Crushed

Today was Big A's last day of elementary school.

She got up and got dressed, chattering the entire time; excited about the day, excited for it to begin, excited for it to end, as I quietly watched the being before me.

She slipped into a pair of my shoes that fit her perfectly and twirled to the mirror before us, leaving in the wake of her joyful spin a mother only able to place a hand over her mouth to quell the emotions she felt rising within.

It was yesterday, I swear, that she started kindergarten. Just moments ago that she slipped into my shoes and tugged at the hems of my skirts and looked up at me, eliciting laughter at the sight of her trying to walk in heels far too big for her.

It seems like just a month ago that I prepared her first lunch for her. Today she made it nearly on her own, truth be told, she would have been fine without my interference, had I not insisted on fumbling around in the kitchen with her, pretending to add things to her lunch, to make things better, to show her that there is usefulness in me yet, "You still need me, Big A, please, still do, because the day you don't need me, who will I be then?"

We drove into school together, a family, the three of us. I thought of the day that I drove her into elementary school, just she and I, a long winding road ahead of us, having no idea what was in store for us. Today I drove as we listened to Little A's music and looked for the deer that are out each morning.

I wish I could ride there, in that car, in that moment, every day for the rest of my life.

We pulled up and Big A hopped out; all smiles and tallness and looking so grown, kissed Little A and was off--just as she had been that first day of kindergarten.

I recall watching her outside the door after she kissed me goodbye that morning; I remember that she never turned to look back; that she just ran forward. I remember hoping for her that she would always be as such--face forward, running to what lies ahead...that she would always have that confidence and security within her.

Today I watched her tall shape walk up the sidewalk and her friends smile and laugh and run up to her, and I waited, truth be told, for just one look back.

She didn't turn around.

It made me so happy that she never hesitated or paused, I could barely feel the pain of my heart being crushed inside my chest, until the tears streaming down my cheeks belied it.

The Small Things

There we were, eagerly unwrapping our ice-cream treats. Big A and Little A were sharing one red Adirondack chair and I was sitting next to them.

Little A held up her treat, blue eyes wide open, smiling from ear to ear, "See what I gotted? Do ya? It's so awesome! I so excited!" And then she placed into my hands an orange push-up that she needed help opening.

It happened that fast; within one moment--years were erased and existed no more. I was eight years old, climbing into a wood truck, eagerly anticipating stopping into the local store after a delivery of lumber to get my orange push-up, my smiling grandfather placing a quarter on the counter to pay for it.

And just as quickly, I was back. To that moment in those red chairs. To her blue eyes. To the knowledge that he is gone; the racing of my heart when I remember again that I've spoken to him and seen him for the last time.

It's still not real, you know. Oh, it's real enough when I choke back tears and clear my throat and walk into a different room to gather myself. It's real enough when I hear my grandmothers changed voice and read her letters speaking of emptiness that I don't want to know. It's real enough watching the Tigers and trying not to remember how many days of my youth were spent lying on my stomach, viewing the Tigers with my grandparents.

It is real enough.

And yet, I must remind myself of this frequently and I worry of what is to come. If something so large, something so true, is something that I must consistently tell myself of--what will life make of me later?

It's the small things, the little moments, that quietly sneak up and startle me. The blue of the sky, hearing a laugh that sounds like his, a blown save by a Tiger's relief pitcher, an orange push-up.

I've never lost someone that I loved so much, and yet I know that there will be greater losses. The calendar days passing and my daughters so quickly growing do nothing to ease the fear that arises in me when I think of these things.

I try to capture time; to remember so much that it all becomes muddled and hazy--the things that I do remember are the small ones:

Big A's snarky comments, years beyond her age.

Little A's uncontrolled laughter anytime I squeeze her chunkins.

A red wood-truck picking up a tow-haired girl at the end of her driveway.

I miss him so much. Still. In uncontrolled ways when I am honest with myself, sobbing in the shower.

And then I walk out of the bathroom, smile at the Queens and slide orange push-ups to the top of their container, all the while pushing down the small things that keep rising to the surface.

Impostor

There's an impostor in the castle.

She sleeps in my daughter's bed and wears my daughters clothes. When I go to watch Big A play softball, there that stranger is, sliding in the dirt and rounding bases with the world in front of her.

This impostor has taken to calling me "Mom", and I let her; I believe she is the only one that can tell me where my daughter has gone, so I try to be kind and gentle and coax the answers that I seek out of her.

This stranger has traveled to my home with us, stood side by side with my sister and glanced, her head tilted, at the tip of my sister's head, which wasn't far from her own. "I'm wearing flats," my sister responded, looking at me, our minds swimming together over an ocean of time and space, searching for my daughter.

This impostor has been climbing trees of late, carefully picking out clothes; looking into a mirror that reveals a stunning face before leaving the room that she's inhabiting.

She's got a sea of emotions nearly always swimming in her eyes and sometimes, just for a moment, I look into them and can almost see my daughter looking back. But those moments are fleeting and pass by as quickly as a cloud in the sky; before I have a chance to say all of the things going through my head, she turns a cheek and bounds off in a different direction as I mentally add to the list that I carry within my heart, keeping it tucked safely away for the day that I find Big A again.

This impostor sprawls out across a bed that just yesterday my baby daughter laid upon, curled up with my dogs. She wears lip gloss and sandals and stares at me blankly as I wonder where her dolls went. "They were just here," I implore, but to no use; I don't believe that I will see them again and that thought alone saddens me in ways hard to express.

She is so comfortable here, in her role, that she sleeps soundly when I steal into her room at night and peer at her face; the moonlight streaming upon it, searching for the daughter of mine that I miss so deeply.

She rolls her eyes and shrugs at her pink walls; explains them as a way to keep me amused--perhaps to keep me off the trail of discovering where she has hidden the child that I carried within me just a moment ago.

At times, she curls up against me and kisses my cheek and murmurs sweet nothings such as, "I love you, momma." In those seconds, I almost believe her; that she is mine.

But then she steps back and I remind myself that no, she is not.

She is not mine.

She never was.

I just had the honor of holding her and rocking her and bathing her and singing to her while she grew into this impostor before me.

And my heart aches with this knowledge as time whispers mercilessly into my ear, "I told you so."

To The Girl Sobbing On The Phone

Dear Girl,

Should I be saying "girl", at our age? "Woman" sounds so grown, and I don't feel that way yet. Maybe I never will.

When you told me about the test that you took, the three of them in all, about how you were staring down three pink plus signs, about how you didn't think you could possibly do this, about how alone you would be--and then there was silence on my end, with your tentative, "Jenn?"--I am writing this to tell you what I wanted to say in those moments.

I wanted to tell you that I know that there was a point in my life when you weren't a part of it. That doesn't seem possible now. I wanted to tell you that of my friends, you have been among the most true. I wanted to tell you that I will never forget your kindnesses.

I want to talk to you about that plus sign. I wanted to tell you of the time my sister sat on the edge of my water bed, two days short of sixteen, and told me of her pregnancy. I know you know her son now; I know you know her strength now, and I know that you have that within you.

When you said that you'd be alone--I wanted to talk to you about that. I've been alone and pregnant. I've gone to doctor's appointments and tests alone; I've ridden an elevator to his office on the top floor, where they would tell me whether my child had made it through the night within me, or if she had died. I've delivered a baby that was between life and death for sometime. I've sat in a hospital room alone, sobbing, begging, bartering, multiple times.

This will not be you.

I promise you that I will be there every moment, for every appointment. If I cannot be, I know that you have a network of people that love you as fiercely as I do that will make sure you won't be alone, in the physical sense.

Because you already know that there is the other sense; the sense of being--and there are no words that I can say to promise that I can ease that feeling. If I could, I would do it, but no matter the honesty, you cannot change the truth.

It will be hard. You will think that you cannot do this. You will be shamed when people look to your swollen belly and then your empty ring finger. You've known my shames. None burned so hard as the side-ward glances, the whispers, the forms filled out without a father's name written in, the judgement.

But I wanted to tell you about judgement. That no matter what you feel now, no matter what you will feel when your cheeks are burning and you can't lift the dog food to put in your car and you feel this thing kicking inside of you and you just want it to end--those aren't the judgements that will matter.

The real judgements will happen daily, every time you catch a glance of yourself.

The real judgements will happen the first time your child says, "I love you mommy".

Those are the only judgements that count.

Will people you thought were close to you be some of the ones to bring you pain? Most likely, yes. But you learn who your friends are, and believe me, you will need them, and they will want to be there for you, and you will learn about accepting mercy and kindness, and I know that someday, you will pass those along when you can.

You will feel like a burden. I want you to understand right now, you are not. I want to help you, I want to be there, and I know that others around you will feel the same.

I want you to know that in the dead of the night, when you are lying there alone in your bed, one hand on your stomach, one hand pulling at your hair, your chest heaving with fear and regret and anger, when you are thinking that it is too late in the day, that there is no one that you can call: You are wrong. I am here, and there is no hour, no distance, nothing that will change that.

I am but a heartbeat away; I will always be such, until the day that I die.

I wanted to tell you that there wasn't a lower time in my life than when I carried Little A inside of me. I wanted to tell you that today, there is not a moment that brings me more joy, more love, more happiness--almost beyond what I can physically bear--than when I hear her laughter and feel her head upon my chest.

It will be a path that is not for the weak and weary--and though that is how you will feel--when you are walking it, know that every single step is worth it, a thousand times over.

Mostly, I wanted to say this:

There are few truths without exception.

I want you to know this one:

You are not alone.
I am here.
I will always be here.
I promise you this now, with each reader as my witness.
I will hold your hand and hold your baby and fight your fights and will do so with a heart that is so grateful to have been so fortunate as to have you in my life.

In that silence; that pause; that is what I wanted to say.

Now chin up and face forward, dear one.

All my love, always,
Jenn

To Whom It May Concern:

Dear Sir:

In order to help you avoid death at the hands of anyone with a brain and a driver's license, I thought I would kindly point out the error of your ways this morning so that you can avoid further unfortunate incidents such as the one that you were involved in at the crack of freaking dawn on this beautiful day.

• If it is 6:12 a.m. and you are looking to pull out from a driveway (note: your current speed is zero) and a car, let's just say a navy blue mommy-mobile, is approximately 15 feet from you and appears to be traveling closer with each passing millisecond, it is considered good form and a basic tenement of traffic laws that you allow said car to go by prior to pulling out from said driveway.

• If the above circumstances apply and additionally you drive a freaking 1978 Ford Escort with acceleration rates that are equal to those of a dying sea turtle trying to crawl back into the ocean for one last swim, it is just common sense that you DON'T PULL OUT UNTIL SAID MOMMY-MOBILE HAS PASSED.

• If, despite good form, traffic laws and common sense, you proceed to pull out anyway, forcing the driver of the navy-blue car to slam on her brakes, thereby catapulting her briefcase, all contents of said briefcase and her Diet Mt. Dew onto the floor, it probably is not in your best interest to then look into your rear-view mirror and flip off the driver of the navy blue car, for apparently tailgating you?

• Once you've committed the acts above, for you to then chug along and not even go within ten miles per hour of the posted 35 mph speed limit, well sir, I've heard that juries have acquitted admitted murderers in the same circumstances for something called "justifiable homicide".

• For you to then drive down the center of the road so that the car behind you cannot pass you and then laugh while smoking your cigarette and sipping your coffee, forcing the driver of the mommy-mobile to abandon her daily vow not to swear so early in the morning (which on most days, takes until at LEAST 7:02 a.m.), it's just asking Karma to come and give you a nice, swift kick in the ass.

• Upon committing the above atrocities, if you then watch the driver of the mommy-mobile cut through a bank parking lot to avoid the red light you're stopped at, as she's pulling out of the said lot onto the road in front of you while you're still sitting at a red light and appears to be laughing manically, it is not considered good manners to watch such actions with both of your middle fingers apparently sprouting from your steering wheel, mouth agape. 

I hope this letter has cleared up any confusion that you may have previously suffered from regarding not being a complete asshole who should not be allowed to drive basic traffic knowledge.

Sincerely,

A Concerned and Considerate Driver