Second Home

My classroom always felt like my second home to me and to my students. It had to. I wasn't comfortable otherwise. I had bean bag chairs on the rug in the reading corner and pictures of all the students family members up on the walls (including my own). We had rules and schedules to follow but it was all pretty cool and together.

My kids and I were comfortable and learning and communicating and it always felt like they were a part of me for the 10 months that I had them all to myself. We were respectful and cooperative (most of the time) and we tried very hard to be 'good citizens' in our classroom and school community.

I looked forward to going to our classroom and spending quality learning time in there. It was ours. We respected it and tried to keep it pretty. (As pretty as you could get in a NYC classroom...grey concrete isn't always that luscious.)

Once in a while, we'd have a practice fire drill where we'd have to line up quickly and evacuate the premises as quickly and quietly as we could. It was all very routine for all of us. We had it down to a science. But if faced with the rush of a real fire, would we be able to evacuate safely?

I always had the Columbine Tragedy etched in my memory. It was still a fresh wound in our teaching-hearts. And it made me more aware of the terrible things that people do in desperation. But this was my home. Nothing could happen in my home.

Early one morning, I was called by my principal on the "bat phone" (we used to call it)...He spoke calmly and asked me to please remain calm while he asked me if I had any family in the Twin Towers. I calmly uttered 'no' while he quickly instructed me to act as if nothing was wrong and to please close the window shades and doors and keep the kids calm and IN THE ROOM. (The towers were visible from MY room.) No bathroom trips, no unexpected trips to the yard for an art experiment and no discussing the collapse and attack of the first Tower.

I remained calm. It was all too surreal to act any differently.

I only knew these kids as my own for one and a half days. It was first period and we were right in the middle of a "Getting to Know You Conference". We were all sitting on the floor with the desks shoved in the corners. Giggling and laughing about one kid's pet Chinchilla and his dust baths. Then the shit hit the fan.

People running through the hallways and talking loudly in a panicked tone prompted the kids to question the commotion. (They were sixth graders and street smart..they knew something was up). I waited until word from my Principal to say anything and while immigrant kids were being escorted out of the building by extremely frightened parents, I began to discuss the matter as openly and calmly as I could with the kids. It was scary.

We had an emergency assembly with the remaining students and had to wait until about 6pm until all the kid's parents were present and accounted for. Surprisingly 'only' one little kindergartener lost her Daddy that day in the entire school. (One too many in our school family)

We were in a state of panic.

After that. It just wasn't ever the same.

Emergency lock downs were practiced and bomb drills were rehearsed on a weekly basis. They are not the same as a fire drill I assure you.

Locking two classroom doors, covering all the windows and remaining mouse-quiet with 30+ children at the back of the room while you wait for the 'secret code' to come over the loudspeaker to let you know the intruder is out of the building or being detained is scary stuff. That I can promise you.

Yes, they were only drills. However, they were constant reminders that things have changed. The once homey classroom felt like a prison that we couldn't escape in the clutches of terror if need be.

I saw the kids differently after that. They had their own lives to live and families to protect them. Who was I? I was just a scared and newly-wed woman who wanted to go home to her own family, but whose responsibility was to protect her young charges. Could I? If faced with such a tragedy as the other day at VA Tech., could I protect my students if their life depended on it?

I pray that I could.

I send all of my love to those families from Virginia. And those brave and honorable teachers who lost their lives trying to protect their students. In an institution that is supposed to be a safe-haven and a second home, it was invaded and lives were taken. I am reeling.

Stuff

When your head is buzzing and you are feeling lightheaded, you go to the doctor right? I think I may be sick, or I think I could be stressed. Which is why I haven't seen a doctor yet.

My jaw has been clenched since about Wednesday. Every time I loosen it up it clicks and my head gets a rush of blood. The headache is constant. Then I begin clenching again.

My stomach is in knots.

The dreams have been terrible lately. Dreams of loss and death and sexual abuse and murder and falling and the paranormal all swarming my nightly slumber.

Mista says I bring this on myself. Like I'm waiting for this feeling to return. But he's wrong. I have been over analyzing crap and that usually calms me down. I have been mentally preparing myself for this time of year and I thought that was working. I thought this time would be different. I was armed with an awareness like never before and more knowledge of myself and my feelings. I was wrong.

Then. A came over yesterday for a wonderful visit. But. She started talking about when Mom was in the hospital and I felt the nausea hit and the tears well up inside my eyeballs and I had to stop eating because I thought I was going to vomit all over the kitchen table.

That's it.

I can't stop thinking about it. It is my every other thought throughout the day and I am nauseous because of it.

They say time heals all wounds. That's bullshit. Time only makes you able to live with those gaping wounds and survive every anniversary. The rest of that passing time, you are in a slight fog. Pretending to be normal. Even after you have a kid. You pretend to be normal. Then the anniversaries creep up again. And all that time that has passed means nothing.

Because it's like you just lost her all over again.

And when you are around women with their mothers for special occasions like bridal showers and weddings you pretend it's all good. But you are hurting so deeply inside because you wish you had your mother during those special times. And you didn't.

But the time that has passed should have helped you heal. It didn't.
It only makes you better able to pretend it's all good. The passing of time only enables you to make believe. Where as before, you would have just bawled your brain out and maybe not even shown up for the special occasion involving moms and daughters.

That's what time does for you. It doesn't heal. It temporarily bandages.

Girl of the Year

I am making a special award just for my little lady!

We took her to the gastroenterologist yesterday to basically discover what we already know. She's constipated. And pretty much always will be unless her system is maintained by some sort of fiber/laxative combo. Thank you, genetics.

I love this man, by the way. He has been her gastro since she's born. And he just oozes sincerity and calm. He is very optimistic that with our new cocktail of treats to regulate her 'movements', she will be potty trained by the summer and switched over to a fiber supplement that will keep her 'going' for a long while. Poor kid. I hope she never has to read this one when she's a grown woman. How embarrassing.

So, in order to rule out other intestinal allergies such as celiac disease we had to give blood. No, let me rephrase that, SHE had to give blood. Give h.e.r blood. To a gigantic but sweet as honey nurse named Donna. Who called her arms "marshmallow arms". Sweet, yummy marshmallows. Delicious, squishy marshmallows.

Marshmallows.

This kid was a trooper!

She screamed and cried to make Donna stop and she made sure to tell Donna that she wasn't sick and she was feeling better and that she didn't need to test her. But she sat still. She let me hold her and rub her head. She let Donna 'milk' the blood out of her wrist while I squeezed it because she couldn't find a vein in her marshmallow arm. She sat and let the job get done. Like a big girl. While Daddy had convulsions in the corner of the room.

So for that. She gets this award. Especially made by Mamma.

My brave little lady. I am so proud of you.
We'll fix those intestines if it's the last thing I ever do.

I can forgive but I won't forget

The apology has been barely uttered.

Years have gone by.

But you can't seem to get it out of your head heart.

The abandonment, the lying, the disappointment. The pressure to forgive a person for something they have done not even to you but to themselves. It still seems so fresh and so real. It's over, but is it ever really over in your head?

She is the one who suffered. She is the one who went through it. But you feel betrayed. You feel the hurt just as deeply as if it was your own.

Life goes on. Life happens and you are supposed to forgive and forget but you have this nagging feeling of abandonment and 'how could you do this to me?' and you try too hard to ignore it but it surfaces when you least expect it, when you need her most. It surfaces and you back away, recoil. You become aware of the hurt and the pain you felt when she wasn't there and you needed her most.

You try deep in your soul to let life go on as if nothing ever happened. But it's there in your heart and you can't let it go. You feel manipulated just a little bit and a victim of her passive-aggressive behaviors brought on by such a difficult life. Yet, you continue to pretend.

You are petrified she'll leave again. She'll do it again. She'll abandon you for good and then what will you have? Nothing. Again.

You will be left alone again. Probably when you need her most.

So why bother?

Because you love her. Unconditionally. And it hurts too much to let go. You can't say anything because, you are afraid you'll hurt her by telling her how you really feel. Even if it means you can't really trust. You have to pretend. Because you love her too much to let her see that you can't trust her. You love her too much to let her know how deeply she hurt you. Even if your heart is suffering because of her.

I Remember You

Since I'm on the Mom topic. I feel I need to give some insight to her passing and to her past. For my heart's sake, I think I need to say this. Please, this is quite personal and I debated putting it out there, but I have to. (I feel better already...especially with all the friends that have come out to support me...thank you all!) If you aren't up to it...come back another day.

My Mom died of breast cancer when I was 17. I can't even tell you I remember the entire ordeal because I don't. I was too scared to live it at the time. I just assumed she'd get better. I didn't allow myself to hang around to watch the illness too closely. Besides, I was a self-absorbed teenager and at the time I thought I had better things to do.

I was dead wrong.

I regret not being there for her when she needed me. I regret not telling her how much I love her and wanted needed her to get better. I hope know she knows now how much I miss her.

I do remember some impossible to forget things. I remember her many surgeries to remove the cancerous tumors bombarding her breasts. I remember her refusal to have a mastectomy because it would take away her 'sexiness'. I remember the radiation treatments and chemo sessions that took away her soul and her hair. I remember that shower when she was crying because her hair was falling out in clumps. And the hair everywhere...I remember trying to tell her it didn't matter because she was so beautiful no matter what. I remember her wig and her hating it with a passion... so I drew a face on the Styrofoam head it rested on and by accident it resembled Kaity Tong.

I also remember the many hospital stays. The last one being the worst. The sounds she was making to struggle to breath and that cough. I'll never forget the cough. She was delirious toward the end and talking nonsense and I remember her calling out "Geronimo" more than once. We all giggled and teased her at the time but I didn't know then that that was her being called to the other side. I remember clear as day when I was leaving her bedside for the last time. I told her I'd be back later (who knows what I had to do) and kissed her and she told me I didn't have to come back. I thought she was crazy and I told her not to worry, I'd be back. I didn't know then that she knew she was dying and she didn't want me there to see it. I wish so badly I never left. I never saw her alive again. I regret that moment to this day.

I remember not wanting to go to the funeral but being told I'd regret it if I didn't go. I went. I hated it. But I'm glad I went. I'd hate to regret that too. There were a lot of things I didn't do back then being the stupid teenager I was. But I thought she was invincible. She never proved otherwise. She was tough and I thought she would beat it. But she gave up. She didn't want to fight it anymore. It was that tough. Unbelievable with her penchant for fistfights, I still can't believe she let it beat her. The only fight in her life I think she ever lost was the battle with cancer.

Why couldn't wouldn't she fight the cancer? I'll never understand. To this day I figure I'm destined to get it. If she lost fighting it, I just have no chance in hell...(BD would kill me if he knew I still feel that way) But how could a woman so strong in all aspects of her life be so weak with the most life threatening? Didn't she know I needed her desperately to survive?

Have I ever told you about the time she pulled a woman out of her car and beat her up because she cut my mother off under 'the El' in Long Island City? She totally yanked her ass out of her car and beat her to the ground. Two grown-men cops had to pull her off the woman lying on the street and my Mother still had the woman's thumb in her mouth. They had to yank the woman's hand away from her mouth like a rottweiler. Crazy woman! I still can't believe they didn't arrest her. I wasn't there. But the story lives in infamy within our entire family.

I remember after she died when people would tell me "I'm sorry for your loss." I wanted to snap their necks. I hated that phrase. I still do but I have softened with age and experience to accept it as no other way to express sorrow. My usual response was "Don't be. It's not your fault, you didn't kill her." That would totally throw people for a loop. But I was so angry and so rebellious because they didn't know what I was truly feeling. How could they deeply be sorry? The way I needed them to be. I know now that I am not the only one who has ever lost a parent and it is difficult for everyone and maybe people really do feel sorry for my loss because they have felt loss in their own lives. I understand that now. (My virtual friends here have taught me so much in so little time!)

I remember so much of my mother but then again those same memories are fading from my mind because they were so long ago. I can't believe it's been 18 years. I've spent more time without her than I have with her. I fear my life will parallel my Mother's and F's life will in turn parallel mine. I fear that I will also leave my daughter early because I am destined to get sick like Mom did. I was the same age when I had F that she was when she had me and when F was born I was worried I only had 17 years left with her...Unreasonable I know. But it's a genuine fear. I have a difficult time grasping that that concept may not be true. And I should be living my life to the fullest, but I am struggling. Hence the continuous verbal regurgitation.

There is a lot in my head these days about the past and my way of dealing with it (or not) and I need to sit down and sort them all out. I have come such a long way even without my Mother and I need to keep that in mind. I know I am strong and capable. My Mother taught me to be that way. She taught me to love myself because others may not. She used to tell me...no one will love you like I do so you better start loving yourself. I believe that now. As a Mom, I feel that for my own daughter. She always told me I was smart and beautiful and capable of following my dreams. I wish I believed her then, it may have helped me to believe that more now.

Even without her here, she continues to teach me about motherhood because I use her model as my backbone. I turn to her when I need her most and I find myself asking "What would Mom do?" when I need to figure something out. I know she is here with me always and I consider what she would think of my actions when I do something I'm not so sure of.

I talk to her often and I see her in my dreams, but her image is cloudy because it's been so long.
Sometimes she speaks back in her own way...sometimes I feel her behind me...(She always had my back) I remember her dark hair and her broad smile and her olive skin, I'll never forget her because she is in my heart, but her image is fading slowly from my mind. I remember wanting so much to look like her when I was a kid.

I remember when she used to call me 'Jane-t' (pronounced Jane-tee) and she'd write my name like that too...It embarrassed me as I got older but I just wish I could remember her voice calling my name just one more time.

Turkeys, Ornaments and Memories...Oh, my!

This is a long one...Come back when you have time unless you are in the mood for a good vent.


Jesus. The holidays are upon me. Here we go again. It seems I can't get away from dealing with this shit. There is a point throughout every year when it all just has to get dealt with. From the 'Hat Trick' to the Holidays. I'm never away from it.

Thanksgiving is my Dad's favorite holiday. He loves turkey and he lurrves that crazy cranberry-can shape-globule. You know the one, he practically begs for it every year. I love spending time with him and Thanksgiving is no different. It's just that with Fa, now everyone wants to get a hold of her for the holidays and there is just not enough time in the day. I miss him during the holidays when I am not with him. And I am not the 'social butterfly' that you may all think I seem to be...hee hee. I like it quiet. At all times. Even the holidays. I have reasons.

I am a hermit and the holidays just make me shake. With all the people and touching and hugging and kissing. Ugh. And they don't even do it to me. They do it to poor Fa. Who also hates being mauled. I hate seeing her so uncomfortable in the crowded atmosphere of the holiday table. I get that 'Mamma Lion ready to pounce on anyone who makes her cry' feeling in the pit of my stomach. (And anyone getting in her grill makes her cry too). It makes me so nervous.

I have read in all the parenting mags that forcing your child into a crowded situation does not make her more comfortable. People must keep their distance and let her warm up. But no one wants to hear it. I want to cry. I know I make it worse because she feeds off of me and she knows when I tense up in these surroundings. Then, she gets just as tense. I try to breathe deeply and reassure her that its okay, but inside I am a tangled mess of sickly intestines and she knows it. Damn intuition.

Then, after turkey day. "The box" comes out. My therapist knew this box well. It took a long time to acknowledge "The Box". I didn't have a Christmas tree for years and when BD and I were living together and he finally wanted one, we only had lights and bows. I didn't want to deal with "The Box".

You see, it is filled with all of the ornaments that I had as a kid. The same ornaments that my Mother held so dear to her heart. Every year, she'd pull out "The Box" and reminisce about her past and show me her favorites and listen to Johnny Mathis on the record player while she happily put up the tree. I loved that day. I loved seeing her happy! Tree trimming day. We would watch "A Charlie Brown Christmas" and all those other Christmasy shows with "Rudolf" and "Charlie in the box" at the Land of Misfit Toys. Then, we'd slap Johnny Mathis on the record player and get to work. Every year, I wished that day would never end.

Well, boys and girls. That day does indeed end. And then, it leaves you with hurt and sadness and grief and you never want to see that "Box" or that day again.

Until Fa came along. I had to get "The Box" out. I dreaded it. But it was inevitable. I had to spice things up during the holidays for her. Her birthday is 5 days before Christmas so I had to get in the spirit. It sucked. I hated it. Especially the first Christmas when she was five days old. I was a mess of ppd. Damn, you couldn't even look at me or I'd cry. But then, the next year it got a little better and so on and so on. This year, I want to start new memories, but I don't have anyone to ask how to do that. All of my holiday memories are stunted. And memories of my Mother are vivid but few. How do I create a happy place for the holidays when I am not feeling so happy about the place I'm in?

These days, I can take out "The Box" without hysterics. However, that feeling in the pit of my stomach always returns. I am torn. I want Fa to enjoy the memories that we make together but why does it have to hurt me so much? Will it ever get better? Or should I say, will the pain ever get duller?

I pray Fa understands that she is my air and she is what makes me tolerate another holiday season. I do it all for her. Holidays are brighter because of her and I cherish her for that. Now, how do I create some really special memories for me and her to share? How do I create memories that will dull the sadness in my heart and bring a smile to our faces throughout the holidays and beyond? How do I teach her that memories are a great resource to go to when you are down, when my memories bring me so far down?

Missing Putty

I loved my cat. He was 20 years old when he died and his name was "Putty". He became mine when I was 11. I have never felt a love like this for any other animal. He was a black beauty with fur as silky as a spider's web. His eyes were deeper than emerald. I loved my cat.

I remember when he was born. I lived in a town in Queens at the time but my parent's owned a home in a town in South New Jersey. We were there for the last weekend in October and I was very upset that I was missing Halloween with my friends. I wanted to be a ballerina with a bright pink tutu because I had just started dancing school. I liked to pretend I was a beautiful swan dancing on the stage for some fictional ballet company that I imagined I would own. My audience always threw the most beautiful bouquets of red and yellow roses. My other ballerina friends would be performing without me that weekend. My entire sixth grade world was ending.

In our NJ home, my dad called me into the room where "Momma Cat" was waiting patiently for her brood to be born. After three stillborn babies, there was Putty. He was so small you could fit him into a three year old's palm. His back was contorted as if he was twisted into a spiral and his black fur was wet with the remnants of his mother. He was the sole survivor. He was mine. I promised to care for him until the day I died.

My life changed that day. I was so sad for missing my universally brilliant performance of Swan Lake. However, my new baby was here. He needed me. I was to be his new mother because his birth mother denied him of her love. I felt on top of the world. There was not a standing ovation that could take the place of this event. But I was scared. I was needed by someone to keep alive. What if I failed? Could I ever forgive myself if I allowed this beautiful boy to die? I was on a mission of love. I fed him with an eyedropper. I rubbed his belly to help him digest when he was finished eating. I cleaned him until his fur sparkled like diamonds. He was mine. I was his. We needed each other then. We needed each other always.

After 20 years of loving Putty, I can not imagine how I could have survived my teens and twenties without him. He was there to comfort me. He heard me cry and complain. He shared my pain. He took part in the joys of my life and he will be a part of me forever. Putty was very old. His bones began to creak when he walked. He did not eat like he used to. He had renal failure and blood issues. He got tired and weak and some days he just was not the same.

Never did I think that missing Halloween that year would be the most important thing that could happen to me. I was selfish to think that my life was over for some make-believe fun. I guess that is being a sixth grader. I learned a valuable lesson that day. When circumstances are shuffled and priorities are changed, life seems unstable. Even as children we should learn to stop and take life as it comes. We may find something wonderful out of the mess that we thought was made. I did. I found Putty.

Happy 23rd birthday Pud. I miss you.

31 Months

Fa is 31 months today. July 20th. It seems like yesterday I brought her home from the hospital...the both of us crying and unsure of what to do next.

Now, she's just such a joy in my life and those initial, unsure moments have passed me by. I can't believe I ever felt the way I did back then. I was so sad and scared and afraid of what might happen to her that I couldn't enjoy the 'moment'. I had severe PPD. I was a mess. I thought I was the only one who ever felt that way and I thought I would die. I wanted to die. I didn't want to be a mommy. I wasn't good enough to be her mommy. She deserved more than I could ever give. I wrote a letter to American Baby in response to an article I read a few months ago...they never published it. But I want to put it here. So someone else can read it. Not just me.

August 5, 2005

Dear American Baby,

I just finished reading your article: (left blank) in your August 2005 issue…and I cried. Not because I remember it happening like that, or because I miss those times, but because my first three months were nothing like the article. I had Post Partum Depression and I would have given anything to have those “new mommy” issues that the author had instead of the ones I had. I want to tell you my story because I also took notes, but I really don’t need to refer to them, I will never forget how I felt when my daughter was born.

Day one:
The day my daughter was born was when I began crying. I felt like my heart was ripped out of my chest and I could not breathe. It took me nine months to get used to having that little being inside of me. I depended on feeling her kick, hiccup, and move around at all hours of the night but nobody warned me that I would not have the same amount of time to get used to the fact that she WASN’T in there anymore. A part of my being, my reason for breathing.

The night she was born, I missed her so greatly that it felt like the loss of my mother all over again. I cried the entire time I was in the hospital. To top it all off, it was around Christmastime and the hospital was short staffed and short tempered. One nurse yelled at me because I called for help to go to the bathroom even after my allotted “two times” to make sure my bladder was functioning. I told her I couldn’t do it and she yelled, “Are you going to need to hold hands every time you go? What are you going to do when you leave here? How are you going to take care of the baby?” Good question. I wanted MY mommy. She wasn’t there. I was alone. I felt it from the first second my daughter was taken from me.

Day three:
Taking her home from the hospital was a different story. Like the author of the article, I sat in the back of the car with my daughter too. However, I was praying deep down in my soul for my husband to crash on the LIE so I wouldn’t have to live anymore. Once we were safely in the house, we stared at her for what seemed like an eternity and I hoped her parents would come and pick her up because I was done with her.

Breast feeding was a nightmare, I had no one to help me figure it out and my nipples were cracked, bleeding and literally falling off, so I had to stop. The hospital promised a lactation consultant who never showed up. I was devastated. I felt like a failure and a horrible person because all I wanted to do was see my daughter’s face from that special angle that no one else would ever see. Instead, I fed her the bottle hoping she would choke, this way it wouldn’t be my fault.

Day four:
I also figured out that at 32 years old, I was afraid of the dark. I hated being alone at night with her because that was when the thoughts and visions would be the clearest. I had thoughts of people breaking into the house and killing us all. I would see my daughter being sucked up by a chainsaw or lawnmower and I could not stop it, nor did I really want to. I never did anything to hurt her and I never would, even at my darkest, (I would rather have killed myself) but those visions were scary and made me very unsure of my sanity. I felt like I was losing my mind and my sense of reality. I wanted to die. I wanted to escape, run away and never see her again. I wasn’t good enough for her.

Week two:
The day my husband went back to work was when I realized I needed help. He was afraid to leave me alone with our daughter and most of all I didn’t want to be left alone. I was afraid she would get hurt and I couldn’t save her. I was afraid to drive in the car with her alone and I was afraid to leave the house even to go for a walk with her. What if someone kidnaps her, or me? I was afraid of her! She knew more than I ever would or could. I would look into her eyes and ask for her forgiveness because she got stuck with me as a mommy. I promised her I would find her a better mommy and one day she would understand why I left.

I started comparing my mother’s life to my own. I had my daughter the same time my mother had me. However, my mom died 17 years later and I started thinking that was my fate as well. I wondered what it was all for, if I was going to leave my daughter in 17 years like my mother did. Or sooner. Was it worth it? She really didn’t need me around at all, I thought. Just get it over with and let her live a fairly normal life without me….Mike would re-marry and she would have a person who could really take care of her… She was better off without me. That went on for a few weeks until I finally broke down. I didn’t want anything to happen to her. I didn’t want anything to happen to me because without me, she would be a motherless daughter like I am now. I didn’t want to live like that anymore. I didn’t want her to ever suffer the pain of losing a mother, like I have.

Week three:
Unlike the author, I didn’t join a mommy group because I was sure I was crazy and no one has ever thought of the things I think about. They’ll surely have me arrested or put away somewhere and take my daughter away from me. Not one mommy out there could possible feel the way I do. They are not in my head and they will never understand me. Those mommies are all living in a dream. It can’t really be as easy as they make it look. What’s wrong with me?

Week six:
I called my OB/GYN and told him my story. He referred me right away to a psychiatrist. I went to see him that same day. He prescribed Wellbutrin for the depression and Klonopin for the anxiety. I resisted but knew there was no other choice. I was going to hurt myself, not my daughter and I needed to fix things. It was a slow recovery. Aside from the physical aspects of childbirth, the mind can play fantastic tricks on you. Physically, I was a wreck. My body was not healing quickly and I had issues down below that no woman should ever deal with. It was scary. I felt useless and helpless and motherless and with medication, I was finally ready to be the mother that my daughter needed me to be.

Nineteen months later:
I thank the stars above that I used what little courage there was left to make me take a step in the right direction. My daughter is a well adjusted, active toddler and I couldn’t live without her. She is the air I breathe. My husband has been my rock because without his strength, I couldn’t find my own to help myself. I realized I wasn’t totally alone. I had people to help me and I had support when I needed it. I am forever grateful for my husband to teach me about life and love and motherhood.

I hope this letter helps just one woman out there who might be feeling a little the way I did. It is normal and not everyone has sparkly and bright experiences when they take their child home for the very first time. It is unbelievably scary and no one is truly prepared for what is to come. Especially when the crying, the diapers, and the all-nighters are the easiest things to deal with, compared to the visions, thoughts, and terrible fears you can have as a new mom.

Please use this letter if it helps just one woman out there. I know I went through such horrible experiences and I’m sure they are hard to read just as they are hard to share, but it would all be in vain if I did not help someone because of it.

Sincerely,
me

***No one has ever read this before. I am not sure I want it out there. But it seems fitting to compare myself now to then. I was so lost and I felt so alone. But I got through it and I look at my gorgeous Fa now and I cry. She is the heart that beats inside of me and the air that keeps me alive. Without her, I am nothing. Without her, I will die. I truly live for her smile and to see the joy in her eyes when I enter her room first thing in the morning. As happy as she is to see me, I am overjoyed to see her. I love this little girl with all of my being and I cherish every moment with her...even the first scary moments. For without them, we wouldn't be here today. My big girl. My love. My heart.

Score Another Hat Trick for This Girl

Well my “Hat Trick” is over for another year. Thank Christ, until next year, all fucking over again.

My Hat Trick returns like clockwork every year, without fail. I can always depend on it; like when Gretzky used to perform those amazing hat tricks regularly in a game... Yeah, well just not as graceful. Even if I think I may have forgotten it, it rears its ugly head when I least expect it. And I have nothing to do but live it out all over again. Year after year I guess, until Fa has her own “Hat Trick” of some sort.

It starts around the first week of April, when I stumble upon something to remind me that the 30^th of that month is my mom’s birthday. This year she would have been 65. The feeling begins like a sick stomach ache. It lasts for a few days and then I realize that it’s not really a stomach ache, it’s just April. I spend the rest of the month denying that it’s that time of year again and that feeling lasts until May. Mother’s Day.

I always seem to cry on Mother’s Day. I can’t help it. I just can’t enjoy it like I deserve to. I am too empty to be able to sit back and relax with my own daughter…the thoughts just keep making their way into my dizzy head. How many Mother’s Days do we have together really, before Fa is suffering the way I am now? This usually ends a few days after the actual day, once I have accepted the fact that I got through it without much incident. (Crying is the least of the many symptoms of the dreaded “Hat Trick”)

Then June sneaks up on me. I am always so happy for summer to come and the heavy coats to be put away for the season. Then before I can say “ice cream anyone?”, the 25^th rolls around. That’s the anniversary of her death. It always seems like I’m the only one who remembers because no one discusses it ever. It’s like some sort of taboo topic that if you bring up, you’ll be cursed into hell for eternity. However, if only they would acknowledge it, maybe it wouldn’t be so hard to take. What’s so hard about saying; “You know what today is right? Damnit, I miss her so terribly.”

But I know. They haven’t forgotten, she was too amazingly wonderful to have anyone forget her. The day comes and goes and not a peep is uttered by anyone. Usually, I can depend on my Aunt to remember some hysterically funny thing that she might have said, cursed or done. That helps and I appreciate the effort to reminisce about happy times. But that’s the extent of it. The cemetery is bare. The area where she is seems cold and untouched. Every year when I go to see her, it feels like I was the last one there, from last year. Then, like a whip, June is over and my Hat Trick is too.

By this time Big D is about ready to slap me. I am so bitchy and annoyed by everything. I am very difficult to be around. I just wanna be left alone, but then I feel too lonely to carry out my own wishes. I cry at the drop of a hat and at pretty much anything Fa does. She just tears at my heartstrings on a daily basis anyway. When I start to feel like I’m losing her by every aging second, damn, I’m a mess. It so difficult to enjoy my life with her when I know the ending result won’t be a happy one for her. In the end, I’ll be gone and she’ll be left to fend for herself. That just doesn’t seem fair to me. Does it to you?

I guess I am satisfied that I made it through another year. A sigh of relief exits my entire body and soul. But shit man. I have been living this Hat Trick for 17 years now and it never gets any fucking easier! Especially since Fa came around; she has magnified the whole experience 10 fold. Every move we make as mother and daughter scratches deep into my core and I ache for my own mother, terribly. It is never easy even to get through a regular day. It just pelts away at my heart knowing that I don’t have my own mother there to ask questions, to bitch and complain to, to laugh with, to hug. There are times when I want to yell; “I want my mommy!!!” But no one hears me. Maybe my mother does, but I'll never know it for sure.

Oh damnit, It's July 2nd already! How did that happen? All I know is that it’s over. For now. See you next year.