Inside All of Us is a Wild Thing

My smart and creative son (who is currently taking his very first EOG) had a piece of pottery in our school district's Cultural Arts Festival. Despite no air conditioning in the pre-war gymnasium of the local high school, we enjoyed perusing all the colorful and interesting works from students of all grade levels.

Most especially, we loved this guy:
And we love this guy who really loved that guy:
But all the interesting pieces couldn't distract this girl:
Who cried and whined and freaked out over this door:
Because, apparently, that's where a wild wolf lives. Little does she realize, there's a wolf inside all of us. I can see it in the haggard expression on the face jug, the Mountain Man's shoulders pulled up to his ears and his eyes scouting the exit, and my perilous levels of patience.

One day, she may see the truth of herself, of us all, in art like this:

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Remembering

Every night was the same: boys and drinks and going too far. Always waking up with heavy head and a sick stomach. My roommate and I stretching our tired bodies into the memory of the night's debauchery, smiling with satisfaction and licking our lips at the thought of the next daring night.

But then the phone rang one morning and the conversation ripped me into the present: Your sister is pregnant. She's decided not to keep the baby. He'll be born in two weeks, but she didn't want any of us to know. What are we going to do?

I promised to think about it and disconnected the call, letting the phone drop as I rolled over and went back to my life.

:::::::::::

Quickly, every conversation turns to the baby. The baby she's not keeping. The baby she doesn't want.

I know from the edge in my mother's voice as she calls again and again that I'm supposed to fix this, to make it right -- for her, for my sister, for that unborn child who they say will be a girl. But I can't quite figure out how. I turn it over and over, run through theories with my roommate who is closer to me than family.

I am afraid to say aloud the only solution that seems right for everyone. Everyone except me, and possibly my sister.

:::::::::::

Finally, I call my sister for the first time in more than a year. I cry and press against her resolve with lies and guilt: I cannot bear my own children. I've always wanted a child. If you do this for me, all the other stuff won't matter.

She tries to put up a wall. She talks about the family she's chosen for the child and that she never wants to see the baby again once its born, or she'll never be able to follow through. But I am a gale-force wind battering against her defenses. Please. Please give me this gift, I say through tears.

I don't know whether my sobs are from joy or sadness as I feel her giving in. An hour later I am booked on a flight home, knowing that there's no turning back.

:::::::::::

My sister picks me up from the airport. I try to make small talk with her, but we are like skittish birds, flying close and then soaring away, never coming close enough for a real conversation.

The car ride to my mother's house is tense and music-filled. We move in wide circles for the next two weeks as her due date marches past us and I begin to believe the baby will never come.

The southern December air is both crisp and mild, yet my chest is always tight as I struggle for deep, cleansing breaths.

:::::::::::

The call comes in the middle of the day. She's in labor and headed for the hospital. She says you can be in the delivery room if you want. She'll call you when the baby's born if you aren't there. 

One hand holds her leg up and out, the other holds her hand. She stops breathing and the nurses call out for oxygen. She fades in and out as pain washes over her. Hours pass. A new doctor comes in, reaches inside of her while saying something about sunny side up. I am focused on my pale sister, who is too weak to push.

Suddenly the baby is crowning. An eternity passes in a flash and they are whisking the baby to a heater. I hesitate, unsure of where I belong. The doctor exclaims, You have a boy! Disoriented, I look to my sister for guidance.

She yells out the name I'd chosen if the baby happened to be born a boy. I move slowly away from her and toward my son.

:::::::::::

She leaves the hospital as soon as she's able. I build a nest in the waiting room so that I can stay with my baby boy for the two days he must remain in the hospital.

The daytime labor and delivery staff treat me like trash and make a point of making it uncomfortable for me to feed and care for my son. The nighttime staff reminds me that I am strong and that it's going to be okay. I take visitors, lighting up with pride each time someone exclaims over my boy's perfect body and smooshed face.

I feel something pure growing inside of me.

:::::::::::

When we are discharged, my sister is there to drive us home.

She doesn't look at my son, the rage rolls off her in waves. I am afraid so I ride in the back with the car seat. She whips around curves and brakes too hard. She watches me from the rear view mirror.

In a too-quiet voice, she lets me know that if she drove off the road, she'd kill us all.

:::::::::::

I mentally count down the days until our flight away from her.

She disappears for days at a time as I struggle to get my son to sleep and eat. I wonder why she's mad at me when she's the one who decided to give away her child.

When I leave, I make no contact with her. Six months later, I am back in the South -- this time for good.

:::::::::::

The half-year's time has allowed the rage to mellow into a quiet seething. My sister tap dances around us, trying to never be alone with us. I need her help and finally ask for it. She comes to us slowly and I have the urge to hide.

She takes my sweet chunky boy into her arms. Nuzzles his cheek. Coos down at him as he reaches for her face. I am forgotten as she turns away and finds a quiet spot to sit with him. Fear bubbles up in me as I watch her bond with him, but I stamp it down and leave them alone.

The days turn into months and years. She becomes Nahnee instead of Auntie. She spends time alone with him, introduces him to her oldest son. We are with her when she delivers a third child only 14 months from the second. We give her cards and flowers on Mother's day, thank her for being brave and strong and selfless.

:::::::::::

He is nine years old and knows that his Nahnee carried him in her tummy. He loves that he has two brothers, feels special to have so many families when most only have one.

But then it happens. She drags him into her destructive patterns. Looks him in the eyes and says You can never tell. This is our secret. Your parents will be mad at us if you tell. My son inevitably spills the secret he should never have been asked to keep.

My tiny family closes to her.

:::::::::::

Mother's day comes and I have to resist the urge to reach out to her. My heart is heavy as I explain to the son she gave me that we will not be seeing her or talking to her today.

His eyes are large and sad. I think back to her anger and hurt in the days after his birth and wonder how much time we'll need to heal this wound. I say a silent prayer of gratitude for her gift so many years ago and turn to comfort my son. I let the memory of her holding him for the first time wash over me.

I imagine I am holding him with both his mothers' hands as we sit quietly together, letting the time pass.

:::::::::::

**This post is part of Five for Ten, where we're giving each other five minutes a day for ten days. Won't you join us?**

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Roots

Yesterday Bella and I left the Mountain Man and his budding Mountain Boy home to go fishing and roll around in dirt while us girls headed off to a mini-family reunion. There was no way those two were going to give up a lazy Sunday afternoon on the water to sit around with strangers and eat, right?

I was worried about attending with Bella because a) it was scheduled smack dab in the middle of Bella's usual nap time and b) we aren't close with this part of the family so we didn't know anyone and that could leave us open to being annoying (you know, when my over-tired toddler tried to shank someone). That's a recipe for disaster if ever there was one.

But my big girl handled herself just fine. We sat around with 13 generations of the whitest family you've ever met (which is only obvious when you're the only person of mixed ethnicity in the room), but we had a great time and were welcomed with open arms. I especially enjoyed hearing how our mannerisms, personalities, and sayings are rooted in generations past.

But Bella's favorite part was the music. You don't get together in the South without someone breaking out an instrument and this get-together was no different. There were two acoustic guitars, a wide range of "mouth organs," and a ukulele along with very talented singers. Bella climbed herself up between two of the guitar players and stayed there until I forced her to move (because she kept pulling her dress up -- not exactly family reunion material).



Then she got her hands on the ukulele and it was over. I finally pried her hands off it after several other people tried to extract it from her. Suffice it to say, she'll be getting one of her own sooner rather than later. And perhaps we'll take everyone's advice and go ahead and get her started on lessons.



Apparently, she's a natural (and, of course, that runs in the family).

**I have linked this post to the 30-minute blog challenge.**

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Pass the sugar

My smart and thoughtful friend Amber slipped me a little sugar.
To accept it, I must share ten things. Ten whole things. That you don't already know. I'll give it a try.

1. I used to hate my hair, but I've recently come to appreciate it.

I really disliked everything about it -- the color, the curl, the length (which was mainly long because my mother liked it that way and finger curled it every time I washed it). This is how I always remember it -- half curly, frizzy, floating around my face.

It didn't help that if I wore it in a braid (usually the low-tech one that starts at the nape), my sisters would tease me that it looked like "a turd." That's kid speak, and it cut to the quick. Both my sisters had shiny, straight hair that seemed (to me) effortless and sleek.

Since I became a grown up, I've been fascinated with the concept of good hair versus bad hair. My memories of my hair definitely fell on the bad side of the category. In fact, I remember successfully using afro-sheen on it one winter when the frizz was out of control.

All I can say is thank the heavens for frizz creme. Where was that stuff in the 80s? But, like I said, I've come to appreciate my hair. Not only the texture but also the color (which I hid under lots of red or black hair dye start around age 14 and lasting until not that long ago). And I've realized that my hair wasn't that bad at all. See?
Yes, there are some really bad things about this photo. Erin's high waist jeans, clear bangle, and bowl cut. Ashley's socks and square-shouldered sweater. And then me. The dress with the snaps and buckles. The thigh not quite hidden by the dress. The smile that looks like it might hurt my face. But you know what doesn't look bad? MY HAIR.

2. See those teeth in that picture? Yeah. Blame that on the one with the bowl cut. Homegirl pushed me off the top of a slide when I was 4ish and she was 5ish. Apparently I wasn't moving fast enough so she just pushed me off altogether. I hit the ground with my face, damaging the root of my front tooth. After the baby tooth fell out, nothing grew back in its spot so people assumed I had a bucked tooth gap. I didn't. The adult tooth was growing upside down under the gum. I had surgery to put it back where it belongs, but it's still all wonky and not where it should be. (Yes, mom, I know I should've worn my retainer.)

3. They thought I had a bucked tooth gap because I sucked my thumb until I was 12. My mother says I was pulled from the womb with my thumb in my mouth. Eventually I broke the habit thanks to the suggestion of my orthodontist who said I should keep my arms under my pillow at night (since I'd wake up sucking my thumb despite going all day without it). It worked.

4. See how I'm wearing that white "frock"? Yeah. I didn't own a pair of jeans until sixth grade. SIXTH GRADE. I went the previous five grades and kindergarten in slacks, sweat pants, skirts, and dresses. I think I stopped wearing them (after spending the preschool years in overalls) because my mom had a hard time finding them to fit my chub. Then when I'd try to wear them, they made the skin on my legs all rough and patchy. I started wearing them in the sixth grade after an asshat named Chad called me a tomato in my red sweatpants. How do any of us survive childhood?

5. This picture was taken on the front porch of my godparents' house back in 1986. We loved spending time with them (who we called Aunt Doris and Uncle Ronnie, or rather, Aunt Ronnie and Uncle Doris because he had long hair and a long beard and she had long hair and no makeup). My father skipped out shortly after Ashley was born in 1980, so my Uncle Ronnie and my Uncle Donnie (no relation) were my father figures -- and they were amazing.

Going to spend time with either uncle (or aunt) was such a treat for us. I would give anything for one more day with either one. My Uncle Ronnie passed away a few years ago from complications from Hep C. My Uncle Donnie died when I was a teenager from a massive heartache. Seeing the joy on my face in that picture reminds me of them, how I felt about them, and how lucky I was to have them in my life.

Okay. I think five is enough for now. What a trip down memory lane!

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Protecting girlhood

I don't talk about her much, but I have a 12-year-old sister. She's in sixth grade and her walls are papered in Jonas Brothers posters. She's smart, funny, considerate, and popular -- and yet every time she posts a picture to Facebook, I cringe.

My youngest sister -- this amazing girl -- takes every opportunity to show her cleavage and her bare legs and thighs on her Facebook page. She wears heavy makeup and pouts for the camera. She positions her body so that her breasts are thrust out, so that her bum is shown at the best angle, so that she looks sexy and sultry and desirable.

I understand her motives. I was once a 12-year-old girl with raging hormones and low self-esteem; a girl with an absentee parent and the nagging feeling that I wasn't lovable enough. I was smart and funny and popular -- and yet I still needed to be wanted. I went out of my way to be suggestive, desirable, loved. Who was I if I wasn't hot or sexy? What was I worth if no one wanted to touch me, to kiss me, and more? I get it, and it breaks my heart. I get it, and I feel that there's nothing I can do about it.

My sister's Facebook account is (supposedly) monitored by my father. He is "watching" her and keeping her "safe" from the mistakes of youth, and the predators that young girls haven't yet learned to recognize. So why do her pictures burn my eyes yet elicit no response from him? If she's posting this pictures to her account, what is sharing in private? I have a ball of fear in my stomach because I know I must confront my father, yet I'm not sure he will see the problem.

My father revels in his daughter's body. He looks hard at her, sucks in his breath and announces, "God, you're beautiful!" He says to her: "Your butt is looking good in those jeans!" "You have your mom's hips!" "Your husband is going to love those lips!" When she walks away, he stares at her butt while slowly shaking his head. He locks eyes onto her budding breasts and smiles while saying she'll definitely be well endowed.

She's twelve and she's already been taught that her body is meant to bring pleasure to men. And her own father has sent the message. He insists she is confident and strong because he's raised her to be active in the Catholic Church. He brags that she's mature beyond her years, and therefore able to wear the gobs of makeup my mother banned until her daughters were at least thirteen (and even then, it had to be light and natural looking). He pays for her unlimited texting and explains her long days away from home by saying that's what girls her age do.

How do I convey to him what he doesn't perceive to be wrong? How do I convince him -- without old-fashioned words like ruined reputation and regret and immature -- that he's losing her, that I recognize this as the beginning of a downward spiral that could spin through her teenage years leaving destruction in its wake? How do I teach him to treat his daughter less like an adult piece of meat (as he treats all women) and more like the tender, beautiful child she is?

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THAT Family

I've been part of THAT family since birth. Sometimes it's a bad thing (such as when my mom had to move and restart her life thanks to my dad's horrible reputation in her hometown) and sometimes it's a good thing (such as when people roll their eyes because yet another miracle has fallen into our laps).

It's not always easy being in THAT family. We can't get together without a fight or argument breaking out, we have to screen and schedule visits to ensure that no one runs into or is subjected to the wrong person, and everyone is way too into everyone else's business. There's also a good dose of "why us" running rampant in my family. Why was our dad a screw up? Why was my sister born sick? Why does my other sister grapple with mental illness? Why has our mom worked so hard her entire life and yet will continue working until she dies?

You get the picture. I've tried for the past several years to give up the "why us" whining and just enjoy that this is the life I live and this is the family I've got. We can't change each other (much) and if it came to a knife fight, mess with one of us girls and you'll have three others on your back. And we will shank you.

So I'm proud that my THAT family was featured at We Are THAT Family this week. I hope you'll go check it out and leave a comment either here or there to share your own THAT family story.

(And keep in mind there's only so many THAT family stories I could fit into the questions Kristen asks. I didn't even get into the deadbeat dad who recently moved back with his 2 pre-teen children that he thinks we should help raise and how he likes to brag to us about how amazingly smart they are -- as though they invented the wheel [and teen angst]. Guess what, loser. We were dying our hair and shaking up the scene when those kids were still a drug-induced dream. And there's how my husband was born on the side of a mountain. You know I can tell you some stories about that!)

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