy", and I, apparently, was it. Perhaps this was just an 'adult female' word for her at the time - I'm not sure because for a long time, I never saw her with an adult female who she trusted other than myself or her grandmother (who was Mamaw, so, really not much difference). In any case, there was no convincing her to call me "Katie",even especially at my school. At the end of the year, I was receiving a rather important award in front of a large portion of the student body and their families (including nearly EVERYONE who was at that Key Club meeting), and I had both my 'dear borrowed kids', A and M, that night. A had a bad cold and didn't want anyone but me, and I had to go up on stage to accept an award. I'd also forgotten to bring tissues. It was a recipe for disaster. Before my name was called, I'd wiped her nose on the inside of my dress twice. When I had to get up to go on stage, leaving her and M with my mom and brother, A was distraught and called out after me. As my name was called, in the otherwise dead-silent auditorium, came her cry: "MOMMY!!!!"
x_x
So much for "I'm just babysitting". Surely everyone was going to believe that now. Then, when they had to take my picture, to hang on the wall of the school, because yes, this was that big a deal, I could barely disentangle myself from A long enough to have the picture taken solo, and for a year, a picture of me with a horribly strained smile, trying desperately to comfort the crying toddler just outside the shot, hung on the wall directly outside the guidance office. Boy, I wished I could've given that award back that night. I was so relieved when they replaced the pictures the next year!
When we weren't busy with school (another word A learned, and she would point it out when we drove by), I was trying to share all the best experiences of my childhood with her. On days we didn't have to be back at the school, we'd nap together, affording me the rare cuddles in the photo from my last post. Then we'd wake up and do something fun. I brought her home to meet my mom and my brother, and later, M (more on that in another post). We finger painted with dyed vanilla pudding. We went sledding (it took me a half hour to convince her to sit on the sled with me at the top of the tiniest hill, even after going down once and exclaiming over how fun it was, and another half hour to get her to let me push us off the edge. When we reached the foot of the hill, she pointed up and said "Again!"). We made snow angels and snow men and even a tiny snow fort. We built towers of blocks and knocked them down, laughing and building them back up again. We pulled all the tupperware, pots, pans, and wooden spoons out of the cupboards and drawers, and created our own musical cacophony in the kitchen. We made cookies, cakes, brownies, and cupcakes. We played with play-doh. We went to an indoor junglegym. We played at the space-themed playground at the mall. (We skipped Santa, because of her disdain for strangers. I was later presented with literally the most hilarious photo ever of a horrified A on Santa's lap, in Christmas card form. I may have to go take a picture of it to share.
--Goes and takes a picture of it to share--
Wow, that took longer than I thought and involved lifting a widescreen television (hey, it was free!). I should really write these things earlier in the day. Here you go. Enjoy the merging of cute, funny, and sad. It's cutefunisad!
Yeah. I told you, she didn't *do* strangers, or being held.
That year was a good year. It was hard, because sometimes A still confused me beyond belief, worried me sick, or even broke my heart... but we made plenty of good memories to ease the troubled times. And I like to think I was learning more all the time about what made her tick, and how to decipher the clues she was giving me.
There was this one day, maybe a couple weeks after I started watching her. Our go-to-the-high-school routine was well established, she knew my car and which door was nearest her car seat. It was the end of the day and her grandfather, who she adored, was the first one home. She was usually fairly apathetic to anyone coming or going, even though I watched as she delighted in being tickled and thrown up in the air by her grandfather, ran to him for hugs, etc. This day was no different at first - he came in and she barely looked up from her blocks. We chatted a few minutes about our day and when I was coming back, and then he and A walked me out to my car. Darkness was just beginning to fall.
As soon as we were out the front door, A had taken off down the sidewalk toward my car. When I caught up, she was standing at the door by her car seat, tugging at the handle, pointing and whimpering. I gently took her and and knelt down next to her. "No, A, I have to go bye-bye now! I would love to take you with me but I think your grandma and grandpa would miss you very much! I promise I will come back tomorrow and we will play, okay?"
A didn't just start to cry. She absolutely dissolved into tears, sobbing, trying to climb onto me and cling to me so that I couldn't leave without her. I soothed her for a minute and then I tried to dislodge her. She screamed like I was hurting her. I couldn't stand it. I stood there with her a while longer. How could I leave a child who was crying for me? But the darkness was creeping over us and any attempts to extricate myself resulted in more and more furious shrieks. Her grandfather was clearly distraught, not accustomed to not being able to calm her. To this day I don't know why she wanted to go with me so badly that day. She loved and trusted her grandparents very much. She never reacted like this any other day... but that day, something struck a chord with her. I had to leave. I had no choice. I pulled her off me and placed her in her grandfather's arms, offering comforting words as I climbed into my car. I rolled my window down as I started the car and put on a fake smile. I waved. "Bye A! See you tomorrow! We're going to have so much fun! I'll miss you!"
But in that same minute, fake smile plastered on my face, my heart shattered. As soon as I was out of sight, I put the window up and sobbed, so hard that I had to pull over before I made it home. I came home and related the events to my mom, who didn't seem to have any more insight than I did, but offered me comfort regardless. I fell asleep crying that night, the thought of turning and driving away from a little girl who only was crying for me ever-present. Both fortunately and puzzlingly, everything was back to normal when I saw her the next day. Still, I never forgot that day. Some things, they just leave marks on your heart.
I don't want it to sound like the good times we had were always punctuated by something traumatic, but as much as I'll never forget the good memories we made together - singing Wheels on the Bus in the car, going trick or treating for the first time, having easter egg hunts, celebrating birthdays, going to the playground, going to COSI, playing dress-up, reading books - I'll never forget the tough times either. Life means taking the bad with the good, and if you live it in such fear of the bad that you miss out on the good (standing outside the fire, as Garth Brooks would call it... yes, that song makes me cry)... well, is that really living at all?
I could have chosen to stand outside the fire, and maybe spare myself the pain that has come with loving A - at least according to all the people who knew me then and all the people who know me now - but to me there never was a choice. Besides, then I would've missed things like this:
...And I already told you, I'd do anything to see that smile.
In my last post I wrote about how I met A, and the first day I babysat her... how I knew something was different, something was going on with her, but I didn't know what it was. Also, how I vowed to myself to give her every possible moment of happiness that I could. In this post, I'll write about the first few months in which I tried to do just that.
The next day after school, I drove to A's house to watch her again. Being the first Wednesday of the month, I had a Spanish club meeting that I didn't want to miss. I had the last period of the school day free, so I was allowed to leave early, and customarily came back for club meetings and events. I wasn't sure if I'd make it to Spanish Club that day or not... spending time with A was more important. But when A woke up well before the beginning of the meeting, I decided to call her grandma and ask her permission to drive A down the street to go to Spanish Club with me. I'll never forget the enormity of her words to me that day on the phone, "Of course, that's fine! As long as she's with you, I know she's safe."
As long as she's with you, I know she's safe.
I always took the safety of the children I cared for seriously - I even had my own car seat (although I didn't know at the time that I was violating about a million car seat no-nos)... but this felt different, maybe because of A's strange behaviors, maybe because of the mysterious 'bad situation' that had been mentioned... I felt as though I was taking a sacred vow. As long as she was with me, she would be safe. I was so determined to keep that vow.
But back to that Wednesday. When I hung up the phone, I hunted down some clothes and a hair brush for A, which took longer than I'd expected, and then encountered a battle trying to get her to allow me to brush her hair, which was pretty tangled. On the plus side, I was spared a repeat of the previous day's diaper change incident - A seemed to feel more secure with me, and though she fussed when I changed her, it was no more than I'd previously experienced with other children. I assumed the newness of the hair brushing was what threw her off that day.
When she was ready I packed a bag. Diapers, wipes, a change of clothes, a color wonder coloring book and markers, some books, a few random toys, and a baggie of animal crackers (which had been left open and were somewhat stale, but once A saw them, she insisted on eating them and refused to do anything else until I gave in). She seemed satisfied with them, so I figured what the heck - if she wanted to eat stale crackers, so be it. The car seat was already in the car, I kept it there just in case I needed to transport one of the many children I watched, but I hadn't actually been expecting to be able to go to the meeting, so I hadn't brought along a stroller. Oh well, I thought. It would be an experiment.
Together we set off for my high school. I talked to A on the way there, told her where we were going and what we were going to do ("Speak Spanish like Dora? Uno Dos Tres? Yeah, that's right! Vamonos! Hablamos Espanol!") because while researching the previous night, I'd read that her speech should've been further along than it was (still no words from A) and that describing what we were doing, where we were going, objects we saw, etc, would be beneficial to her. It would also help to assure her that she was in a safe environment and could relax.
That was the first day I, a sixteen year old junior, walked through the doors of my high school, its hallways still brimming with people, with a two year old girl in my arms and a diaper bag, not a bookbag, slung over my shoulder. Yes, in retrospect, I should've realized the rumors that would have set off... but in retrospect, I realize I still wouldn't have cared. I probably answered "Is she yours?" about twenty times that day - from everyone - students, teachers, even the custodian. My Spanish teacher told me she looked like me. Other students stared at us. I smiled. A was doing remarkably well around all these people. I was just proud of her.
During that meeting, she fed my friend Alex stale animal crackers out of her baggie, some of which she had pre-chewed. After the first one, Alex discreetly stuffed them in her pocket. The next day, she told me in English class that she'd gotten home and stuck her hand in her pocket only to find a wad of soggy animal cracker pieces. Yum. And Alex still liked me after that! What a friend! :)
We had a good time. I introduced A to everyone, all of Spanish club. Someone came around and took pictures for the yearbook - later I saw a picture hanging up on the student activities board of me, A perched on my lap, at that meeting. A got bored a couple of times so I took her to walk (run) the hallways a bit. It made her happy... so it made me happy too.
And so began a routine. I was very active in my high school - I often had meetings two, maybe three days a week, and sometimes two meetings in one day. So I packed the stroller, kept a bag of toys in the car for A, and most days, when she woke up from her nap, I'd get her dressed and we'd go back to the high school. I got compliments all the time on how well behaved and quiet she was. The only time we had trouble was our first Key Club meeting - it was considerably more formal than Spanish Club had been, and A had missed her nap and just wasn't up for it. She had reverted to her old behavior of crying to be held, then crying to be put down. Eventually we just left early. But every day after that, she did remarkably well, even as winter came and Mock Trial started, bringing with it meetings that were sometimes two hours long, when I had to give long speeches and work on notes while doling out animal crackers and coloring pads with my other hand. (By the way, the color wonder thing was ditched after the first attempt. A apparently had a habit of biting the tips off the markers. I swear the child put everything in her mouth).
The teacher who ran Mock Trial kept a cup of dum dum suckers in his closet and gave A one at every meeting, after asking my permission. That's one small act of kindness I'll never forget. Classmates, some of whom knew what it was to be responsible for a little one, played with her and helped me out, to the point that if I ever appeared without A, everyone missed her. In Spanish Club, she and I split a 'skull cake' (a cupcake shaped like a skull that you decorate - it's tradition) on Dia de los Muertos. It had pink frosting. I let her have most of it.
Our routine was not without its trials. Sometimes naptime ran over and we missed meetings, and that was okay. I remember once in particular, a couple classmates were incredibly disturbed by the necessity of performing a diaper change in the lay-down stroller, because high schools really don't think they have a reason to equip their bathrooms with baby changing stations, or even make them remotely stroller-accessible. I remember the whispers that went around about me... and I didn't care. The worst it got was toward the end of my junior year, when I ran for vice president of Key Club. I gave my speech from behind A's stroller, pushing her back and forth as she was having a fussy day. Unfortunately my opponent chose to prey on my perceived weakness and spread the rumor he knew was false, that I was an irresponsible teen mom who couldn't be trusted. I was admittedly hurt, for about a day... not even so much about what was said about me, but that people would choose not to trust me because they believed I had a child. It made me feel sad about the attitudes in my school. But the hurt didn't last long at all, because, as a guidance counselor pointed out to me the next day, I was doing something none of them could understand... giving myself to a child who needed me. And I was okay with doing that over attending hoity-toity officers-only meetings anyways.
In an ironic twist of events, which I'll discuss more at length later, A began to speak this year, and she said her first words at Spanish club: "Uno, Dos, Tres!" My Spanish teacher couldn't have been prouder. Later in the year she learned "Mommy", and I, apparently, was it. Perhaps this was just an 'adult female' word for her at the time - I'm not sure because for a long time, I never saw her with an adult female who she trusted other than myself or her grandmother (who was Mamaw, so, really not much difference). In any case, there was no convincing her to call me "Katie",
x_x
So much for "I'm just babysitting". Surely everyone was going to believe that now. Then, when they had to take my picture, to hang on the wall of the school, because yes, this was that big a deal, I could barely disentangle myself from A long enough to have the picture taken solo, and for a year, a picture of me with a horribly strained smile, trying desperately to comfort the crying toddler just outside the shot, hung on the wall directly outside the guidance office. Boy, I wished I could've given that award back that night. I was so relieved when they replaced the pictures the next year!
When we weren't busy with school (another word A learned, and she would point it out when we drove by), I was trying to share all the best experiences of my childhood with her. On days we didn't have to be back at the school, we'd nap together, affording me the rare cuddles in the photo from my last post. Then we'd wake up and do something fun. I brought her home to meet my mom and my brother, and later, M (more on that in another post). We finger painted with dyed vanilla pudding. We went sledding (it took me a half hour to convince her to sit on the sled with me at the top of the tiniest hill, even after going down once and exclaiming over how fun it was, and another half hour to get her to let me push us off the edge. When we reached the foot of the hill, she pointed up and said "Again!"). We made snow angels and snow men and even a tiny snow fort. We built towers of blocks and knocked them down, laughing and building them back up again. We pulled all the tupperware, pots, pans, and wooden spoons out of the cupboards and drawers, and created our own musical cacophony in the kitchen. We made cookies, cakes, brownies, and cupcakes. We played with play-doh. We went to an indoor junglegym. We played at the space-themed playground at the mall. (We skipped Santa, because of her disdain for strangers. I was later presented with literally the most hilarious photo ever of a horrified A on Santa's lap, in Christmas card form. I may have to go take a picture of it to share.
--Goes and takes a picture of it to share--
Wow, that took longer than I thought and involved lifting a widescreen television (hey, it was free!). I should really write these things earlier in the day. Here you go. Enjoy the merging of cute, funny, and sad. It's cutefunisad!
 |
| In my defense, I was not the one who made her sit on the strange man's lap, I just found the picture hilarious afterwards. And so did she. You know, like six years afterwards. |
Yeah. I told you, she didn't *do* strangers, or being held.
That year was a good year. It was hard, because sometimes A still confused me beyond belief, worried me sick, or even broke my heart... but we made plenty of good memories to ease the troubled times. And I like to think I was learning more all the time about what made her tick, and how to decipher the clues she was giving me.
There was this one day, maybe a couple weeks after I started watching her. Our go-to-the-high-school routine was well established, she knew my car and which door was nearest her car seat. It was the end of the day and her grandfather, who she adored, was the first one home. She was usually fairly apathetic to anyone coming or going, even though I watched as she delighted in being tickled and thrown up in the air by her grandfather, ran to him for hugs, etc. This day was no different at first - he came in and she barely looked up from her blocks. We chatted a few minutes about our day and when I was coming back, and then he and A walked me out to my car. Darkness was just beginning to fall.
As soon as we were out the front door, A had taken off down the sidewalk toward my car. When I caught up, she was standing at the door by her car seat, tugging at the handle, pointing and whimpering. I gently took her and and knelt down next to her. "No, A, I have to go bye-bye now! I would love to take you with me but I think your grandma and grandpa would miss you very much! I promise I will come back tomorrow and we will play, okay?"
A didn't just start to cry. She absolutely dissolved into tears, sobbing, trying to climb onto me and cling to me so that I couldn't leave without her. I soothed her for a minute and then I tried to dislodge her. She screamed like I was hurting her. I couldn't stand it. I stood there with her a while longer. How could I leave a child who was crying for me? But the darkness was creeping over us and any attempts to extricate myself resulted in more and more furious shrieks. Her grandfather was clearly distraught, not accustomed to not being able to calm her. To this day I don't know why she wanted to go with me so badly that day. She loved and trusted her grandparents very much. She never reacted like this any other day... but that day, something struck a chord with her. I had to leave. I had no choice. I pulled her off me and placed her in her grandfather's arms, offering comforting words as I climbed into my car. I rolled my window down as I started the car and put on a fake smile. I waved. "Bye A! See you tomorrow! We're going to have so much fun! I'll miss you!"
But in that same minute, fake smile plastered on my face, my heart shattered. As soon as I was out of sight, I put the window up and sobbed, so hard that I had to pull over before I made it home. I came home and related the events to my mom, who didn't seem to have any more insight than I did, but offered me comfort regardless. I fell asleep crying that night, the thought of turning and driving away from a little girl who only was crying for me ever-present. Both fortunately and puzzlingly, everything was back to normal when I saw her the next day. Still, I never forgot that day. Some things, they just leave marks on your heart.
I don't want it to sound like the good times we had were always punctuated by something traumatic, but as much as I'll never forget the good memories we made together - singing Wheels on the Bus in the car, going trick or treating for the first time, having easter egg hunts, celebrating birthdays, going to the playground, going to COSI, playing dress-up, reading books - I'll never forget the tough times either. Life means taking the bad with the good, and if you live it in such fear of the bad that you miss out on the good (standing outside the fire, as Garth Brooks would call it... yes, that song makes me cry)... well, is that really living at all?
I could have chosen to stand outside the fire, and maybe spare myself the pain that has come with loving A - at least according to all the people who knew me then and all the people who know me now - but to me there never was a choice. Besides, then I would've missed things like this:
...And I already told you, I'd do anything to see that smile.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
The Story of Us, Part 1
This is the story I've debated on telling for a long time. The story I can't tell every word of, because it's not mine to tell, but the one I need to tell for my own well-being, and out of respect for all the people I've asked for help and prayers in the last several years. I find myself unable to sit down and write it all from start to finish, it just becomes too emotionally overwhelming, so it will be written in parts, and I cannot guarantee any regularity, but this is the beginning of both my healing, and my sharing of what we have been going through for years.
This is the story of me, and my A. Start to finish. It's a story with no happily ever after, not thus far, just be warned. It's not an easy one to tell, or to hear, but it's the truth, and outside of protecting the privacy of others, which I will be doing to the extent I feel it is necessary (and it is for this reason that I rarely use A's actual name), I feel that the truth needs to be told.
A's story started when I was fifteen years old, on an ordinary Sunday morning, where ordinary me was working in the nursery at our ordinary church. I can assure you that when I woke up and got dressed for church that morning, the last thing I expected was for something to happen that would set off a cascade of events that would change my entire life forever... but that's exactly what happened.
About halfway through the service, as I was going about my usual routine of reading books, distributing cheerios, and rocking crying toddlers, a woman around my mom's age came to the door holding a thin little girl, no more than a year old, with mousy brown hair that hung to her chin and bangs. She reminded me of another little girl with whom I had become close working in the nursery (incidentally, that other little girl is my M!) The woman introduced the girl as her granddaughter, A, who was 15 months old. She said she didn't know if she'd stay in the nursery, but she had responsibilities at the worship service and A was proving difficult to handle that morning. Taking the little girl from her (and she fussed a bit as I did this), I assured her that I would take good care of her and page her if she was needed. And that very first day, I knew A was different. The following weeks in which I got to know her only served to reinforce my initial notion.
A didn't like to be held, unless there was food involved. She didn't like to be left alone either. It almost seemed like there was no way to make her happy, until I discovered the magical formula of finding something she wanted, getting it out in front of me, and waiting for her to crawl onto my lap to reach it. Almost invariably cheerios at first, and she was such a wisp of a child that I took every opportunity to offer her food. Later, I could tempt her with certain toys.
I never met her mother or father, only her grandparents picked her up and dropped her off, which I didn't consider especially unusual since a lot of children attended church with their grandparents, but this little girl seemed to have an especially strong bond to them, to the point where a couple of times, I actually wondered if I'd misheard and they were her parents.
No one else had success with A in the nursery. If I missed a service and she came in, they would invariably have to page her grandmother. She would stand at the door and wail, or hide in a corner and cry. No one else knew her favorite toys, or just how to coax her out of her shell. At one point, I went on a mission trip and when I returned, was sternly chided for leaving the nursery in such a state of disarray because A was so out of sorts without me there.
She was hilarious. She could walk, but she didn't know it. She lacked the self confidence to actually do it. Sometimes when she wanted something and wasn't paying attention to anything but what she wanted, I'd catch her walking, several steps at a time, and fairly steady ones. But then, it was as if a switch were flipped in her head - she'd look around, realize that she was walking, and promptly plop right down on her bottom.
She didn't speak. Not a single word. No Mama, or Ball, or even the all important 'Tee-Whoas' (as one of the toddlers dubbed the cheerios). No "no", or "more", or "dog". Moreover, she was in my care on Sunday mornings for an entire year - until she was nearly two and a half, and she still never said a word. Her only communication was to whine, cry, point, or fidget. I learned to get a read on her 'language'.
Over time, she started to actually allow me to hold her, carry her, help her with things. Her grandma looked for me in the nursery on Sundays because A would go to me easily. Time passed, we both got older... and then one day, when I was sixteen and A was two, her grandma pulled me aside after a church service. She told me that A and her mother had moved in with them and that there was a difficult family situation involved. Not much more information was given and even if it had been, that is part of A's story, not mine. It is hers to tell. The point of the conversation was that they would be needing someone to care for A when their work schedules overlapped, and wanted me to do it since I obviously already had a bond with A - but they admitted they couldn't pay me much. That was okay. I never babysat for the money, I babysat because I loved working with kids, and I still do. I readily agreed to watch the little girl after school when needed and gave the woman my phone number.
It was a while before she called. I'd started to think she never really would, and I was a little disappointed, because I so enjoyed playing with A, seeing her come out of her shell more and more all the time, but I was sixteen and there were other pressing matters to attend to - you know, like who was friends with who that week, whether the girl from small group was giving me the cold shoulder, and whether my physics teacher actually hated me or was just irritated by my complete lack of skill in physics. Though I still worked with A on Sundays, I was focused on other things.
This is why I was so surprised the Sunday that her grandma came to pick her up after service and asked if I could babysit on Tuesday. The answer was, of course, "Sure, I'll come over right after school!" And I did, and that's when my fate... I guess, our fate... was sealed.
That first day that I watched A is forever burned into my memory. I don't think I'll ever forget a single detail. It was early September. When I got there, she was sleeping upstairs in her crib, so I sat down to do some homework. When I heard her start to fuss, I went upstairs to find her standing up in her crib. I approached her cautiously - I was in her space, her home, for the first time, and I was certainly not who she was expecting to get her up from her nap that day.
"Hi, A! Remember me? I'm Katie, from church? We like to play together and eat cheerios. Would you like to go get some cheerios?"
**Let it be noted here for all future babysitting endeavors that "Cheerios" is a word that has some sort of magical, calming effect on children. I have a hunch that they're like Xanax for toddlers.**
Because, yes, she definitely visibly relaxed at the mention of Cheerios. She fussed a little when I lifted her out of her crib (I couldn't get the side down, I was always horrible with those things, and I'm cursed with incredibly short stature), but calmed down with the reminder of - wait for it - right, CHEERIOS! So of course that was the first order of business. Then, like a good babysitter, I went to change her diaper. "Come on, A," I called, patting the couch and shaking a toy. "Let's change your diaper so we can play outside!"
Uh - wrong thing to say, apparently. A retreated immediately. I went to get her and picked her up, laid her down on the couch and gave her the toy. I promise you I never, ever, and at that point I'd been working with kids for five years, had a child fight me that hard on a diaper change. Tiny little thing straight up overpowered me. Slid off the couch and ran, pants around her ankles, to hide between the couch and the wall, sobbing.
I was only sixteen. I didn't know what to think. Part of me feared that something horrible had happened to this mystery of a child, but I didn't know what to do, and she still couldn't talk to help me understand. I proceeded the only way I knew how. It took a full hour to coax her into the diaper change, which still resulted in more tears than I would've liked, I felt horrible... another fifteen minutes to find and coax her into wearing her shoes... and then we went outside, and another change happened.
First she walked along quietly with me, not wanting to hold my hand but for help climbing on and off curbs (her grandparents lived in a condo subdivision with no sidewalks and mostly deserted streets). Then she discovered, with joy, that she could jump - with both feet - off the curb! Oh, the delight on her face, I would have walked on a bed of nails for that smile. Again and again she willingly took both my hands in hers and jumped on and off the curb, smiling and laughing as I made high pitched squeals of excitement over her 'triumph'.
I remember thinking, after the diaper change incident, that if this brought her such joy, I would stay out there all day. And we very nearly did - only when the sun began its descent over the horizon did we return to the house and settle down to watch Dora the Explorer (this was, and still is A's favorite show. She is now nine.) She fell asleep on the couch by 8:00 under her Dora blanket and I went back to my homework, sneaking peeks at the peacefully sleeping toddler on occasion. When her grandmother and grandfather got home that night, they asked me to come back the following day and I agreed readily. We talked briefly before I left, I told them about our day, about her diaper change freak-out (about which they were just as puzzled as I was), about our walk, and then I said a quiet 'good night' to a still-sleeping A, and walked to my car.
I wasn't even out of the driveway before the tears began. I couldn't put my finger on it, but something was off with her. Ordinarily, the diaper change incident would have been an abuse red flag for me, but I'd gotten to know the little girl's grandparents well over the past year, and her relationship with them, and she positively genuinely adored them both. I'd seen her mother only once, a tall, thin woman who closely resembled her daughter, and never even heard a word about her father. It seemed to me that this little girl was very loved and cared for even in the ever-ambiguous 'difficult circumstances', which for all I knew, could have been the cause of her distress. Or she could have had special needs. She was definitely delayed. But I didn't know enough about special needs to draw any type of conclusion. So I cried, and I prayed, the whole way home. "God, I don't know what you want me to do here. I want to help her. I want to do what you want me to do, but I don't know what that is. Please show me the way. Please help me do your will. And please protect that sweet little girl from whatever is haunting her." Then I went home and researched anti-social behaviors in toddlers all night.
I want to be clear here that even though in those early days, my gut told me that something was 'off', I purposely avoided jumping to any conclusions, because I simply didn't know enough about the situation. I was in a state of watchful waiting - observing her behavior and conferring with her grandparents to help determine what she needed, what was at the root of her struggles. I still believe that was the right thing to do. And in the meantime, A and I made memories.
More of those stories - perhaps a more light-hearted post, next time. As much as I'd like to end this post on a happy note, I've reached my emotional limit for the day and need to think about something else for a while. And in case you're wondering, I promise not to write a post about every single day of the past seven years. That first day with A just made such an impression on me, it was the day she grabbed a piece of my heart and never gave it back... it deserved to be fully explained.
The pictures from those earliest days are also back when I, ever the technophobe, was still using a 35 mm film camera, so they are not on my computer. The earliest photo I have on my computer of the two of us was probably around six months after that first day, and perhaps it's the happy note I need to end this post.
This is the story of me, and my A. Start to finish. It's a story with no happily ever after, not thus far, just be warned. It's not an easy one to tell, or to hear, but it's the truth, and outside of protecting the privacy of others, which I will be doing to the extent I feel it is necessary (and it is for this reason that I rarely use A's actual name), I feel that the truth needs to be told.
A's story started when I was fifteen years old, on an ordinary Sunday morning, where ordinary me was working in the nursery at our ordinary church. I can assure you that when I woke up and got dressed for church that morning, the last thing I expected was for something to happen that would set off a cascade of events that would change my entire life forever... but that's exactly what happened.
About halfway through the service, as I was going about my usual routine of reading books, distributing cheerios, and rocking crying toddlers, a woman around my mom's age came to the door holding a thin little girl, no more than a year old, with mousy brown hair that hung to her chin and bangs. She reminded me of another little girl with whom I had become close working in the nursery (incidentally, that other little girl is my M!) The woman introduced the girl as her granddaughter, A, who was 15 months old. She said she didn't know if she'd stay in the nursery, but she had responsibilities at the worship service and A was proving difficult to handle that morning. Taking the little girl from her (and she fussed a bit as I did this), I assured her that I would take good care of her and page her if she was needed. And that very first day, I knew A was different. The following weeks in which I got to know her only served to reinforce my initial notion.
A didn't like to be held, unless there was food involved. She didn't like to be left alone either. It almost seemed like there was no way to make her happy, until I discovered the magical formula of finding something she wanted, getting it out in front of me, and waiting for her to crawl onto my lap to reach it. Almost invariably cheerios at first, and she was such a wisp of a child that I took every opportunity to offer her food. Later, I could tempt her with certain toys.
I never met her mother or father, only her grandparents picked her up and dropped her off, which I didn't consider especially unusual since a lot of children attended church with their grandparents, but this little girl seemed to have an especially strong bond to them, to the point where a couple of times, I actually wondered if I'd misheard and they were her parents.
No one else had success with A in the nursery. If I missed a service and she came in, they would invariably have to page her grandmother. She would stand at the door and wail, or hide in a corner and cry. No one else knew her favorite toys, or just how to coax her out of her shell. At one point, I went on a mission trip and when I returned, was sternly chided for leaving the nursery in such a state of disarray because A was so out of sorts without me there.
She was hilarious. She could walk, but she didn't know it. She lacked the self confidence to actually do it. Sometimes when she wanted something and wasn't paying attention to anything but what she wanted, I'd catch her walking, several steps at a time, and fairly steady ones. But then, it was as if a switch were flipped in her head - she'd look around, realize that she was walking, and promptly plop right down on her bottom.
She didn't speak. Not a single word. No Mama, or Ball, or even the all important 'Tee-Whoas' (as one of the toddlers dubbed the cheerios). No "no", or "more", or "dog". Moreover, she was in my care on Sunday mornings for an entire year - until she was nearly two and a half, and she still never said a word. Her only communication was to whine, cry, point, or fidget. I learned to get a read on her 'language'.
Over time, she started to actually allow me to hold her, carry her, help her with things. Her grandma looked for me in the nursery on Sundays because A would go to me easily. Time passed, we both got older... and then one day, when I was sixteen and A was two, her grandma pulled me aside after a church service. She told me that A and her mother had moved in with them and that there was a difficult family situation involved. Not much more information was given and even if it had been, that is part of A's story, not mine. It is hers to tell. The point of the conversation was that they would be needing someone to care for A when their work schedules overlapped, and wanted me to do it since I obviously already had a bond with A - but they admitted they couldn't pay me much. That was okay. I never babysat for the money, I babysat because I loved working with kids, and I still do. I readily agreed to watch the little girl after school when needed and gave the woman my phone number.
It was a while before she called. I'd started to think she never really would, and I was a little disappointed, because I so enjoyed playing with A, seeing her come out of her shell more and more all the time, but I was sixteen and there were other pressing matters to attend to - you know, like who was friends with who that week, whether the girl from small group was giving me the cold shoulder, and whether my physics teacher actually hated me or was just irritated by my complete lack of skill in physics. Though I still worked with A on Sundays, I was focused on other things.
This is why I was so surprised the Sunday that her grandma came to pick her up after service and asked if I could babysit on Tuesday. The answer was, of course, "Sure, I'll come over right after school!" And I did, and that's when my fate... I guess, our fate... was sealed.
That first day that I watched A is forever burned into my memory. I don't think I'll ever forget a single detail. It was early September. When I got there, she was sleeping upstairs in her crib, so I sat down to do some homework. When I heard her start to fuss, I went upstairs to find her standing up in her crib. I approached her cautiously - I was in her space, her home, for the first time, and I was certainly not who she was expecting to get her up from her nap that day.
"Hi, A! Remember me? I'm Katie, from church? We like to play together and eat cheerios. Would you like to go get some cheerios?"
**Let it be noted here for all future babysitting endeavors that "Cheerios" is a word that has some sort of magical, calming effect on children. I have a hunch that they're like Xanax for toddlers.**
Because, yes, she definitely visibly relaxed at the mention of Cheerios. She fussed a little when I lifted her out of her crib (I couldn't get the side down, I was always horrible with those things, and I'm cursed with incredibly short stature), but calmed down with the reminder of - wait for it - right, CHEERIOS! So of course that was the first order of business. Then, like a good babysitter, I went to change her diaper. "Come on, A," I called, patting the couch and shaking a toy. "Let's change your diaper so we can play outside!"
Uh - wrong thing to say, apparently. A retreated immediately. I went to get her and picked her up, laid her down on the couch and gave her the toy. I promise you I never, ever, and at that point I'd been working with kids for five years, had a child fight me that hard on a diaper change. Tiny little thing straight up overpowered me. Slid off the couch and ran, pants around her ankles, to hide between the couch and the wall, sobbing.
I was only sixteen. I didn't know what to think. Part of me feared that something horrible had happened to this mystery of a child, but I didn't know what to do, and she still couldn't talk to help me understand. I proceeded the only way I knew how. It took a full hour to coax her into the diaper change, which still resulted in more tears than I would've liked, I felt horrible... another fifteen minutes to find and coax her into wearing her shoes... and then we went outside, and another change happened.
First she walked along quietly with me, not wanting to hold my hand but for help climbing on and off curbs (her grandparents lived in a condo subdivision with no sidewalks and mostly deserted streets). Then she discovered, with joy, that she could jump - with both feet - off the curb! Oh, the delight on her face, I would have walked on a bed of nails for that smile. Again and again she willingly took both my hands in hers and jumped on and off the curb, smiling and laughing as I made high pitched squeals of excitement over her 'triumph'.
I remember thinking, after the diaper change incident, that if this brought her such joy, I would stay out there all day. And we very nearly did - only when the sun began its descent over the horizon did we return to the house and settle down to watch Dora the Explorer (this was, and still is A's favorite show. She is now nine.) She fell asleep on the couch by 8:00 under her Dora blanket and I went back to my homework, sneaking peeks at the peacefully sleeping toddler on occasion. When her grandmother and grandfather got home that night, they asked me to come back the following day and I agreed readily. We talked briefly before I left, I told them about our day, about her diaper change freak-out (about which they were just as puzzled as I was), about our walk, and then I said a quiet 'good night' to a still-sleeping A, and walked to my car.
I wasn't even out of the driveway before the tears began. I couldn't put my finger on it, but something was off with her. Ordinarily, the diaper change incident would have been an abuse red flag for me, but I'd gotten to know the little girl's grandparents well over the past year, and her relationship with them, and she positively genuinely adored them both. I'd seen her mother only once, a tall, thin woman who closely resembled her daughter, and never even heard a word about her father. It seemed to me that this little girl was very loved and cared for even in the ever-ambiguous 'difficult circumstances', which for all I knew, could have been the cause of her distress. Or she could have had special needs. She was definitely delayed. But I didn't know enough about special needs to draw any type of conclusion. So I cried, and I prayed, the whole way home. "God, I don't know what you want me to do here. I want to help her. I want to do what you want me to do, but I don't know what that is. Please show me the way. Please help me do your will. And please protect that sweet little girl from whatever is haunting her." Then I went home and researched anti-social behaviors in toddlers all night.
I want to be clear here that even though in those early days, my gut told me that something was 'off', I purposely avoided jumping to any conclusions, because I simply didn't know enough about the situation. I was in a state of watchful waiting - observing her behavior and conferring with her grandparents to help determine what she needed, what was at the root of her struggles. I still believe that was the right thing to do. And in the meantime, A and I made memories.
More of those stories - perhaps a more light-hearted post, next time. As much as I'd like to end this post on a happy note, I've reached my emotional limit for the day and need to think about something else for a while. And in case you're wondering, I promise not to write a post about every single day of the past seven years. That first day with A just made such an impression on me, it was the day she grabbed a piece of my heart and never gave it back... it deserved to be fully explained.
The pictures from those earliest days are also back when I, ever the technophobe, was still using a 35 mm film camera, so they are not on my computer. The earliest photo I have on my computer of the two of us was probably around six months after that first day, and perhaps it's the happy note I need to end this post.
 |
| Taking a rest/nap. Yay, grainy old cell phone pictures! Oh, how I so loved those naps, and the rare cuddles they afforded me. |
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Color Changing Nail Polish
Just barely over five months ago, I was carefully applying a salmon colored nail polish to twenty individual toenails and ten miniature finger nails. Not my own finger nails - I hate to have polish on my fingers.
I bought it in St. Augustine, Florida on Father's Day. I specifically chose Sunday for that excursion to stem the flow of any unhappy thoughts that could spoil our vacation. We would be too busy to be unhappy for even a moment.
I spoiled us. I bought us ice cream, candy and souvenirs, including the nail polish I later applied so carefully. It was only a salmon color indoors - outdoors it turned a bright shade of fuchsia. We got it at a store called 'Del Sol' (of the sun, in case you didn't get that). Everything in the store lit up or changed color in sunlight. They had UV lights in the store that you could hold things under to see what they'd look like outside. Sure enough, as soon as we set foot outside the little shop, the polish turned fuchsia. We couldn't wait to paint our nails with it, then set foot on the sandy beach and watch our toes change color. We painted them that night.
I think a couple days on the beach overdosed my polish - although Alivia's was still turning purple, perhaps because her feet were pretty much constantly in the water - but my toes had gone back to staying pinkish even outside. I took this picture one day, bored as I lounged by the pool, my little fish splashing around with boundless energy.
By then she had chewed the polish off her fingernails. She always did, because she couldn't help biting her nails, especially when she was nervous, and this almost always ended in her scraping off any polish present with her teeth. Actually, the nail biting itself was a habit we shared, and part of the reason I didn't paint my own nails. We used to remind each other when we saw each other biting - don't bite your nails! But I didn't say anything when I noticed the missing polish... we were on vacation, it wasn't the time to worry about such inconsequential things, we were having the time of our lives.
Every day for the past five months, when I've looked down at my toes, I've seen those flecks of pink paint, gradually becoming less and less. When I've trimmed my nails, some of it has come off. Once or twice, as the nails grew out, I thought about taking it off and repainting them... and then thought twice. I wasn't taking it off, because it reminded me of the happy memory of sitting there with my princess, painting our nails. I put it on when we were together. I didn't want to take it off while we were apart.
Now, only the tiniest traces of paint remain on my big toes. If I cut my nails again every trace of it will probably vanish.
It makes me sad. I know, silly, right? Silly that I even got sentimental about not wanting to take it off, and walked around with half-painted toes all summer. Even sillier that now that it's almost gone, and knowing I won't soon be together with the princess whose toes I painted with mine, I still can't take it off. Sillier that I'll probably cry when I'm forced to clip my nails again and the last little bit is gone.
But I can't, and I will.
What I wouldn't give to go back to the day I put it on, when everything was happy and carefree, before crisis, before things got so ugly and complicated. What I wouldn't give to go back and do it all again, knowing what I know now. But we don't get to go back, do we? We only get one shot. We do the best we can with it. We try, as I tried, to do what we think is right. Sometimes we fail. Sometimes we fall short. Sometimes we get our hearts broken.
And when that happens... maybe it isn't so silly to hold onto the happy memories brought on by something as small and seemingly insignificant as a couple flecks of no-longer color changing nail polish.
I bought it in St. Augustine, Florida on Father's Day. I specifically chose Sunday for that excursion to stem the flow of any unhappy thoughts that could spoil our vacation. We would be too busy to be unhappy for even a moment.
I spoiled us. I bought us ice cream, candy and souvenirs, including the nail polish I later applied so carefully. It was only a salmon color indoors - outdoors it turned a bright shade of fuchsia. We got it at a store called 'Del Sol' (of the sun, in case you didn't get that). Everything in the store lit up or changed color in sunlight. They had UV lights in the store that you could hold things under to see what they'd look like outside. Sure enough, as soon as we set foot outside the little shop, the polish turned fuchsia. We couldn't wait to paint our nails with it, then set foot on the sandy beach and watch our toes change color. We painted them that night.
I think a couple days on the beach overdosed my polish - although Alivia's was still turning purple, perhaps because her feet were pretty much constantly in the water - but my toes had gone back to staying pinkish even outside. I took this picture one day, bored as I lounged by the pool, my little fish splashing around with boundless energy.
 |
| Pink toes |
 |
| Little fish |
By then she had chewed the polish off her fingernails. She always did, because she couldn't help biting her nails, especially when she was nervous, and this almost always ended in her scraping off any polish present with her teeth. Actually, the nail biting itself was a habit we shared, and part of the reason I didn't paint my own nails. We used to remind each other when we saw each other biting - don't bite your nails! But I didn't say anything when I noticed the missing polish... we were on vacation, it wasn't the time to worry about such inconsequential things, we were having the time of our lives.
Every day for the past five months, when I've looked down at my toes, I've seen those flecks of pink paint, gradually becoming less and less. When I've trimmed my nails, some of it has come off. Once or twice, as the nails grew out, I thought about taking it off and repainting them... and then thought twice. I wasn't taking it off, because it reminded me of the happy memory of sitting there with my princess, painting our nails. I put it on when we were together. I didn't want to take it off while we were apart.
Now, only the tiniest traces of paint remain on my big toes. If I cut my nails again every trace of it will probably vanish.
It makes me sad. I know, silly, right? Silly that I even got sentimental about not wanting to take it off, and walked around with half-painted toes all summer. Even sillier that now that it's almost gone, and knowing I won't soon be together with the princess whose toes I painted with mine, I still can't take it off. Sillier that I'll probably cry when I'm forced to clip my nails again and the last little bit is gone.
But I can't, and I will.
What I wouldn't give to go back to the day I put it on, when everything was happy and carefree, before crisis, before things got so ugly and complicated. What I wouldn't give to go back and do it all again, knowing what I know now. But we don't get to go back, do we? We only get one shot. We do the best we can with it. We try, as I tried, to do what we think is right. Sometimes we fail. Sometimes we fall short. Sometimes we get our hearts broken.
And when that happens... maybe it isn't so silly to hold onto the happy memories brought on by something as small and seemingly insignificant as a couple flecks of no-longer color changing nail polish.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
When you miss someone...
I know this blog is private. I know only a few people can see it. I also know I have another one that even fewer people can see... and that I could type these words to myself in a word processor. I can't explain why, but it feels like it belongs here.
I miss someone... so bad it's suffocating... so bad that I'm second guessing what I know were the right decisions... the only decisions...
And there is nothing I can do to make it stop.
"If you become a crocus in a hidden garden... I will be a gardener. And I will find you."
I miss you... my pretty marigold.
I miss someone... so bad it's suffocating... so bad that I'm second guessing what I know were the right decisions... the only decisions...
And there is nothing I can do to make it stop.
"If you become a crocus in a hidden garden... I will be a gardener. And I will find you."
I miss you... my pretty marigold.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Blog Changes
Those of you who follow this blog can, for the most part, still see it. So I wanted to explain quickly why I won't be blogging much here for the next month or so. I have to put this blog on private for personal reasons (rather than delete a bunch of stuff) but with it being Angel Tree season at Reece's Rainbow, I didn't want to NOT have a blog to post on when I have a face or a family I want to share. So my new blog is:
http://crazy-arewethereyet.blogspot.com/
If you were following this one, or even if you weren't, feel free to follow that one! There's even a tab on the side that lets you follow by e-mail if you aren't a blogger user. I may return to this one at some point in the future but for now that's unknown. Thanks for your patience :)
http://crazy-arewethereyet.blogspot.com/
If you were following this one, or even if you weren't, feel free to follow that one! There's even a tab on the side that lets you follow by e-mail if you aren't a blogger user. I may return to this one at some point in the future but for now that's unknown. Thanks for your patience :)
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