Pregnant Woman Crossing

I was pregnant with Gizmo. I looked a bit like a pasty whale. It was not a pretty sight but a sight to behold. One summer day I and my gigantic belly were pushing Li'l Bit along in her stroller. It was so hot; my ankles felt like they were going to burst forth with the second great flood. I came to the crosswalk right in front of our house and waited...and waited...and waited. Car--zoom, car----zoom, car---zoom...

Winthrop is a very busy street and our house was right on it. We benefited from the Blessed 96 that ran from our doorstep to Harvard Square. But in order to get to the bus we'd have to take our lives in our own hands just to cross Winthrop. There is actually a crosswalk there, but nobody pays attention to it. Nor do they pay attention to pedestrians waiting to cross. You simply have to wait until there are no cars in sight and then Run For Your Life!

So I'm standing there for a good three minutes waiting to cross. Finally a minivan approaches and appears to be slowing down for me. Boy was I wrong! I start to push the stroller forward and am startled back by the sound of honking and revving engine. As the woman speeds by she screams through her open window, "WHAT THE F*** DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING!"

I was stunned. Nay, I was in shock.

Here I am, so pregnant I can hardly breathe, my 22 month old daughter nearly barreled over, and a woman in a minivan drops the F-bomb on me? Seriously?

Hands shaking, heart pounding, I finally got Li'l Bit and myself inside. I locked every door and window. I shut the blinds AND the curtains. I stayed there for three days. Unrestrained rage has a bad effect on me. And I was pregnant, so, you know.

I finally emerged but kept most of my foot traffic on my side of Winthrop. We had the better park anyway. BUT, some dear friends of ours still live there and they are trying to do something about it. They are petitioning the city to install a raised crosswalk. It really is the only way to get people to slow down on a street like that. So if you appreciate the fact that my children and I were never killed at that crosswalk: Click here to sign the petition. (Just a small twinge of guilt, right?) ;) Really. Go sign it. You can sign it first and skip the donation page that comes after. SIGN IT!

our little cutie about the time of the crosswalk incident

so stinking cute! i want to squeeze her!

her second birthday tea party

the day gizmo was born. i was HUGE! but 5 cm's closer to weight loss. ;)

Vanity Shmanity

Okay, it's happened. I can actually tell I look older.

Vanity, get in the back seat....again.

I'm turning 30 in May, and I never thought I'd have a problem with that. I've always, always wanted to be older than I actually am. When I was twelve I couldn't WAIT to be 14. When I was 16, I couldn't WAIT to be 18. When I was 18 I met B.daddy, and I couldn't wait to prove to him how old I actually was. Then I started having babies and I realized my body could use some help in the number department. 22? Yes! 22. I'm only 22. Oh, thank the Lord I'm only 22! That must have been when my brain stopped registering age.

I grew up the youngest. I have three older sisters; I was the Baby. And 99% of the time I mooched off them to fill my social calendar. Except for a handful of--literally 5--friends, all my friends were older than I. And guys? My husband is 8 years older than I am. I aimed high. So when I meet someone new I almost ALWAYS assume they are older than I am. Even if they're 5 years younger I'm astonished to learn they are only 24 and that's less than 29. It's a disease! My vision is impaired. And my math--well my math is always off.

But lately...

I'll catch a glimpse in the mirror...

Or I'll be pouring over adorable pictures of our babies and come across one of me, and--GASP!--O. M. G.

I look 30.

I look like a normal, 30 year old mom. And you can't even see my stretch marks in that picture!! Why do I look so old?!

And then I take a deep breath.

Again.

I've taken this very breath many times. It's usually when I've been huge with child or deflated after dispensing said child. I look down at the Mass That Gives Life, and I remind myself, this love is bigger than your vanity. Suck it up, girl, and love that baby.

But this time the breath is not about accepting something as Life Giving as stretch marks. Those are immediately gratified when you look at your baby--even when your baby turns three. Everyday I know why my body looks like....well, like it does. Because my kids exist.

What's different is this time I'm accepting the life I've lived. The marks of Life Living. That's right. It's still happening. And it's not going to stop happening.

The creases and divots on my face are from gut wrenching laughter, earth-shaking sobs, and the chronic burden of the mundane. And gravity. There's not much that I've felt that I cannot now see on my face.

And this is a progressing condition.

If I'm lucky I'll have a thousand more good, belly laughs. If I'm here on earth I'll have several more reasons to cry out to God that I Didn't Want This! And if I'm me, I'm going to stress out about the laundry and bread that doesn't rise.

So it's only going to get worse.

On the surface.

But I know---deep breath---I know, living this life gives life.

Enjoying to the point of lost laughter.

Loving at the risk of grief; hoping like a little girl.

Caring enough to want to get it right and show them my love.

Yeah. I'm not going to stop doing that. I'm going to just keep on getting older and older. And if I'm here when I'm 90? Well, I'm going to look like crap. But I'd better be oozing love and wisdom or I am going to be ticked.

I Find it Hard to Remember

I have these memories. Things that happened to me. Around me. To people I loved. To children.

Oh, how they burn. How they nauseate.

These memories are visiting me this week, and my heart weeps and aches and I don't know what I'm supposed to do with all this pain. All these memories.

Sometimes pain is good to share. Sometimes it helps. But I fear sometimes I may share too much. I fear sometimes I may cause pain with my words about pain.

So, I continue cautiously.

What do you do when the person who By Design should protect you, turns out to be your greatest source of pain? When you forgive a thousand times and they demand more forgiveness, your heart repeatedly wrenched from your chest? How do you handle the realization that this person just simply may never love you good and pure?

How do you shake the nightmares--the same person pinning you down over and over and stop never means stop? How do you reconcile the things your subconscious screams in those nights?

How do you handle the first-hand knowledge that predators are everywhere? That 20% of the children you know have been violated and will walk with that all their life?

What do you do with this sort of pain?

I reflect.

How many hours my husband has listened to my silence! How viscously I fought this man who fought to love me. We've had the same conversation over and over again, because every time I'm just a little bit braver--I trust him with a new piece of information. It's like my past is a photograph I have ripped to shreds. When I bring him a new piece he helps me find its place. Then I can decide if I want to keep it and glue it to our own collage, or if I want to burn it and be free of it. I have been freed from much!

After way too long, I finally reached out for help. And my new "professional friend", as I like to think of her, has helped me be objective. We sort through the things I am terrified to say out loud, and we talk about living right now. She's like a midwife for birthing the person I want to be, making the choices I want to make. She suggests new positions or movements to relieve the pressure. She reminds me to breathe and focus and trust myself. My body knows how to have a baby, and my heart knows how to heal. But we all need a support team lifting us up, reminding us that we can do this.

I protect.

Dusk falls everyday and I close our drapes. Something like a lioness looks at the darkness through the window pane and says, "You will not come in here." Nothing dark will be allowed into my home. Not as long as I can stop it.

I kiss soft, warm cheeks as they sleep. I stroke those three heads and pray thanks. Protect them, Lord. Please protect them! I sleep with my husband's love wrapped around me. I breathe his honesty, his goodness, in and out all night long. This is what I protect.

And I open it all up in the morning.

Windows, specifically. The views are not magnificent, but the light is. And though there's not much to look at, this is my present. I remember the past, but I don't live there. I plan for the future, but I don't live there. Here I live, in the present. It's the only time frame we have that is like eternity. I am here, and I will live open.

I push the drapes aside in the prayer nook. I will see His Love today. I will see it and accept it and give it.

I walk down to the kitchen to pour my coffee and tie the drapes. I will do the most menial tasks today, because I am loved and I will love through this simple goodness.

Coffee in hand, wet towel on my head, I retract the blinds in the school room. I will have fun with these kids today. We will learn together--more about each other than anything else.

My slippers shuffle on the squeaky boards in the living room. I tie up four drapes, and this room gets the most light all day long. I will read and snuggle and rest in this gift of a nest. I will not fret.

His light pours in and darkness hides.

In the dining room I tie more drapes. I will feed people I love and I will be nourished by them. This room shakes the most and I seem to walk the heaviest in the morning. I love these old knots and this old house.

I climb the stairs and come back to the nook. I sit with my hero, and we read and pray and keep ourselves awake as we relish in this quiet moment. Our kids gradually wake and join us; he prays for me today. That my Father will comfort me and hold me close; that my love will flow freely out, bursting through the dam that wants to hold. And I pray too. Thanks to my Father for loving me perfectly, that my joy will shine with the light of day, and my tears will wait for the quiet night and my husband's arms. Because despite the love, the joy, the light, the hope....the memories are burning a lot this week. And I'm just going to have to let myself hurt for a bit.

"Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning."