Band-Aids and Bows

This week's Red Writing Hood Prompt was "freedom": You have 400 words to write a fiction or creative non-fiction piece about freedom, in any way that makes sense to you.

                                                             Band-Aids and Bows

For years I held onto my hurt.  I smothered it with a band-aid of sarcasm for so long that it couldn’t scab over and heal.  For so long, I held onto my anger.  I wrapped it around me and tied it with a pretty smile of a bow.  All that angry wrapping paper did was soak up tears and confusion. 

My nights were regularly visited by a baby blue hatchback leaving me; a stranger’s hand holding mine, keeping me from running after the driver.  When that little hatchback wasn’t driving out of my life in the middle of the night, her face visited me.  And she left me; over and over she left me.  There were so many different scenarios, always- but the ending never changed.  She would leave. Every time.  Memories that hurt too much for a two year old to comprehend.  Band-aids and bows.

Her calls became dubbed “Random Acts of Guilt”, her visits were called “Leap Year”.  Band-aids and bows.  Hurt me and I hurt you.  I never understood any of it.  Why drive away and then call?  Why leave me with strangers and then want to visit?  That seemed crueler than my not wanting to answer a call or accept a visit. 

These feelings are too confusing and too complicated for a child to keep inside.  So I talked.  I talked to my father in heaven and I talked to God.  I begged Him to help me understand.  I still don’t understand, but He gave me the knowledge that it was meant to be; just never why it was meant to be.  So, I kept talking to Him.  Eventually, the band-aid fell off and I let my raw hurt be exposed to the elements.  I cried at the pain, but eventually those elements helped scab over and heal my wound.  Eventually my bow fell away and my anger let out.  It was ugly and it howled and roared and lashed out at everyone around me.  But eventually, my smile wasn’t a bow.  It just was.   I had forgiven.

Then I noticed that I slept through the night.  No cars driving away from me.  No strangers keeping me from her.  No teary-eyed pillows.  Talking with God had allowed me to forgive.  In doing so, I had been given the greatest gift of all.  I had my freedom.

Wishes

This week's Red Writing Hood Challenge: "To the moon"

I've been stuck since I read this email; determined to write something, but my fingers didn't know where to go... finally, I made a wish:

                                                            Wishes

I don't throw wishes in wells.  Wells eventually have a bottom, where wishes could sink in the sand and be lost forever.  Stuck and forgotten and never able to come true. If we drained that wishing well, how many wishes would we find?  Unanswered, unknown... hardened into bitter fossils?

 I don't blow my wishes into birthday candle flames. Candles are meant to blow out, only to poof away and spread into smoky air and disappear forever.  How many incomplete birthday wishes would we find if we could collect all that birthday candle smoke?

I don't make my wishes on face up pennies.  The least desirable of all loose change.  Only to end up in the bottom of a purse or wallet...eventually face up on asphalt for another wisher to pick up, when it hasn't even redeemed all the other wishes made to Abe Lincoln's shiny copper head. How many many pennies would it take to cash in a wish?

I don't puff my wishes into dandelions, where the seeds sweep up in the wind, landing in strangers' yards, taking my deep secret wishes and setting root for someone else.  Someone else who will see my wish growing and marring their lawn.  Someone else who will yank my wish by it's root and toss it in the trash.  Someone else who will see my wish as a scar on their manicured landscape and shred it to pieces in their lawn mower.

I don't make my wish upon a star.  A star is nothing more than a beautiful illusion.  A dot of light that dimmed to dark so long ago, barely reaching us hundreds, thousands, millions (?) of years later.  My wishes are too precious to throw up to the dark part of the heavens, to whisper  into a light that really isn't light.

When I wish, I wish on the moon.  It is light, like the heart that carries my wish.  The moon can light the darkest path on the darkest night. It is brave, like me.  The moon fights the sun.  When the illusion stars fade away in fear of the sun's rising, the moon stays.  It takes its time and sets when it wants, when it feels the time is right.  The moon is always there- like faith; no matter the phase; whether you see it or not, you feel it.  You know the moon is keeping guard.  My wishes are made of light. My wishes are filled with a secret bravery only they know.  My wishes have fight in them.  My wishes are filled with faith.

When I wish, I send my wishes to the moon.

The Preggo Who Cried Labor

"Are you sure?"  Oh good God in heaven! Why doesn't anyone believe me?! This was a recurring theme of the day.  It was a little irritating, especially since I was near panic myself.  It was just too soon. 

For the final months during my pregnancy, I kept getting teased for doing things too soon.  My baby shower was held when I was five months pregnant, not at the typical eight months or the final weeks of pregnancy.  That night, my uncle and aunt teased me for sorting all his clothes and blankets and washing them.  When I asked my cousin to be my coach, she teased me for signing up for Lamaze at six months.  I was the least pregnant woman in the classroom.  When I was seven months and my sister told me that, if I liked, when he was born, we could stay with her for a week and she would help me get adjusted to new mommyhood, I had his bag packed that night.  I guess he thought that was his cue.

May 26, 2007, I had a delicious and rare burst of energy.  That evening, I had his whole room organized and set up.  I washed all of his clothes and blankets a second time and packed his hospital bag and bag for my sister's house.  At about 1am I was finally finished.  As I lay my head down, I had the most crazy urge to pee.  So I peed, and peed... and peed.  But this was different.  It took me a while to realize what was happening.  I went to my uncle's room.

"I have to go to the hospital" I whispered into the dark room. "Are you sure?"  "Yes" I said.  I am pretty sure I sounded calm, but I think it was shock. "Did your water break?" My aunt asked.  "Yes."

"She has to go NOW?" My poor uncle.  Going on maybe two hours of sleep, the man was beyond exhausted, and now here I was asking him to play taxi cab. While getting ready, I called my sister to let her know what was happening.  "Are you sure?"

When we get to the hospital, the admitting nurse didn't want to admit me.  "Hon, are you sure your water broke?" It's 2am; no lady, I just thought I would have my half dead uncle drive me across town to say "S'up".  Umm, yeah, I was.  After what felt like forever, they finally admitted me.  After sending my aunt and uncle home, I was hooked up and settled in.  "Are you feeling any contractions, hun?"  "Nope, nothing."  "Are you sure?" Okay, I wasn't really sure.  I was terrified and kind of in shock to be honest.  But I'd had false contractions earlier that week and I would not forget that pain.  "I'm sure."  After a couple of hours of no progression, they decided to shoot me up with some labor inducers. Around that time, my sister had arrived...fresh faced and with coffee- for herself of course.  Goodness, I love her.  It was still only 4 in the morning.   "You should get some sleep" one of the nurses told me.  "I'll try, but I'm not really tired."  "Are you sure?"  Yes, I've been awake almost twenty four hours, but I'm in labor six weeks early; I'm panicking, but I'm not tired.  She turned off the TV and dimmed the room lights anyway. 

 The thing about Pitocin is that it induces labor in a weird way.  Once contractions started, they weren't excruciating... I wasn't screaming and cursing like in the movies, or "16 And Pregnant", but they were intense and they would happen almost back to back so that I couldn't catch my breath.  When I felt like I was going to pass out from not being able to breathe properly, I asked for the epidural.  "Are you sure?  You're only 3 centimeters and this could go on a while."  I'm woozy and dizzy and cannot breathe.  Yes.  Yes, I am sure. Just shoot me up already.


When I realized I couldn't feel any more contractions... or my legs for that matter, my awesome coach had to let me know when I'd be ready.  Her description is a whole 'nutha blog... What To Expect When You're Expecting didn't fill in all the gaps.  Or maybe I didn't get that far in the book.


Soon enough, I had to poop.  Yep, there... I said it. I had to poop out a baby. So, my coach went to get the nurse to say I was ready.  "No she's not.  I just checked her".  'Just' meaning she checked me over an hour ago.  My coach came back "She said she just checked you."  "But I really feel it.  Like really."


So, the cranky and lazy nurse came back.  "Are you sure?  Because it's a holiday and the doctor on call will be really upset if we call him in for a false alarm.'  AM I SURE?! Are you BLEEPIN' kidding me?!


Nurse Slacker looked at me in disgust getting ready to put her "Told You So" face on for the Head Nurse when they put my legs in the stirrups.  Very quickly they put them down and ran out of the room.  I'm not sure exactly what happened to Nurse Slacker, but all I heard was "She's crowning! Call the doctor NOW!" and "trouble.."  I never saw Nurse Slacker again, except for when she was made to clean my room. 


"Are you ready to push?" "Yes"  "Are you sure?"  Oh for God's sake!!!  Five minutes and two pushes later, I was a mommy. 


Beautiful memories


Love and nostalgia,
J

Date Night

I HAD THE FLU!!!
I'm sorry for  being so defensive right off the bat, but y'all need to know this.  Really, you do. I. HAD. THE. FLU.

Okay, here we go... I met a gentleman we will call "J".  Protecting his identity is more to save me from more humiliation than him.  Heaven forbid one of you people track down this guy and  bring up the name "Jennifer".  I shudder at the reaction my imagination is giving me.  Anywho, I give J my number and we exchange pleasant conversation and texts.  This is the first time in a, well let's say VERY, long time I've given out my number to anyone.

The first time he invited me for drinks, I had to pass.  A: It's during the week.  B:  No sitter. C. I'm working a bit later than usual.  Fortunately, he was pretty understanding and we continued chatting and texting.  So, he asked me out again a couple weeks later.  Again, I had to decline.  My son seemed to catch a bug and needed breathing treatments.  Once again, he was understanding. This bug turned into the flu and I was in nurse mommy mode.  Working full time (I'm so blessed to have been able to take my son with me to the office a few days), dinner, medications, middle of the night breathing treatments.  It's a glamorous life...not for everyone. So, messages weren't returned in a timely fashion...or at all in some cases.  Again, lucky me, he completely got it. 

So... I should know this by now, but I just never learn.  Having a sick little bed bug right next to me only means it's a matter of time until I'm sick.  Damn germ monkey.  But, how can I say no to that sweet, snotty face when all he wants to do is have mommy hold him and watch "Goonies" with him until he drifts off into a fevered sleep?  I'm not made of stone, you know! 

After spending almost a week nursing my little sidekick back to health, I spend my weekend hopped up on Thera Flu and watching  Michelle Phan YouTube makeup tutorials.  I think I'm feeling better; not like it matters- I've got to get back to work anyway.

Finally...FINALLY! A dinner date with J is going to happen.  Friday night.   And it's perfect timing.  I can go home, rest a bit and then apply some of my newly found makeup skills to my face.  After a 20 minute nap... yeah... 20 minutes.

After four hours - FOUR HOURS,  I finally wake up to 14 missed calls and 7 text messages.  The last saying "if u didn't want to go out, u should've said so".  On top of feeling like crap, I felt like crap.  That's a lot of crap to feel like.  I was pretty sure at that point, there would be no more rescheduling.  One redirect to voice mail and an ignored text later, umm yep.  I'm not very good at reading signs from the dating scene, but it was hard to ignore the neon "YOU SUCK" flashers directed at me. 

I'm afraid to look, but my face just might be on a "don'tdatethisgirl.com" site or something. 

Maybe in several months, when I finally have another potential date, I'll chug a Red Bull and chew some vitamin c and B-12 during the week.  But for now, it's nap time.

Hugs & Giggles,
J

My Baby's A Jerk...And Other Lovely Pregnant Thoughts

"My baby's going to be a jerk!" May always makes me nostalgic.  Those sweet months where it was just my little Spud and me.  The time where, no matter what horrible things were happening around me and to me- to us- I could protect him simply by covering my belly.  All it took was a rub of my tummy to calm the crazy waves coming in...I knew his favorite noises and favorite songs...
Then, there were the hormones.  Since it was just my Spud and me, I didn't have any paternal back up to talk me down.  That's what friends and family were for.  Poor them.
"My baby's going to be a jerk!"  I knew this.  I absolutely, 100% knew I was growing a total A-Hole.  And there was nothing I could do about it.
"You're going to love your baby."
"Remember the cat?" I remember whisper-crying in shame.  This poor little kitten I rescued from being kicked around by a rotten juvenile delinquent grew up to be a rotten little bully of a feline.  When his best friend was catnapped, he got even meaner.  Then he ran away.  I  cried.  I cried because I knew he was so sad without his buddy.  I cried because I knew he went to look for him.  I cried because nobody was taking care of him.  I cried because I felt so guilty at being glad that four legged bully was gone.  If I can't even deal with a jerk of a cat, how am I going to deal with a jerk of a kid? Wait for him to run away?  I'm pretty sure there's laws against that.

"Cats are different from babies."  Until now, this friend was the only one who knew of my secret cat shame.
"Yeah.  Babies cry more.  Then they learn to talk. I'll have a jerk baby and everyone will know it and be like 'Hey! Your kid's a jerk!'  And I'll have to agree!!"  I was a little hysterical by this point.  Remembering "The Cat" kind of sent me over the edge.

 "Your baby will not be a jerk.  And if he is, everyone else will know it, but you'll be completely blind to it, because he's yours.  Nobody will dare tell you to your face."  Somehow, this logic worked.
But, every time he used my bladder as a Lazy Boy at 2am, tried to bend my ribs backwards, or when he gave me my first ever case of heartburn for trying to eat my beloved edamame, I couldn't help it; "jerk".

"I don't want a baby.  Kids suck" Another amazing friend had to deal with this particular flip out.  At this point, I was five fantastic months pregnant and had just left the doctor's office from my monthly check up.  A waiting room full of toddlers and babies did not give this single parent the warm fuzzies.  Did I mention that about 90% of them were either screaming, crying or demanding something?  Or all three.  Before pregnancy,  I loved kids.  Finding "The One" and starting a family put a smile on my face.  Hearing news of pending bundles of joy completely thrilled me- I couldn't wait for babies to come around.  Until it was my turn. 

I knew a parent whose child was fully embracing the Terrible Twos.  I had to leave the room every time he honed his craft.  Not just because  the screaming was like an ice pick in my ears, but because I was terrified it was contagious.  No, really.  THIS was my thought process.  "I can't have a cryer.  I just can't.  I'm not built to deal with a crying whiner."  My cousin drew the short straw for this little meltdown.
"It can't be that bad."  Then she witnessed the action.  "Okay, your baby will NOT be this bad.  You'll be fine.  Your mom says you were a good baby, he'll inherit that."  I wasn't convinced, but I was pretty exhausted from freaking out, so I let her think she calmed me down.

"What To Expect When You're Expecting" doesn't really cover jerk baby thoughts.  

In addition to odd thought here and there that I was was hatching a screaming, crying demon jerk baby, there were the other meltdowns.  I'm a raw nerve normally.  Every Disney classic ever made has successfully made me bawl my way through at least a half box of tissue.  Imagine all these cry baby nerves on a double dose of hormones.  God bless my uncle, who went out at 11 at night to get more 2% milk when I started crying because it was finished and I needed more chocolate milk. God bless him twice for giving me the last home grown tomato when I started hyperventilating that all I had left were store bought.  Hey, pregnant women need calcium and folic acid.  True Story.

Thank goodness for my very best friend who "proof read" my strongly worded letter to Hawaiian Shaved Ice Company for not having a shack more conveniently located near my workplace.  Come to think of it, she never emailed me the corrections.  Hmm...

It wasn't all flip outs and meltdowns and thinking I had a rotten bun in the oven.  Far from it.  Music and book, both children's and text were aimed at my growing tummy.  Words of encouragement (for both of us) were whispered... "We'll be okay. Better than okay."

Everyone was right though; it was love at first sight. 

I just had.....moments...I'm so glad my baby's not a jerk.

Love and smiles,
J

This Single Mommy's Life: Invisible Me

Invisible Me

After quite a few long years, I've come to realization that I'm not just a mommy, but a single woman.  Whoa.  Crazy, huh? Yeah, it's weird to me too.  I've been defined as a mommy for so long, but that's just one of my many roles in life. My most important one, for sure, but still...there's a small voice in my brain (again, one of many, but that's a whole 'nutha blog) that is telling me I've lost my identity.  MY identity.  Who am I?  If I'm not just a mom, who is it?  I'm pretty much invisible. When I'm asked about hobbies, you could practically hear the hamster screech to a halt on the little wheel in my head.  Hobbies? Who has hobbies anymore?  Interests?  What are those?  We color...we play hot wheels... hang out at the park.  Animal Planet and Disney are pretty much the only reason we have cable.

I've so fully immersed myself into parenthood, everything else that made me me has totally fallen to the wayside. So far to the side, in fact, I cannot remember what made me me. In efforts to focus more on myself, I make tiny little pacts with myself, I will find me, darn it!  I love music, and so many little concerts come into our city, why not?  Let's do it!  But really? My boy needs new shorts/pants/shoes/whatever, can I really justify spending that money on a ticket instead?  Mani/pedis would be such wonderful "Me Time".  Seriously?  How selfish is that, when we could use that money for some zoo time with a sweet mommy/son lunch after?  I love reading.  Let's find a good book.  Ha! After a full work day, making dinner, cleaning up after dinner, bath time, reading time and getting our stuff ready for the next day? Like staying up to read is really going to happen. I really do miss my photography hobby.  We could both cruise around and let me take shots while he admires the beauty that is our city.  Spending THAT amount of money to replace a stolen camera when a new bedroom set is needed?  Stupid move, indeed.  That just isn't going to happen.  This is tough.  I'm not an easy woman to find.

I can't even decide what to spend my preciously rare free time on.  I am not really a club person.  I rarely drink and having strangers rub up on me is, oddly, not that appealing. I'm weird like that.  At any rate, my few close friends are married or involved with very significant others.  They're usually mildly opposed to getting rubbed up on any way.  I have so little free time, that after I catch up on chores and errands, I'm exhausted.  Netflix and reruns of TLC's "My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding" are really the best options I can think of. Time with me.  I can dig it.  I like spending time with me. 

One day, you'll see me.  I won't be so invisible.  One day.


Happiness...
J

Invisible Me

After quite a few long years, I've come to realization that I'm not just a mommy, but a single woman.  Whoa.  Crazy, huh? Yeah, it's weird to me too.  I've been defined as a mommy for so long, but that's just one of my many roles in life. My most important one, for sure, but still...there's a small voice in my brain (again, one of many, but that's a whole 'nutha blog) that is telling me I've lost my identity.  MY identity.  Who am I?  If I'm not just a mom, who is it?  I'm pretty much invisible. When I'm asked about hobbies, you could practically hear the hamster screech to a halt on the little wheel in my head.  Hobbies? Who has hobbies anymore?  Interests?  What are those?  We color...we play hot wheels... hang out at the park.  Animal Planet and Disney are pretty much the only reason we have cable.

I've so fully immersed myself into parenthood, everything else that made me me has totally fallen to the wayside. So far to the side, in fact, I cannot remember what made me me. In efforts to focus more on myself, I make tiny little pacts with myself, I will find me, darn it!  I love music, and so many little concerts come into our city, why not?  Let's do it!  But really? My boy needs new shorts/pants/shoes/whatever, can I really justify spending that money on a ticket instead?  Mani/pedis would be such wonderful "Me Time".  Seriously?  How selfish is that, when we could use that money for some zoo time with a sweet mommy/son lunch after?  I love reading.  Let's find a good book.  Ha! After a full work day, making dinner, cleaning up after dinner, bath time, reading time and getting our stuff ready for the next day? Like staying up to read is really going to happen. I really do miss my photography hobby.  We could both cruise around and let me take shots while he admires the beauty that is our city.  Spending THAT amount of money to replace a stolen camera when a new bedroom set is needed?  Stupid move, indeed.  That just isn't going to happen.  This is tough.  I'm not an easy woman to find.

I can't even decide what to spend my preciously rare free time on.  I am not really a club person.  I rarely drink and having strangers rub up on me is, oddly, not that appealing. I'm weird like that.  At any rate, my few close friends are married or involved with very significant others.  They're usually mildly opposed to getting rubbed up on any way.  I have so little free time, that after I catch up on chores and errands, I'm exhausted.  Netflix and reruns of TLC's "My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding" are really the best options I can think of. Time with me.  I can dig it.  I like spending time with me. 

One day, you'll see me.  I won't be so invisible.  One day.


Happiness...
J