LyricalEchoes

I think I copied this from PricelessOne. Someone on my friend's list anyways. I'd love to read the answers others have for this:)

30 Years Ago (July, 1981)
- I was 3 years old.
- I lived in Little Rock, AR.
- I had only 1 brother and 1 sister and a family cat named Tinker.

25 Years Ago (July, 1986)
- I had just turned 8 years old.
- I was living in Africa.
- I had 1 brother and 2 sisters and a "family cat" named Mioto. Mioto means star in Lingala which was the tribal dialect where we lived. Mioto was a Siamese.

20 Years Ago (July, 1991)
- I had just turned 13 years old. My mom had finally been diagnosed as having Narcissistic Personality Disorder and was suspected to be bipolar. Our home life was...not good.
- I lived in Little Rock, Arkansas again but in a different home than when I was 3 years old.
- I had 2 brothers and 3 sisters, and a family cat named Titus II. I had my own dog named Jewel and my own cat named Peace. My sister (Miriam) had a cat named Mioto II

15 Years Ago (July 1996)
- I had just turned 18 years old and graduated from high school. I was enrolled in college and would leave to attend it in Greenville, South Carolina in the fall.
- I lived in Deatsville, Alabama. In August I would be diagnosed with Behcet's.
- I now had 2 brothers and all 4 of my sisters. All my siblings had finally been born. I still had Jewel but my cat, Peace and my sister (Miriam)'s cat, Mioto II had disappeared:( My family still had Titus II though. My sister, Lydia, also had a dog named Gem. My sister(Miriam) now had a cat named Chesterfield and my brother, Elijah, had a cat named Marshmellow.

10 Years Ago (July 2001)
- I had just turned 23 years old and lived in Huntsville, Alabama.
- I had been married 3 1/2 years. We had 4 cats (Mabel, Titus III, Frosty and Leon) and 3 dogs (Boots, Marble and Tippy) My dog, Jewel, had been hit by a car and died:(
- My son was 3 months old.

5 Years Ago (July 2006)
- I had just turned 28 years old and had been married 8 1/2 years.
- My son was 5 years old and my daughter was 2 years old. We were finally living in our current home and were BUYING finally (instead of just renting) We had 3 dogs (Boots, Marble and Jake) and 2 cats (Frosty and Mabel) We had given Tippy to my parents and Leon and Titus III had disappeared when we moved. We later heard that Titus III moved back to our old home and was adopted by the new tenants.
- I was about 4 mos pregnant with my fourth pregnancy. I had miscarried my 3rd baby in November of 2005.

3 Years Ago (July 2008)
- I had just turned 30 years old.
- My son was 7, and my daughters were 4 and almost 2 years old. Finances were tight and we'd given all 3 dogs away. I still feel bad about that. But due to my husband's job problems, we needed to be able to feed our kids. The dogs were a luxury. Frosty had somehow snuck under my neighbor's home, gotten stuck there and died:( Mabel had been hit by a cat and died:( We had no pets at this time.
- I was thinking seriously about returning to college.

1 Year Ago (July 2010)
- I was 32 years old and had 5 essays published in a book and 1 poem and 1 short story published in a magazine. I also won 1st place in poetry in the Southern Christian Writer's yearly contest AND 2nd place in fiction. The $25 I won for the poetry prize is the first money I ever "earned" for my writing.
- My son was 9, and my daughters were 6 and almost 4 years old. We had a puppy who was a little over a year old. We'd had him for about a year. His name is Max Ewok.
- I returned to college in Spring of 2009. So 1 year ago, I had many more credits on my transcript (Finally!)

Yesterday:
- Worked on the weekly "character profiles" that I write that are published (in a way) every week.
- Took my kids swimming (for fun) in the morning with their friends. We now have 2 dogs, Max Ewok and Lucy Madeline.
- Took my older 2 to swim team practice and my youngest to swim lessons.

Today:
- I'm working on next week's "Character profile"
- I picked up some hand-me-down dress up clothes for my girls that a friend gave us. My girls are enjoying them.
- I'm registered for 12 college hours in the fall. I'm taking three classes on campus: Chaucer & Medieval Literature - EH 452, Drama Production I - EH 311, and Foundations of Education II - ED 302. I will also take Technology & Media in Education - ED 305 as an online class. I'm now a junior in college (finally!:) I have only 45 more credit hours to earn before I finish my degree!

This reminds me so much of my "used to be" little boy. He's almost to my shoulder now but I still remember carrying him so clearly. The days do pass fast..

A Prayer to My Son
By JodiAnn Stevenson

Grant me your small wet lips and hands
that dive beneath my ribs to find whatever’s
hiding there. Grant me the tongue that cannot
rest when the mind is lighting on something
new. Grant me the newness you know
for grass, for kites, for television and cement
floors where you’ll sprawl against misplaced
nails and you won’t care about dirt or blood.

Grant me the blood that will one day grow
distant and singular. Grant me your arms
and legs which will one day not wrap around me
as we descend the staircase each morning,
groggy and warm. Grant me the heat of your half-
sleeping body reposing against my chest,
the sweat from your hair line as the curls
turn up from your ears. Grant me

the heart that flutters in your quiet chest,
a simple curious tail of a brook trout
that flips and flips and, thank God, flips.

We're ok. Our home is ok. We finally have power though only about 30 percent of our town does.

I don't know why exactly driving through the neighborhood makes me cry. No one died in our neighborhood but the houses are so smashed.

Very upsetting for some reason.

Mother said she wasn't good enough for me. But that's Mother for you, always snobby and fussy. I'm not sure she thinks anything in life is quite good enough for me. Mother switched me from one teacher to another at the drop of a hat, if anyone dared give a bad grade to her Daniel and any clothes I had that were bought ready-made were immediately altered by Mother's tailor. "Clothes should fit like they were made for you. Image matters, Daniel. Never forget that!"

Image matters. How many times did I hear Mother tell me that? And I listened. Image did matter to me when I first picked out Jenna. She was exactly the thin, skinny blond type Mother had always tried to get me to date. However, she just "didn't fit the whole picture," Mother told me, after she met Jenna for the first time.

I don't know what was the last straw: the fact that her family was "new money" or the fact that Jenna had never been to the symphony.

"Never, dear?" Mom had said, raising an eyebrow. "I assumed that, since your mother doesn't work, she at least supports the arts."

"The arts, yes, but not the kind you've ever heard of. Mom teaches art classes as a volunteer at the Boys and Girls Club downtown." Jenna smiled. "You should see their paintings. A few are even quite talented!"

"I'm sure they are," Mother said, pursing her lips and smiling a thin smile.

From the look in her eyes, I knew Jenna had just been mentally crossed off Mother's list of people who matter.

But I married her anyways, my golden girl with a heart to match her hair. Jenna cared about other people and their dreams more than she cared about image. She wanted to give to others and I wanted to be more like her, as more and more she gave herself to me.

Mom still refused to listen when I spoke of a wedding until I mentioned it would be sooner than we had planned.

"And why so soon, Daniel? You know I feel about that girl!" Mother sniffed, frowning at me.

"Remember how I said Jenna is giving, Mother? Well, guess what? In about eight months, she will be giving you your first grandchild."

It was the first time I had seen my mother speechless. I could see the emotions fighting across her face. She was horrified that we'd jumped the gun by getting pregnant by grandchildren?

Finally, she spoke.

"The wedding will be here. I'll contact Antonio and get started on the invitations. How about in two weeks?" The thought of a grandchild somehow turned Mother around. She still didn't love Jenna but the grandbaby would be another Green, another link in the family dynasty. And, for the baby's sake, Jenna would now be part of it too.


Our wedding was beautiful. Jenna and Mom fought about the details but, in the end, while Jenna and I danced our first dance by the pool, nothing else mattered.

Her belly pressed against me and I thought to myself, "Now, with my new family in my arms, now I am truly happy. Jenna is good enough, more than good enough for me. It can only get better from here."


It did. Seven months passed of planning and hoping. Jenna loved being a pregnant mom and I loved watching her body change as she swelled with my child. MY child. I was going to be a daddy! Everything had happened so fast and yet not fast enough. I couldn't wait to meet our son, Daniel Green IV, of course, just as Mother insisted.

Jenna said she didn't mind using my name as it was the male name she loved the most.

The day of his birth would be the best day of my life, I just knew it.


About a month before his due date, I was at yet another of Mother's post-symphony cocktail parties. Jenna was supposed to be there soon. We had driven separately. Jenna's mom had a little art show for her students that night and Jenna insisted on skipping the symphony to attend it.

"You know Mother will hate you for this, don't you?" I asked her, watching her pull a long, red Valentino gown over her blossoming, pregnant body.

"Really? More than she does now?" Jenna laughed. "Can you help me zip this? Mr. Daniel the Fourth is taking up lots of space these days."

I zipped her dress and smoothed her hair. "I don't care how much room he's taking. You're stunning just the way you are!"

"Stunning or stuffed? Which do you mean? Because I'm thinking stuffed is more like it. Stuffed like a red sausage!" Jenna stuck out her tongue at her reflection and slapped away my hand that was creeping to her butt. "Not now, Daniel. You're running late yourself, you know, and I just got this dress on!"

"I'd help you put it back on," I leered at her but she shooed me out the door.

"The quicker we go, the quicker we can return together. And THEN you can take it off." I think we kissed then. I hope we kissed then. You don't know how many times I have gone over these moments, trying to remember the feel of her lips, of her body. I wish I could touch her soft cheek just one more time.


Like I said, Mother and I were holding cocktails, waiting for Jenna. And waiting. And waiting.

My cell phone rang.

"Maybe that's your late wife. Do remind her it is rude to keep her mother-in-law waiting, eh?" Mother whispered, as I pressed the answer key on my phone.

"Hello, is this Daniel Green?" The man's voice was gruff and unfamiliar.

"Uh, yes. And this is?"

"I'm sorry to tell you, sir, but there has been an accident. Please come to Vanderbilt hospital immediately. Your wife is here and..." I handed the phone to Mother. I don't know what else he said.

I don't remember riding with Mother to the hospital. I don't know long we waited or what the waiting room looked like. All I remember is finally a nurse walked in and Mother was all over her.

"I demand to know what is going on with the baby. Is the baby OK? Do you realize that child is Daniel Green the IV, yes, THE Daniel Green. What is wrong with the baby? Why won't these incompetent workers tell me anything?" Mother looked like she was about to grab the nurse.

"My baby. My precious Jenna. Is Jenna OK? Please? Will she wake up soon? I don't remember if we hugged goodbye. Please! I have to know!" Jenna's mom was just in jeans but her approach was classier than Mother's. In spite of her black Valentino dress, she was acting like trash, yelling and threatening the poor nurse. I remember thinking that and wondering why I was thinking that. What did it matter? What did anything matter ... now?

Where was my little family?

"Shut up, Cathryn, let the nurse talk if she can. A baby's life is at stake!" Mother hissed through her teeth.

"The mother's too. Where is my daughter?" Tears rolled down Cathryn's face. Her hair was graying but she had Jenna's deep blue eyes. Jenna's eyes. Where was my Jenna?

"Let the nurse speak, I say. Is the baby going to come early?" Mother shoved Cathryn aside.

Cathryn stepped forward. "NO, tell me about my daughter. She matters, I tell you!"

The nurse tried, she really did, to gain some control over both mothers but they were screaming at her and at each other. Finally, the nurse had enough and yelled, "Quiet, if you do not stay silent, I will have security forcibly remove you!"

Mom blustered more, "Don't you know I am Mrs. Daniel Green, Jr.? I will talk to the head of this hospital and you will never, I repeat, NEVER, work here again."

The nurse didn't listen. She dropped on her heels beside me and said, "Mr. Green, I'm sorry, there was nothing we could do to save your wife."

Pandemonium broke out around me. The nurse kept looking in my eyes and holding my hand. Her hand was warm, I do remember that.

She said, "Your baby is still alive, and the OB is going to do a c-section to save the child. Would you come with me now to see your child born and say good-bye to Jenna."

Say goodbye? Wait. It's not time. I can't say goodbye. I won't say goodbye! I feel like I am screaming inside my head but somehow my feet keep following this calm nurse. She had to block Mother from following me and lock her own. I think Mother was actually swearing as we walked away from the door. I don't know. Nothing mattered anymore.

The nurse shoved papers in front of me and showed me where to sign. I'm not sure what the papers said. All I could think was, "Jenna is gone. Jenna is gone. I need Jenna." I hoped to kiss her one last time. Surely they would let me, right? Those soft, warm lips, so pink and inviting.

The nurse drew back a curtain and ... was it Jenna? It didn't really look very human at all. I could see her deep blue eyes but they didn't look at me, or at anything really. Her forehead was .. a crushed mess, with bits of white and gray chunks showing through. Her ...face, except for her eyes was ... gone. I could see bones and teeth and gums ... those perfect white teeth, mashed and bloody now.

No lips to kiss. I .. I grabbed her hand, her cold, cold hand with my ring still shining of her fourth finger. "Goodbye, my heart," my soul cried. She wouldn't see this. All those times she spoke of how she dreamed of her baby's birth and here it was, now, and she ... wasn't here. Part of her was but not the part that made her Jenna. Another nurse nudged for me to watch as the OB cut into her stomach. The first nurse grabbed and pulled, holding open what used to be my Jenna's belly. No blood gushed, only water, gallons of water, overflowing and wetting the stretcher Jenna was on, as the OB shoved his hands inside, moving them around.

They pulled him out, Jenna. A little boy. So tiny! I'd never seen a baby so small!

Two nurses hustled him off. I heard a small smack and a weak cry.

My son was alive! I hadn't begun to hope until I heard that small whimper. I was a father and a widower now, all at once. It was too much. Tears. I could feel them dripping off my face but I felt so very far away.

The nurses wheeled him off in a little bed. I started to follow but turned to ask the first nurse, "Do I need to call a funeral home?" My eyes overflowed again. I ... my Jenna. How could, how could she be gone?

"No, she will have to be seen by the Metro Coroner. They will contact you. Go with your son. There's nothing you can do for Jenna, now," she said.

I headed down the hall where they had taken my son. Our son. Oh, Jenna. You would have loved him so. He is blond like you. Tiny hands. Tiny feet. Your soft pink mouth. I bet he will have your smile.

I'll raise him as you had planned. Only in one detail have I changed those happy plans we made together, back when we still had our future ahead of us.

Our son isn't Daniel Green the Fourth, even though you said it was OK. No, I named our 3lb 6 oz miracle Jensen Green. Jensen in memory of his mother, Jenna. So now, whenever I speak his name, my voice always echoes of you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is Open topic fiction loosely based on fact, an entry that intersects with the life of a nurse. Her side of that night is over at http://basric.livejournal.com/177546.html by Wednesday night. Her topic is: "Playing the odds"

These entries are our intersection entries for this week at
http://community.livejournal.com/therealljidol

Please vote for BOTH of us, if you feel we deserve it, so we can BOTH stay in the game. Thanks!

This week I really thought I was going out in Idol.

So if you voted for me, thanks so much. I ...it means a lot that I stayed in one more week. I know it's "just a game" but it was very important to me.

Thank you!

Sometimes all it takes is a phone call to change your world.

It had been a busy morning. My husband works out of our home periodically so he was working at the computer in our bedroom while I ran the two oldest kids to school. Then I drove back, dressed my youngest and drove her to Mother’s Day Out.

Everyone was dressed and fed and delivered to where they needed to go. I remember telling my husband, “I think I’ll finally eat breakfast. Do you want anything?” when the phone rang.

I grabbed for it, as he was home to work, not to be disturbed by every telemarketer who thought our number looked like one from people who buy products from faceless voices on the phone.

“Hello, this is Maria,” I said into the receiver.

“Maria. This is M. C. Elementary school. Your son, James, has hurt his head. Please come to school immediately.”

I hung up, running for my keys as I explained to my husband what they said. “They said to come ... maybe he fell off a swing?” I said, grabbing one of James’ t-shirts out of a laundry basket as we ran for the door.

“He’s probably fine. Head wounds bleed a lot you know. They probably just want us to take him home and clean him off.” I kept saying, as my husband kept mentioning scary possibilities.

It was nothing, right? They didn’t say he was dying or anything. He was going to be OK. I had to believe he was going to be OK. Schools just have to call so you know what is happening, right?

I insisted my husband drive at the speed limit and obey the traffic lights. They didn’t say to hurry. They just said to come.

He would be fine. I just knew it. He had to be fine.

And I believed that sincerely until …until I saw the ambulance parked in front of the school.

“He could still be OK, right?” I turned to ask my husband, who had jumped out of the car and was running in. I’d been calm until then but I entered with tears streaming down my face. What could have happened? Why hadn’t they told me on the phone what happened?

The principal met us at the door and said, “Come this way.” We followed. There were so many adults standing in the hall. She opened the door and there he sat on the floor. Crying. He seemed so confused. His face was bloody and his front teeth were broken off in pieces. But he was sitting. Breathing. Alive.

I ran over and grabbed him to me. “It’s OK,” I said, “It’s OK. I’m here and you’re going to be fine.” I didn’t know what had happened but now that I saw he was alive and awake and still breathing here on my earth, I felt I could say that. He was my son after all and we were together now. Together, he was going to be fine as long as I had anything to do with it.

“Ma’m, we need to take him out,” the paramedic motioned to me and I helped my son onto their stretcher.

“I’m so tired, my mouth hurts” he moaned. “It’s ok. We’re going and the doctor will make you better,” I assured him.

There were so many adults standing around. I spotted one I knew and said, “Um, Sara’s here, could you, I don’t know how long we will be gone, can Sara…?”

“I can’t take her,” Casey told me, “But Mrs. Johnson can.”

I didn’t know Mrs. Johnson from Adam but Casey seemed to think it was a good idea so I said, “OK, um, I have my cell phone, I’ll try to call the school as soon as we know how long.”

And I followed them out.

The paramedics said only one of us could ride in the ambulance so I jumped in. “Drive careful,” I told my husband. “He’s safe now.”

In the ambulance, I answered what I could but I still wasn’t really sure what had happened. I told them that school had said he hurt his head. I guess he fell?

James said, “I woke up and I was looking at the floor.”

Between us, we still didn’t know what had happened but I gave them the basic information like his age, his full name and our insurance information.

The ride was long. My son alternated between saying, “My mouth hurts,” “my head feels funny,” and “I’m so tired.”

I wanted to be with him. I wanted to sit back there and touch his hand and watch him breathe. But I had to ride in front so I finally decided to call his grandparents just so they knew. I had regained my composure once I saw him but lost it again on the phone.

“I don’t know what happened, Mom, but I’m with him and we’ll call you when we find out, OK? We’re almost there.”
When we arrived at the hospital, I was out as soon as the engine stopped. I just wanted to see him, all of him again. We walked in together.

“Why am I here, Mom? I just want to sleep.”

“Shh, shh, just lay back, you can sleep here.”

“But I’m cold. I … what’s going on? Am I going to miss recess?” he said, fretfully. I grow tired of my kids’ complaining but this sounded like bells of celebration to me. Surely he was ok if he were complaining.

“They just want to make sure you are OK, is all.” I explained.

Finally my husband got there. My son was breathing so nothing moved quickly, as the ER doctors attended to more urgent cases. My husband left to eat and pick up some clothes in case James ended up spending the night.

“Do you want anything?” my husband said.

“To eat? No, I’m really not hungry. I’ll get something later.” I replied. James seemed drowsy and kept falling in and out of a light sleep. He didn’t want to talk much but somehow, all I wanted to watch him breathe. He was here, alive and safe. How often did I get to just look at my first baby?


The hours passed. The nurses drew blood and inserted an IV. Finally James was taken down to be tested, then it was back to our room.

Thankfully, I did remember to ask for a phone book and call my youngest daughter’s MDO so that a friend could take her home. My friend, Cathy, said she would call the school and talk to Mrs. Johnson so both of my daughters could be together. That made sense to me. I hated adding two kids to her household for several hours but Cathy was gracious about it.

Finally, my son was admitted for the night. He had had an MRI today but the doctors wanted to do an EEG, EKG, and CAT scan the next day.

My husband returned, bringing his mom. My son was delighted to see his grandma. When a nurse came in and said he could finally order supper, it seemed his joy was complete. He happily contemplated all the junk food options on the children’s hospital menu and, for once, I didn’t really care. I try to be so careful to try to get him to try healthier options but today it didn’t seem to matter anymore. I was just glad to know he felt up to eating, with his poor swollen little mouth.

My mother-in-law urged me to go eat. I didn’t want to leave but she finally forced me out the door.
When I smelled the food in the hospital cafeteria, I felt weak. Man! I hadn’t realized how hungry I was.

My cheeseburger couldn’t have tasted better if it was served on fine china at a Presidential dinner. Hunger finally called my name now that it seemed my son was safe. Surely, safe in bed and under his grandma’s watchful eye, nothing worse could happen today.

Life seemed much more precarious than it did last week.


Back in James’ room, I let him pick out a TV show while my husband left to pick up our girls. They were anxious to see their brother. I’m not that found of the inane antics of a spongy character named Bob but I enjoyed every moment of that silly show as I watched my son chortle with glee. Maybe sometimes laughing matters more than intelligent plot lines or clever dialogue.

My girls arrived, concerned and a little shaken. They said they enjoyed Ms. Cathy’s house but “we’re tired, we want to go home.” Rarely do my daughters’ admit weariness but I think what they craved more than bed was the routine of normal life.

After some discussion, I decided to leave my husband on duty, to watch over my son as he slept. It was hard to leave but like normal, as a mom of more than one child, I often feel split between meeting the different needs of each of my children.


We arrived home and I plunged right in with stories, baths and bed. Only after they were dreaming, did I remember the paper I still needed to email in for my Greek Mythology class.

Hastily, I brought up the file, scanning it over. I was so tired! I ran grammar and spell check and scribbled off a conclusion, hoping it made sense. I logged into my college email to send it and discovered an email from my education teacher. I uploaded my Myth paper and read her email. She couldn’t read the assignment I had sent in yesterday and it was due tonight.

I looked at the assignment again and changed the format. I sent it again with a note that, “If this doesn’t work, I will have to look at it again tomorrow.” I included a rather short explanation of my day and headed to my own bed.

Tomorrow was coming and I’d had a jarring lesson of, “Who knows what tomorrow brings.” Whatever was coming, I would probably need to be well-rested.


I woke up in the night. My first thoughts were of my son and then I thought, “Did I remember to write a conclusion to my Myth paper?” I wasn’t sure. I thought about getting up but, looking at the clock, realized it was after midnight anyways.

“If I didn’t, I’ll just have a bad grade, I guess” I mused, turning over to sleep again. That morning, I had fretted and worried about my GPA before the phone rang. And suddenly, tonight, it didn’t seem to matter so much after all.

````````````````````````````````````````

End Note: The next day, tests were clear. However, the doctors told us it usually takes 5 EEGs before any seizure activity will show up on tests. The doctors decided, based on the account of his teacher, that James suffered a seizure that November morning.

The doctors tell me that the most likely time another seizure will occur is the 6 months after the first seizure. We are now four months into that six months and, so far, so good. If he can go 5 years seizure-free, his risk drops to the same probability of seizure as the general population.

Blessings abound. The doctors tell us it is wonderful that he fell forward instead of back, since dental work is available. If he had fallen backwards, there could have been irreparable damage.

Our son is still ours. And little by little, my heart is learning not to panic as much each time I hear the phone ring.

Around our house, the weather is always mostly stormy. At any point, a cloud of fur may run to the door and loudly declare his menacing nature. His voice would thunder if he were capable of it.

This sound is much more impressive from the outside. Whenever I open the door to the mailman or whoever it is that dared lay a paw on our dog’s doorstep, I am sure they are surprised to see that such threatening sounds come from such a small little body. Max Ewok is half Chihuahua and half Jack Russell Terrier but, in his mind, he’s apparently a vicious Rottweiler or Pit Bull ready to tear any trespassing cat limb to limb.

Almost 2 years ago, my children were sure they wanted a pet. We had tried adopting a stray kitten and my youngest was heartbroken when Comet the Kitten had to leave due to allergies. With my husband, my son and my youngest daughter allergic to cats, it seems our house was not destined for a nice quiet cumulus cat, content to float around our home and rest as a nice billowing puff of fur upon our couch.

My children were heart-broken when Comet left so my husband promised them a dog. We were still discussing what type of dog to get (I thought) when I checked my voice mail one night and heard: “I’m bringing home a puppy.”

A puppy? All of a sudden he has picked one on his own? My children were all very excited, each voting for certain names. My son wanted to name him Ewok, my older daughter wanted to name him Snickers, and my youngest was sure that Clifford would be the perfect name. Personally, I didn’t care what we called him but I did want to know where this puppy was coming from? What kind of dog did we now own?

I called my husband back. The children kept trying to interrupt with name ideas so finally we discussed names. I told my husband, Ron of the children’s suggestions but he decided he wanted a classic name. “Let’s name him Max,” Ron told me. My children were disappointed but Max he became with a compromise middle name of “Ewok.”

Max entered our world as a small bundle, as most clouds do. Tiny and scared he was covered in fleas and trembled when we picked him up. I worried about his ability to hold his own with three small children always wanting to hold him. White with brown spots, he mostly wanted to sleep his first few weeks with us. At six weeks, it was a bit of a struggle even to teach him to eat the dry food but finally he caught on.

I guess the food built his confidence because soon Max felt quite at home, a little too at home if you ask me! I never knew many details about Chihuahuas but I soon learned that even the Jack Russell in Max wasn’t enough to dilute his Chihuahua tendencies when it came to paper training. He’s doing better now but he’s still a drifting cloud, bursting at unexpected places and faithfully watering our carpet. I’m convinced I’d have a well-watered field of wheat with no effort if I had only plowed our floor and put seeds in instead of flooring. I’m always one step behind him, trying to clean up his latest disaster, whether a mess on the floor or a laptop cord he’s chewed to pieces and left for me to find.

Max isn’t the easiest dog to own. He loves desperately and deeply but only five people and no more. All the rest are his sworn enemies so he has to be sent outside or to the garage whenever company is around. He’s bitten my mother-in-law, my sister, my father and my son. He’s always able to produce rain, whether peeing all over the vet’s office or making the kids cry with a sudden nip. But no matter how unpredictable or grumpy he can be, my children love Max beyond reason. They soon forget their tears when he nipped them and jostle for him to pick their lap to sit on this time.

Despite all the stormy rage Max holds for people outside his pack (us), he is firmly against corporal punishment. The few times my husband has decided my son needs a spanking, Max was right there in the middle, growling at my husband that he will grab my son over his furry dead body. It amazes me how willing tiny Max is to start a fight he will not win.

A headache, a bother, a pool of pee. Max contains many less than endearing qualities. But he has taught my son to love and to think outside himself. My son, James, probably has Asperger’s but Max has pierced through whatever it is that caused James problems with empathy. James is so affectionate with that dog and Max loves him back, bounding to his lap and licking his face. Max never sits for long. He is energetic to the extreme, jumping from one piece of furniture to the next and chasing his tail. My husband, angry about the messes Max makes, once asked James, “Wouldn’t you like to get a different dog, one that isn’t so crazy and jumpy? I’m not sure Max was the right dog for us.”

“No way!” said James emphatically. “Max is perfect for us. He has ADHD, just like me.”

My kids call Max “our furry little brother.” And for the all the mess and problems and tears, I can’t help but love the one who holds the hearts of my kids tightly in all four of his scratchy paws.

But Max, try to use the pee pad next time? OK?


Below is a photo of Max with my (now seven year old) daughter. She has her arms around him and I'm not sure he likes it. He is about the size of a large cat, white with brown ears. His ears are large and stand up like a Chihuahua's. My daughter is blond and wearing a lavender scrunchie in her hair. She is wearing her favorite dress which is covered in red roses and blue flowers.

I went to pieces when I became a mother. Not just physically, though apparently that happened too. My husband gave me a play by play of how the doctor was removing my organs and laying them out. All three of my children were born through c-section and once I persuaded my husband to stop the play-by-play, I appreciated the fact that they put a blue drape up between the mother and the area of her body they are taking apart. I could feel it but I sure didn’t want to see it!

I may have missed out on the normal mysteries of natural delivery but I didn’t mind leaving parts of my operations to the imagination. My favorite part was always when they brought a little wrapped up bundle up next to my face before trotting him or her off to the nursery.

At last, there was my baby: red and wrinkled, strange-skinned and bald. Somehow my babies always had infant acne. Babies make almost anything adorable but zits on a baby aren’t beautiful. I’m just hoping getting their zits so young means my kids will have clear skin as teenagers!

But from the very time I was shown a little bundle, a bundle of my own, I learned the truth in the quote by Elizabeth Stone. She said, "Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body."
That is how it has felt, even on that very first day. You splinter into pieces. Part of you walks out the door even as the doctors are stitching your stomach back together. Part of you is missing and you feel it. Even now, while I type this, there are parts of me in four rooms in our house.

Part of me is here trying to explain how amazing and yet terrifying it is to be so many pieces at once. But part of me is also in my son’s room, listening to a Harry Potter audio book and dreaming of flying on broomsticks in a quidditch match. I never read the Harry Potter series until my (then eight year old) son wanted to read them. Trying to be responsible and read them first meant opening my heart to the world of Hogwarts. As he grows, my knowledge does too, of Hogwarts and cryptids and all the trivia contained in the “Ripley’s Believe it or Not” books from our library.

Tonight, part of me is in his room, wondering if he is warm, if his Spiderman comforter is soft enough, if he is going to dream about the boy who hit him in the face with a basketball in gym class last month. Part of me is 9 ½ and 4 foot 11. Part of me loves Archie comic books and Mario DS games. Part of me still wonders why I misunderstand people so often and writes about it in essays for my guitar teacher. Part of me may have Asperger’s. But I cling fiercely to this part of me. One of a person’s basic instincts is to survive and this part of me takes a lot of my heart. But this part of me will always matter. I will never stop fighting to understand my son and find new ways to help him thrive in spite of his learning and social problems. I hope he’s thinking more about Hogwarts and less about the bully in gym class tonight.

Another part of me is in my daughters’ room. This part of me is 7 and worries because I am the tallest first grader in the school. This part of me sleeps with the same pink Care Bear every night but eagerly applied pink toe nail polish the night before Valentine’s Day because I wanted to be pretty for the holiday. I’ve never polished my toes in my life but this part of me saved for weeks to buy herself a manicure set. My middle child is like me and unlike me but always a part of me. She’s the one who wanted a button that said, “Kiss me, it’s my birthday” to wear to school because she was hoping a boy in her class named Eli might take the hint. I let her wear it this year but inside I cringed. Kissing already? But I hope this part of me is confident and knows she’s beautiful long before I did, as a gangly female. This part of me is precious. Often overlooked, between a needy brother and a charming baby, this part of me tells everyone she is going to be the first person on Mars AND the first lady president. And she just might be too. I admire the confidence in this part of me.

The third part of me is in the living room, dozing off to a movie about a girl and her dog named Bolt. This part of me is creative. She’s only four but already tonight we have argued about what she will wear tomorrow. She is convinced that long dresses are a must but since it will be 60 degrees tomorrow, I told her the long-sleeved sweltering dress she selected is not an option. I don’t understand this stylish part of me. She wants to dress “like the other girls” (she claims) but fully participated in Freaky Friday at her Mother’s Day Out. She went as Cinderella Bear, insisting on wearing both her brother’s old bear costume with her sister’s old Cinderella dress on top with a blue sock and a pink sock and two mismatched shoes.

She’s a piece of me that’s all her own, upset that she can’t read yet like her siblings but she can click around YouTube.com like nobody’s business. I’ve always had to closely watch this part of me. Twice she let herself out in the yard at age 2. She’s the one who decorated each wall of our house with at least a small mural. This part of me is so stubborn and so cuddly. She is my very last baby. So far, my biggest fears are that I will spoil her and that too many men will break her heart. This piece of me cuddles under an old blue Dora blanket of her brothers (because boys can love Dora too!)

But the last part of me is here, typing with long fingers, resting my size 12 feet beneath this desk and worrying about my college history midterm on Thursday. It’s exhausting to be four places at once all day long. I never knew being a mom would break me up so badly! After my son, I kept trying to get it together but now I know this state of feeling splintered and scattered is here to stay. Someday they will sleep in different states instead of just different rooms.

And where will I be? Likely I’ll still spend part of my day at a computer. But this time, instead of trying to gather my mixed-up scattered thoughts enough to describe the pieces of me to you, someday I’ll be frantically emailing and messaging all these little pieces who will have left to live little dramas and spawn little parts of their own. I want to be a hip grandma, who will know how to use whatever new technology we have by then to embarrass my kids by telling their kids about their parents’ childhood.

Tonight, all the pieces of me will sleep under one roof. And tonight I will savor it, until the four year old piece jumps into my bed wet at 4am and I urge her out to don dry clothes before she wiggles yet again, kicking me until I finally rise to pack lunches for the other pieces of my heart. Tomorrow I’ll worry again about the bullies and the boyfriends and the murals that I can’t seem to scrub off my wall.

But tonight, I just want to love them, while I can still gather a waking coherent thought to do so. I’ve never felt so splintered, scattered, and falling apart. But I also never knew I could love so much, for so many days in a row. I’ve found that love grows best in a broken heart, in a heart that’s gone to pieces.

Rabbit truly tastes like chicken. I guess as a child, I should have been horrified at the thought of eating a cute, furry little animal. But perhaps being overseas made me care less about where my food came from and more about how it tasted.

A varied diet wasn’t always possible when we lived in Africa. I know two things that were not readily available were watermelon and peanut butter. They definitely were not for sale at the market. In Africa, the market wasn’t a place like I shop at here. In Africa, the market was basically at few tables set up under some trees at an intersection. I was less picky about what I ate in Africa but even I was never tempted to try some of the local delicacies I saw for sale there. Fried caterpillars and manioc (what they called cassava in that area) were not foods I was wanted to try. However, I loved eating the fried dough balls, fire-roasted corn on the cob, and sugar cane.

I’m not sure you can buy sugar cane here in the States but if you could, I know I would. You start by opening the “bark” with a knife and peel it down. Once you start that first bit with a knife, usually you can peel the rest more easily. The inside is white, chewy and so purely sweet on the tongue! The sweetness lasts awhile as you chew it to a pulp, which then (proper etiquette there) you discreetly spit on the ground. As a child, it was a triple delight: something sweet, something to chew and something you are allow to spit on the ground. Spoonful of sugar here are not near as much work but also do not hold the physical satisfaction of first working hard to uncover your food and then chewing it. Spoonfuls of sugar melt in your mouth, hardly leaving a memory.

We could buy sugar for baking but my parents really missed peanut butter. They missed it so much that they had my other brother make it, grinding peanuts by the hour with a meat grinder. Our homemade peanut butter often separated in a jar but you could get the consistency right again by stirring it with a knife. Now that I am older, I am guessing part of what Mom missed was the convenience. The market also did not sell lunch meat to store in our gasoline-fueled refrigerator. With four children at that time, Mom needed a way to give us a quick lunch that didn’t require hours of using the wood stove out in the cook shack. We only had electricity for a few hours each week, so all cooking was done in the little cook shack across from our porch. Without air conditioning or electric fans, it was important to keep cooking heat separate from the house.

Our diet didn’t vary much but Christmas time was special, even in Africa. In Africa, pine trees are hard to come by but our station had one which, every Christmas, each family was allowed to cut one branch off of. No more or the tree would die. But we got a nice branch and stood it up in a pot in living room. We covered it with decorations, including paper snowflakes though we had no chance of having a white Christmas. With our ebony manger scene on a nearby table, the room seemed just about perfect in my child-like eyes.

Any holiday reminds people of their families. My parents and siblings lived with me in Africa but many of the adults really missed their parents, far across the ocean. I guess to compensate for the lack of nearby relatives, we children were told to call the other Americans uncle and aunt.

Christmas was exciting and we were all going to gather at Aunt Beverly’s for our noon meal. I couldn’t wait! But first, our parents got us dressed up for the Christmas service. I never understood why fancy dresses were necessary on Sundays. It wasn’t uncommon to see the natives there in pajamas! Apparently, they were given clothes from the US but often they didn’t know the “proper use” of each garment. More than one African lady wore a fancy lace slip to church as a dress. (Now that I think about it, it is kind of odd how our society decides which garments are appropriate for which place.)

Once we were dressed for church, Mom sent us outside to wait while she got ready. My siblings and I talked excitedly about what our gifts might be but, most of all, what dinner might taste like. We had heard we were having rabbit! Far from horrified, we were excited to try this new dish.

Finally we heard the “bong, bong!” of the wooden drums that served as a church bell there in Zaire. Few natives could afford clocks or even watches, so the drums served to alert everyone when it was time for church.

When I entered the church, I was amazed at the transformation. So many colorful decorations! Draped around the church and tied on the front railing were lovely colorful Christmas decorations … but not the kind we see here in the US. Natives had gone out and picked the most colorful leaves they could find: red, yellow and green and tied them in bunches which they draped around the church. To the adults, used to the US, it probably seemed meager but I thought it was beautiful. I knew how to sing some of the carols in Lingala but the ones I didn’t know, I hummed along with the melody. The notes were still the same even when the words were different.

And after church, the quick walk back to Aunt Beverly’s. It was a 1 ½ miles to church but almost all of us walked. The station owned two vehicles but the use of those pick-up trucks was shared between all the families.

At Aunt Beverly’s, I immediately got myself a tall glass of water. I was hot from walking but the best was still to come. Finally, after the blessing, she brought out the “Southern-friend, Chicken fried rabbit.” We all passed it around and I savored that first crunchy bite. Crunchy on the outside, soft on the inside, and all I wanted to eat! We didn’t eat large amounts of protein there so I ate my fill, lounging with a full stomach on the cool concrete floor that evening. It was present time!

I don’t remember most of my gifts that year but I do remember enjoying that delicious fried rabbit. It may sound cruel to eat such a cute animal but I did like that Christmas meal. It both looked and tasted better than fried caterpillars!

I'm winding it up now.

You started the process, snipping away the knot the ending and here, I just need to pull out my bit here, and there, and over there, and (can you move your leg?), OK, here.

And that bit.

It's hard for me to believe that you're leaving your pieces here but I guess as I pull it apart ... there wasn't as much of your yarn in this blanket after all.

It was so big and warm and wide that ... I didn't realize you were unraveling it, piece by piece. I didn't realize most of the colors were mine. And now ... you walk away and it's ... how can you again? You don't even want to take your bits with you?

Oh. I see. You still have a huge ball of yarn.

Well. I ...


He's gone. Didn't even wait to help me roll this. I guess "over" means "no scrap of interest left, whatsoever." It's OK. I mean, it will be OK. Someday. Right? That's what they say, just "take the time to heal."

Fuck this! Heal! Heal! It's taking all my damned time just trying to tie all these stupid little bits of yarn back together. And now all I am is a mess of knots and I hate knots! I'm old and bumpy and stretched out and rough ... all those smooth, flowing feelings are ruined. I just want to walk away but if I do, there's nothing left of me at all.

Here's another piece. Knot. Pull it tight. Grab another piece. Knot. When will I have enough to even roll it once? Here's some ... I need to snip ...it's still tangled. Damn. After all this time, I'm still tangled up in him.