You and Me / Take 2

My Sunshine called yesterday. I used to sing her that song, "You are my Sunshine", when she was small. But i still tell her, on the phone or in a card... I remind her of who she is to me.
Even when we are grown-ups, finding our own way, it is good to be loved.
There are so many things i could write about Bre, her fearlessness that makes anything i did or say look like a ride at Chuck-E-Cheese. Or maybe her determination, the way she focuses and moves forward, not letting anyone, or anything, hold her back. Maybe it is her heart, so beautiful and yet set way up with a wall around it, a defense against a man world, yet it beats hard in truth and justice. I am beyond proud.

But i think all i can say about how much i love her, I have already said.

Several years ago I wrote an essay about her. Reading it now, it sets me right back in each place with her.
So in honor of her and me and all that we have survived, some of it unknowingly, and how brave she is and how much i miss her; I will post it here. I warn you, it is lengthy, and you may want to stop now. Please forgive the format ... it doesn't carry over to blog so well, but, you'll get it.
And the italics, those are song lyrics. You and ME by Dave Matthews. I realize this is a song for married people but let's not get hung up on technicalities. I love Dave. She loves Dave. And we're both flying.
You'll get it.

For you baby girl, my Sunshine. XOXO
Mommy

You and Me
I don’t remember what the day was like, sunshine or rain, or what I was wearing or who I called, and I must admit I have forgotten the exact time. (Was it 11:16 or 11:20 pm?) I do know that I was so terrified of getting poo on the bed, I insisted they let me get up and use the restroom, even when the nurse insisted just as strongly (I’m a professional) that I don’t.
But I won. Your mama is so stubborn.
And then I got stuck in the bathroom for 20 minutes because the contractions came so hard I couldn’t get up. I thought for sure I would have you right there in a hospital toilet. But thankfully I finally got that slide latch to move. I mean, really, who puts a lock like that in a bathroom?? I don’t remember what time your dad came to the hospital or how many people saw my hooha when I pushed and screamed and grabbed my dad’s chest so tight I drew blood, as he chanted “You can do it. I’m right here.”
But I do recall I was starving and your Papa Gary snuck me a snickers bar. I gobbled the entire thing in seconds and I didn’t throw it up like the nurse (the professional) said I would.
The wonderful night of you still brings a soft smile to my face. I know it is soft because it doesn’t feel how my smiles usually feel – all stretched out and big and loud. This smile makes me feel gentle, like a white Egyptian cotton curtain, moving in the breeze.

you & me together we can do anything, baby

Getting you home was easy but then your dad and I wondered for days, when were we allowed to drive with you in the car? I mean, we were running low on food and there was church and family… We wanted to ask someone, a parent maybe? But then we realized, with wide –eyed teenage faces, we were the parents. I did a very responsible thing then and I looked it up. “What to Expect When You Are Expecting” didn’t give a specific date, only stating a car seat was needed. We had that. But the way your tiny head would flop to the side, like a little stuffed animal whose neck had been stretched out, scared me to death and I was convinced the book left out vital information.
Changing your diaper furthered our concerns on the wisdom of being alone with you. It took two of us to do it for at least a week. The size of the diaper was the size of my hand and yet, I couldn’t get one out and the other in quick enough. The day you decided to stream out mustard from your butt all over my arm is one I will never forget. I sat there yelling at your dad, completely grossed out, “Get it off! Get it off!!” But he was laughing so hard, I was almost afraid he would pass out from not being able to breathe. There he stood, red-faced; clutching his belly, body heaving with his mouth wide open but NO sound coming out. It lasted forever. Ok, maybe 3 minutes. But when there’s poo running down your arm, that’s on its way to forever.
I wanted to ram my mustard-poo arm in his face.

you & me together yes, yes

Watching you grow up has been the greatest gift. I have always said that you saved me. And you did. You saved me from the monsters that lived under my bed, and in the closet, and in my family pictures and forced Thanksgivings full of pretend love. You. You let me feel real love, the fragility and solidity of it, all at the same time.

want to pack your bags something small

I’ve never lied to you.
Even though at times I wanted to.
I didn’t want you to always know the truth. I thought sometimes if you did, the heart that holds so much love would crack a little. Hearts can take a lot of cracks. A knick. Sometimes even a chunk.

And it will still be a heart that loves.

But I didn’t want to be the one to chip it. Like mine was. Chipped and taped and glued and band-aided and held together with toothpicks. That’s what happened when I became your mom. You were my mirror – reflecting all of my good, the laughter and openness and bravery, and all of my bad too; the fear and the rage and horrible emptiness of rejection and abandonment. There was so much bad. I had to teach myself to be a better person than I had seen. I had to learn that I could right all the horrible left hand turns, dead ends, and railroad tracks that had been done to me. I could make our lives straight.

take what you need & we disappear

A terrible mom moment haunts me always. Sometimes I just couldn’t get away from them; from her. I was my mom and her dad and my dad and her family, all rolled into one yelling, screaming, pulsating, frantic 19 year old. It was my rock-bottom mom loser mom crazy mom desperate mom moment. The words of my own mother shrieked inside me, “I hate you”, “I wish you were dead”, “I don’t want a daughter like you”. I could feel all of these rages trying to claw out of me; pushing on my fingers and straining against the confines of my own skin, gripping my toes, making my breath fast and my head thud and my eyes big. But nothing came out of my fingers or my hands.
It all came out of my mouth. Word vomit and soul sickness. It poured out of me and on to the floor, chasing you down the hallway.
You ran towards your room and I followed you, stomping my feet so you could hear me behind you, slamming my hands against the wall and bellowing from the bottomless pit of my fury. I didn’t say my own bad mom words; instead I let out a howl that sounded like the damned wishing for an escape. Thinking of it now I feel SHAME tattooed on my face, big and bold and red. My scarlet letter. You turned and looked at me, tears running down your small pale face, your big blue ocean eyes full of fear, and you sat, hunched down in the hallway, and said quietly, “ mommy, mommy, I’m sorry…” I stopped dead where I was.
It was waking up from the worst nightmare. Except I wasn’t dreaming.
I was the nightmare.

I remember I cried, and like any broken selfish person, I hugged you and let you comfort me.

All small 3 years of you.

without a trace, we'll be gone, gone

So many times in your life I have thought of this day and wondered if you remembered. If it pursues you the way some of my memories hunt me. So many times I wanted to beg you to forgive me. Forgive me for almost being them. Forgive me for not being... a heart without cracks and chunks missing. A mother.
But then I didn’t want to bring it up. I didn’t want you to look at me different than you do now, trusting, loved, protected. My child.
Me. Mother. Coward.

The moon & the stars follow the car

I used to rub my belly all the time. I loved sitting on the couch, with my shirt up, and watching it roll and bulge and hiccup, as you moved and got comfy inside. I could see your little foot and I marveled that you were in me and I was giving you life. And you were giving me life back.

& then when we get to the ocean,

I told your dad that I was afraid. I made him promise he would always be the one to give you a bath. I was terrified that if I gave you a bath, if I did it wrong, if I accidentally touched you or washed you then… then I would be like the monster.
I didn’t know until later monsters don’t happen by accident.
Your dad looked at me and I saw love. The warm hazelnut of his eyes reached out and swaddled me tight in a protective cocoon. Safe.

His heart trying to patch all the cracks on another.

Your dad gave you your very first bath. He was very gentle, delicate. I was in awe. I saw your dad’s heart. I saw him give it to you. And it was beautiful. It was whole.

we're going to take a boat to the end of the world...

I gave you your second bath, your dad standing next to me, borrowed strength. The moment I washed your tiny foot with its long finger-toes, and your little hand gripped mine (so strong so strong tiny brave girl), I knew I would never, ever, hurt you. I felt release. The fear lifted from my heart. It came out of the crack groove it had been embedded in for so long, the 8 year old me that had been forsaken had inhaled it and let it attach, permeate, become one with me. I could almost see it detaching itself.
And I felt hopeful freedom.
It wasn't contagious, the sickness of abuse and denial that ran through my family. I didn't catch it. I wasn't like him. Or her. Or any of them.

I saw my heart.

And a crack disappeared.

all the way to the end of the world

I like it when you climb into bed with me and we whisper about boys and friendship drama and movies and Dave Matthews, and we giggle and snort.
I admired you when we ran together. At 17 you could run the world round and round while doing jumping jacks and hurdles without breaking a sweat. I ran two miles and sounded like a mortally wounded animal looking for a place to die. I loved you and envied you and yes, parts of me were cussing you, when you hopped from one foot to another at the top of the hill, cheering me on, “Come on Mommy. You got this. Almost there!”
I love that you still call me Mommy. Its music words to my lyrical soul.

I felt so old, so mom-ish when I took you to your very first concert, Justin Timberlake, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt with a super cute (I thought) blazer and black converse but I was surrounded by teenagers and young twenty-something’s dressed in high heels and short skirts, hoping to be the “one” that gets noticed. I had to tell you and your sister, “You can’t sit at a concert. Get up and move!” I’m sure I embarrassed you with all my old lady gyrating.
I felt so privileged to calm you down on the phone when you got into a fight with your boyfriend because he didn’t want you to have other boy¬friends. Then we agreed how dumb it was and he was and boys can be in general.
Not all girls are this strong.
Not all girls have a heart so defined.

oh and when the kids are old enough

Moving you to Washington to, “the most remote Coast Guard station in the country”; an adult now, trained, training, working, rescuing, flying. I felt my heart grow bigger, loving the grown up you while treasuring the small you and so incredibly proud of everything you are.
Bre. Breann. Noble. Strong. Virtuous. Honorable. You.
How could we have known when we picked your name it would fit so perfectly? We were just kids - your dad and me. Did you grow into your name? No. No, baby girl. God knew. He knew what you would be from the start.

we gonna teach them to flyyyyyyy

Today I was looking around inside World Market, and they had all these really cool Christmas ornaments, some sparkly and bright, others eclectic and colorful, and I started thinking about how I get you a new ornament each year so that when you move out, you'll have your own. I wondered what I would pick for you this year, even though you are already gone.
I knew right then I will buy you your own ornament forever.

And then I started to cry.

Right there in the middle of the store because I missed you so bad. It didn’t last long. Soon after I started laughing because I could hear you so clearly say to me in your grown-up still a girl voice, "Oh madre - you're such a dork ".

you & me together we could do anything, baby

I can see your heart. It is whole, intact, beautiful, and safe. I did all I could, all I knew and all I wished for to protect it. I kept my monsters away. I fought them banished them cut them from your life my life our heart family.
But
I’ve also tried to warn you, without inhibiting you, that this won’t always be the case. The cracks will come. Sometimes a crack so big a piece may break and you may think you will die from it.
But you won’t.

It takes a lot to kill a heart.

Other hearts come that see inside and they share. They breathe and with each breath, love flows, filling in the cracks, leaving scars… long, deep, red, painful, and sometimes brutally ugly. But ugly scars are perfect. So so so perfect.

you & me together yes, yes

Time heals what ?

Most of us are familiar with the expression, "Time heals all wounds." It's what we say to someone who has been incredibly hurt, someone that has been left stunned, blind-sided, and doubled over in heart pain with their guts sliding through their fingers. We know swimming with an army of hungry Great Whites and not being swallowed whole is far more likely than an apology from the person who left our friend looking like the walking dead, so we offer up a platitude on a silver tray with a pat on the head.
Neat. Clean. Sterile. Seemingly, the best we can do if we are avoiding complete honesty.
The real response, the one we feel deep in our own gut of pain and camaraderie is, "That really sucks. Let's go get some steel-toed boots and ski masks and kick the crap out of that assjack".
But we don't say this.

Even though it is by far the more empathetic approach.

The wound does suck.
Time does not heal. Time passes.
I think it is funny that we assume if we just put some space between the day of the wound and the apology that never happens, we will be ok.
It's not ok. The wound is not ok.
It just has days of band-aids piled on top of it. It can be 25 band-aids or 1,095 band-aids. (that's three years worth - a lot of freakin band-aids)

For some of us, probably all of us, we have wounds, scrapes, gashes, amputated limbs and heart gouges, inflicted upon us that the inflicter will never take responsibility for. And that really sucks. It does. I have my fair share of imaginary steel-toed boots in my closet with the names of the inflicter engraved on the toe. They are ready.
But i haven't needed them.
I have found that time does not heal the wound but,
forgiveness does.

Forgiveness.
Not letting them back in. Not giving them another boxing glove so they can knock me out on the other side of my face. Not laying down at their feet so they can jump up and down on me like a rag doll and watch the stuffing pop out of my eyes. Not handing them my duct-taped heart so they can throw it against a wall. Again.
Forgiveness.
Just letting it go. Choosing to not let them have control of my happiness. Just saying, "I am not waiting anymore for you to make it better. It's going to be better anyway."

Some people forgive and it's a one time deal. I'm not sure how that kind of forgiveness works but I am slightly envious about it. It's like their soul gets dunked once, really really deep, and they come out all shiny and forgiving. My soul takes a shower in forgiveness each day. It's not a one time dunk for me. Each day i choose, am i going to let forgiveness wash over me or not?
So one day i might be really shiny and new and other days I may have some grease spots and need a change of clothes.
But you know what? So far, this is working.

Matthew 6:11 says, "Give us this day our daily bread." (emphasis mine) He's not talking about food here. He is talking about our needs. God wants us to depend on Him each day for what we need - our physical needs, our spiritual needs, and our emotional needs.

Or in plain English - our strength, our money, our pantry, our love, our kindness towards others, our absence of road rage, and yes, our forgiveness.

Otherwise, we might get a little high and mighty and start thinking about how really great we are and how really lame everyone else is.

If you hurt, you don't have to. I'm not saying it is easy. I'm not gonna lie; some days I'd rather peel my face skin off with my fingernails than forgive some of the people that have hurt me.
But each day it gets a little easier.
Not because time is passing, but because it is becoming easier for me to trust God to meet my need and letting go of my expectation of people to.

XOXO