Sweet Baby Scent

Being 13 is going to be the death of me or perhaps her.

Unlikeable is the term that jumps to my mind quite often. I always say, "I love you" because I always will, no matter what. Loving is easy, liking someone is a totally different game.

I've struggled with this a lot.

It was a weird situation that ended me up in the library with the most perfect book in my hands and perfect timing, God On a Harley. I lost myself in this book one evening and the message hit home in many ways that I needed.

Wanting, needing that same experience again, I asked a librarian if they had any other books from the same author and they did, Heaven in High Gear. I liked the way she wrote in her book with her words and I wanted more.

Much to my surprise, this second book was actually the sequel to God On a Harley even though it didn't say so. *happy sigh*

Heather is with God when she heard a baby cry and found the little bundle in a bed of twigs and leaves. Her instincts and emotions in the words written pulled me into her scene as she picked up this baby with unmistakable femininity knowing the little bundle was a girl. Pulling her in her arms, breathing in her sweet baby scent and holding her close, she kissed her soft blond peach fuzz little head nestled in her arms close to her body feeling her breathe. Aware of her toothless smile and her little pink mouth. Her tiny fingers tangled in her hair. Helpless and perfect.

The scene was a flashback for me as if I could almost feel Brooke in my arms as a baby. Easier days when she was sweet, innocent, lovable and cuddly.

Abandoned, I needed that reminder.  I needed reminded that everyone needs the physical touch of hugs, kisses, affection and love.

I am the one in her world who displays loving affection towards her. If I don't provide it to her, she doesn't get it.

Life happens. Trauma happens. Unlikeable happens.

She is still my baby girl who has just lost her way.

The Threshold to Freedom

I heard an interesting perspective said on Today when a woman was interviewed because she had escaped from a polygamist community against all odds.

Raised in a situation that she believed what was the "right way" something inside her knew something was very off.

Her internal radar stayed consistent with her that things weren't right. Scared, she had to choose to flee from everything that she knew to escape into a world she knew nothing about while she believed she was compromising her own eternal salvation and eternal damnation. Still that choice was better than where she was. 

She touched on being stuck and said, "People look so long at their situation as a dead end, when it is actually the their threshold to freedom."

I couldn't agree more.

Karmageddon

When Brooke was a baby, she was super easy. I could put her down, go about chores, and almost forget about her. Not that I did, but she was always so happy and content.

Then she turned two and I questioned myself on how I could have successfully raised one child painlessly through what some call the terrible twos (obviously it was a matter of who had the strongest will, I thought) to have a second child that became the poster child of the terrible twos.

Brooke made life miserable. For one year I couldn't go to a restaurant, because it wasn't fair to other paying customers. For one year, many times my parents asked me to take my girls and go home, that they'd had enough of her. For one year, I remember pulling the car over to yank Brooke out of a car seat for her back arching, piercing screams because her chocolate milk in her bottle ran out during a 10 minute car ride and she didn't appreciate the confines of a car seat.

Oh yes, I went there! Chocolate milk in a bottle to buy me as much quiet in driving time as possible.

One year. It felt like a lifetime.

Now Brooke is 13 and daily I am reminded of her terrible twos.

I'm building an arsenal of consequences.

The middle school called yesterday, which was my 3rd form of contact in the 3 days of this week, saying that Brooke was in the clinic.

Actually, the phone call came more like, "Hi, this is Chris from the clinic ..." It's hard to sound etiquette appropriate on the phone when aggravation sets in. [Insert frustrated sigh]

Chris said Brooke threw up twice, but when she pulled her student file she saw the note from last year stating unless they "see it" I'm not picking Brooke up.

I know, that's gross. Brooke learned last year that throwing up will get a free pass home. Until I caught on to this game of hers. Saying you threw up isn't the same as the real thing. She wasn't fevered yesterday and I refused to come get her yesterday.

My thought is, if you can walk to the clinic and claim you threw up twice in their bathroom, you really didn't throw up. I want proof and sound effects heard in the office.

My sympathies are gone. Welcome to karmageddon.

Pruning Season

With a high tolerance for a lot of stuff, lately I find myself getting glimpses into others peoples lives that has me racing back to my bubble of a world called home.

Lives everywhere out of control by selfish, narcissistic, control freaks that do daily damage to their families and homes.

I feel like Punxsutawney Phil not wanting to pop my head out of my home until February 2nd, 2014.

Home is a place of refuge and rejuvenation and I feel like I could honestly prune these dead branches out of my life because they simply add nothing and the weight of their branches are so brittle that they could easily break off at the slightest of winds.

Just yesterday, I had a plant that has refused to grow and thrive in my yard and as a girl that doesn't give up on anything with a vein of life in it, I yanked it right out of the ground. I was simply tired of looking at its lifeless branches that refused to look healthy no matter where I planted it, watered it, and tended to it.

So I yanked it out of the ground tossed it in the trash and replaced it with a vibrant autumn mum with pink flowers that are ready to burst open any moment.

My flower bed looks better already.

I feel as if I am brushing the dust off my hands and am ready to face tomorrow. Pruning season.

My Dawn

Since my Mariah was tiny, I have referred to her as "my Mariah."  She is mine. 

Then Brooke came and I refer to them as "my girls" or that way individually. Always claiming possession of them.

Not many people do this and I always catch it when another does the same.

Today on the phone I couldn't help but notice my grandmother does the very same thing with me. She is forever telling me stories about her conversations with others "my Dawn ... this" and "my Dawn ... that" in so many of her conversations.

Claiming possession intended as a most loving endearment.

Sharing with others who is most important in ones life.

Separation Anxiety

True to start of the school year fashion, I end up at the middle school for Brooke at least 2x per week plus phone calls.

It's called separation anxiety.

Oh, the high-maintenanceness of it all (an official new word) and honestly, it's exhausting.

We are in week #3 of the start of the school year and yesterday I stepped up to the security camera, pressed the button to notify the staff to buzz me in, to have the secretary say, "Brooke's mom, please step closer to the camera."  I must have been standing too far away, but it is the "Brooke's mom" that is the embarrassing part. They know me and my little frequent flier all too well.

Today I am back. This will go on another couple of weeks until I bribe, threaten, and refuse, then and only then Brooke will make it through one milestone week at a time without me.

Then, I called my grandmother who I hadn't spoke to for well over a week who was frantically worried when she heard me say, "Hi, Grandma!"

"Are you okay? Where have you been? Were you sick?"  The questions made me feel guiltier than I felt prior to calling. After I assured her I was fine, it's just been a busy week and apologized for not calling sooner, she asked about my girls and I vented my frustrations of Brooke's separation anxiety at the start of every flippin' school year.

My grandmother confesses, "I understand [said in an understanding quiet tone], I feel the same way about you that she does when I don't hear from you. It's because I love you and we have such a good relationship that I need you, too."

One Day Closer

Good news, I am one day closer to getting a job!

No, a job has not come available, but a positive outlook must agree that I am one day closer.

Then I thought ... of all those endless nights, days, weeks, months, years, and decades that turned into my life. I knew then I was always one day closer to falling in love. Just when the shifting happened and I accepted it would never happen, it did.

I made it.

It has been almost 6 months since our paths crossed 20 years later.