CONFESSION #1: I LOVE MY BOOBS!

Photo: "Embarrassment"
By Skitch

THEN & NOW:



    The bane of my childhood was being female. I spent most of my first decade of life avoiding the idea that I was going to grow up into something more like my mother than my father. I could plainly see that my dad's life was much more interesting than my mothers, and I truly wanted an interesting life! Plus, I thought the world of my pop, and I wanted to have as many things in common with him as I possibly could. And, the more I was like him the more Momma would love me, I deduced, because she adored him. It would have been a win, win, win situation,I decided, if I'd been born a boy... but I had not.
   
    Even as a very young child, I knew I was a girl, honestly I did, but certain things about being female still managed to sneak up on me and surprise me. My mother shocked and repulsed me when I was about four years old and she saw me pretending I was Tarzan (not wimpy Jane.) Dad and I often watched Tarzan and Daniel Boone on television, and I liked to pretend I was both those leading men, but especially Tarzan. He was so wild and so free! And he hung out with the coolest animals! That day, I was banging on my chest with my little fists as furiously as I could, and she admonished me to stop before I hurt myself or made my boobs grow in crooked. I felt like someone had dumped ice water on me. I had to grow boobs?! Somehow I'd always thought that might be optional, or that I was going to live in an endless state of childhood. Now I knew that not only did I had to grow those things but that they might grow in lop sided! The only thing worse than having boobs would be having one big boob and one little one. I'd walk sideways for the rest of my life. And just like that, playing Tarzan was sullied for life. If I had been born son I would not have to deal with that. Life was so unfair!

    When I was seven years old my first niece, my near-sister, and future best friend was born in one fragile and perfect little bundle. She was cute enough, but I confessed to my family that I sure wish she had been a boy because I would much rather be an uncle than an aunt! The family got a nice laugh out of the idea before they explained that I would have still been an aunt even if my sister had brought home a boy baby. So, I was stuck being an aunt and could never be an uncle. Wow! You just couldn't win in this girly world! Oh, how I wanted to be a boy!

    I was nine years old when someone gave me another reminder about the upcoming boob tragedy, and this time I broke down. I went out into the woods all alone, found a rock to pray against, like I'd seen in the paintings of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, and I knelt against that rock and prayed with all my heart, "God, please, please let this cup pass from me!" I prayed and I cried, but I was not as noble and good as Jesus. I could not end my prayer with "Nevertheless, not as I will, but as you will." This was too important to me! I wasn't convinced that being crucified was worse than growing boobs and being a lop sided ol' girl. Why couldn't I have been born a boy?! My family would be happier. I would be happier. Life would be better. Life would be fair. Life would make more sense. But I was a rotten ol' girl, and I knew that, barring divine intervention, sooner or later I would truly have to face it!

    "Sooner" came when I began to develop breasts a year later. I'd always been super modest, so it wasn't like I suddenly had to put clothes on. That's what happened to my favorite cousin, Ramona. She had grown up naked most of the time when she was at home and suddenly she was growing boobs and they made her start wearing clothing. She was distraught and appalled. Punished! But I didn't need clothing to be punished by my boobs. They hurt, and they looked ridiculous, and people noticed, and - worst of all - talked about them. I wore my largest shirts, pulling them out as loosely as I could in the front, but it was like putting a sheet over a hippo that was following you around. I wasn't hiding much. It felt like I was growing two walnuts inside my skin and playing Tarzan was now a bad idea not because I didn't want crooked boobs, but because just bumping into things very lightly, like my own, hurt a lot, pounding on my new proof of girlness would have been very painful.

    I was suddenly even more modest than I had been. I had spent my life not noticing when my mother or sisters came in the room where I was bathing, but suddenly I did not want a single soul in the room where I was naked. I felt certain that I would burst into tears if they even glanced at my chest. It hurt my mother's feelings that I inexplicably kicked her out of my bathing ritual, but I lacked the vocabulary and the emotional understanding to explain myself. I only knew that I didn't want anyone looking at my chest as long as I lived, with or without my shirt on! And yet, the crazy thing was, people looked at my chest more than ever. Boys seemed to have forgotten that I had eyes. Suddenly, they all talked to my chest. As much as I hated boobs they seemed to love them! So much so, that it made me re-think my desire to be a male. Would I really be so obsessive and so ridiculously wrapped up in those annoying little bumps if I were a boy? Surely not! I did not know it then but I didn't really want to be a guy. I was not the least bit attracted to females. I sometimes recognized that they were beautiful in the same sexless way that a sunset or a horse is beautiful. After I grew more accustomed to being female I would see a beautiful woman and wish that I looked more like her. But I've never seen one and been fascinated with her boobs. I guess what I really wanted to be back then was a gay man, but I didn't even know gay men existed, so I couldn't explain that desire to myself, let alone to anyone else. 

     I read the book, "Are You There God, It's me Margaret." I liked the book a lot, but I wondered what the heck was wrong with that chick! Who WANTS to get their nasty, painful period?! And then I got mine. I sulked around all weekend like I had The Black Plague instead of menses. My mother suggested that I go with Dad as he headed out on some chore that pulled him up the mountain and across our strip job. He said that was a fine idea, so I bundled up and went along, happily getting the point that I could still traipse along behind my daddy even if I was officially a nasty old girl now. As we walked, I made up a song and sang it lightly to myself. I called it, "The World Owes me a Weekend." Daddy caught some of the lyrics and asked me why the world owed me a weekend. I suddenly realized I had practically invited someone to ask me about something I did not want to talk about. I said, "Oh it doesn't. It's just a song I made up." I was very relieved when he did not press with more questions. As we walked along in silence, I realized the world was never giving that weekend back to me. In fact, it would take more and more carefree and bloodless days away from me as time wore on. I don't know if any eleven year old had ever been more depressed over being female. I thought about it long and hard that evening and, in the end, I decided if my mother and sisters could survive it, then I could too!

    Over the years, I grew accustomed to my period and learned how to do most everything during it that I did when I was period free. I also grew more comfortable with the worthless lumps on my chest and the fascination that men had with them. I learned to say, "Hey, I'm up here," when I needed to get someone's attention and to ignore the dazed look on their faces if it didn't really matter. The boobs stopped being constantly painful and started hurting much less and much less often. After they grew in, they still seemed in my way a lot, but they only hurt during my period. I played with the power they brought me and decided maybe there was one small compensation for being saddled with them. It was almost entertaining how alluring they seemed to be to most guys. But it still wasn't enough to make it feel like I'd gotten anything other than the raw end of a deal. I remained convinced: Boys had it made compared to girls. 

     I got married and I was glad my husband thought I was pretty, lumps and all. I still did not personally like those worthless things... And then... I had a baby. My son drew everything he needed from those boobs, and finally I knew why they were there! I knew why that cup had not passed from me. God really did know best! I would not give up motherhood for anything, not even for the treasure of being a male. Fatherhood looked sublime from where I was sitting, but motherhood topped even that! And breastfeeding only made motherhood better! I had friends that were bottle feeding their babies and they talked about the store being out of the brand of formula their baby was used to, and the stomach aches it caused to switch brands. They talked about colic and gas. They mentioned some mothers in an area where a natural disaster had hit, mothers that could not get any formula for their babies. They talked of stocking up on that precious milk and lining it up beside their bottled water and canned food, just in case. As they wrung their hands and knitted their brows, I realized that, as long as I could find water and food to put in my own stomach, my son would eat the best milk he could possibly have. Sure, baby clothes are nice and diapers are very convenient, but in a worse case situation, I could snuggle my son under my own clothes up against my breast, and he would have food and warmth in one package. He would be just fine! Absolutely everything he needed my boobs could supply. I was not prepared for the joy of breast feeding, for the peace of mind it gave me, for the fact that I felt the same way when my son pulled the nourishment he needed from me as I did when I was praying. 

     I nursed and weaned that baby, then had another, and the boobs kept on giving. They nurtured my second son in the same way. As my sons grew they would fall asleep on the soft lumps and their faces would be lax and peaceful. They would listen to my heartbeat and grow still, and sleep in my arms, against those soft, warm boobs. My sons found my arms, and my heartbeat, and my beasts to be a sanctuary from anything that frightened or hurt them. And I grew to love the boobs that fed them, comforted them, softened their world while they slept. I finally realized that it is not always about me, not even with my own body. I might not have needed them or seen their purpose, but some people in the future, very important people indeed, needed them, and those girly boobs had a very wonderful purpose in the world.

    And that's why, after years of hating them, I can confess: I love my boobs!

IN THE GLOAMING (poem)

Photo: "Gloaming"
By Skitch

NOW:

This is a poem I wrote that was recently published in a small local compilation:

In The Gloaming

The most beautiful time of day is in the gloaming

When the day's hours are done

And the sun falls to grace

Painting the heavens with glory

And the world holds it's breath

Waiting for the stars to come alive

And all is peace and love

In the gloaming

The most beautiful time of year is in the gloaming

When the summer's days are done

And the leaves fall to grace

Adorning the land with brilliance

And the Earth holds it's breath

Waiting for winter to come alive

And all is peace and love

In the gloaming

The most beautiful time of life must be in the gloaming

When your days are done

And your body falls to grace

Bathing the world in the radiance of your love

And the multi-verse holds it's breath

Waiting for you to come alive

And all is peace and love

In the gloaming

Written:

May 26, 2006

TO RUSSIA WITH LOVE! (journal entry)

NOW:

Blogger does this cool thing where it supplies statistics for you when you blog through their site. You can look and see where the people that read your blog are coming from, how many times a certain blog has gotten attention, etc.
For some reason, I have more Russian readers than any other country, including America, my own country. I find this fascinating and flattering. If I check for the day, for the week, for the month, for all time. Like Seabiscuit, the Russians are leading the race. I'd like to take just a quick moment to say, "Thank you!" to my Russian friends. I do not know why my blog attracts you, but I'm certainly glad it does! I have a few personal Russian friends right here in the US and I've come to love them, their country, their strength. I like that my blog is interesting to other Russians. I like to imagine that you are all as interesting and as tough as my friends here in the states. I tell myself it is my pursuit of strength that attracts you, but I'd love to know for sure. Please, do feel free, dear Russian friends, to send me any feedback you would like by leaving comments. Or... continue to read in your own silent way. Either way, I am appreciative! Please come back and read again soon!

I WISH YOU ALL AN OLIN

Photo: "Olin"

Written in 2006, but still wonderfully true today...


THEN & NOW:

     My husband Olin is my best friend, and he has changed my life like water changes a wasteland. He has helped me grow and learn and,though he did not spell them out, he has helped me come to realize the principles that I now hold closest to my soul. If not for him I might still be struggling with some very basic truths: That positive thinking can change the world, that the truth is always worth fighting for, and that God's face is found in the pursuit of goodness. 

     Olin loves me, and his love has moved me, helped me grow into something better, someone I can love. His love has helped me love myself. Love is wonderfully circular that way. Olin's love is awesome and unique; it is a verb. He jumps into loving me and our kids with both feet. I've never seen ANYONE love the way he does, especially when it comes to fathers and their children. I tell him that he loves like a mother loves, but he doesn't. He loves more than most mothers do! I don't think he gets this particular idea, sometimes he imagines that I've insulted all fathers everywhere. Maybe I have. It is hard to explain... Olin is a deeply devoted, hands-on kind of dad, and that in itself amazes me. I grew up in a world where 'mom' took care of the kids and 'dad' brought home the paycheck. Dads were the elusive creatures that almost belonged to the family, but that frightened everyone more than Satan himself. They were the detached, sullen, often violent members of the household that considered themselves superior to their progeny and “the little woman” (who was herself treated more like the “Head Kid” than an equal.) I thank God that my dad was different, much better (more on this beloved fellow later) but most of the dad's I knew wanted their kids to be a badge on one of the jackets hanging in the back of their closet, something you pull out and show off when the time is right. These dads brought home the bacon, but they left all the hands-on parenting to the females. Time for a bath? Go tell Mom. Got a booger? Mom will hold the hanky while you blow. But Olin pursues the hands-on parenting experience like no man I've ever met. He is never detached by choice, he is rarely sullen (Lets be honest here; we are all human.)  He is a dad that brushes a child's hair with such tenderness that it sometimes brings tears to my eyes. I've seen him endure more pain than I believe I could've ever tolerated, and I've seen him rise above it to stand as a dad among men, someone his children can all be proud of. With quiet eyes I've watched and I've seen that he survives for love, mostly the love he has for his children. I've seen him love them with every fiber in his body, and I've heard him ask all the questions that I've come to think of as “Mom questions.”

     “What did you eat today?”

     “Did you sleep well last night?”

     “What are you planning to do with yourself now?”

     He gets eye to eye and heart to heart and he TEACHES! He knows that the surest way to love someone is to teach them-- especially if you can teach them something valuable, and it is easy to see that Olin wants to bless all our kids, and me, with every morsel of knowledge he has... He loves them and teaches them. He loves me and he helps me teach myself. He explains things in a way that I understand-- eventually, and he hands the me tools to further investigate the matter. He gets me. And though I learn slooow and stubborn 'cause I already think I know it all, but he plods right along. He gets me like no one else ever has. Perhaps it is simply his tenacity that makes the difference. He never gives up on my catching the same truths that he caught years ago. He knows I'm stubborn-- but worth it. He helps me teach myself, which, autodidact that I am, is my favorite way to learn. He asks me questions until I trip over the truth that I wanted to know, needed to know. If the truth hurts-- and it often does-- then he holds my hand while the stones of truism pass, and believe me they sometimes hurt more than any physical pain I've ever endured (and I've been through a wringer or two) but the disappointment and pain does pass. Olin holds my hand, wipes my tears, which always cause him an uncomfortable tension. (“What should he do? What should he do?”) He tells me a few of his beautiful lame jokes and the world eventually rights itself.

     That is often how I grow now. I've always been thirsty to learn, but since he has come into my life all has been efficacious; my soul has been on Miracle-Grow! I've grown from an oft times nearly suicidal individual to a lady that rises each morning with love in her heart, not only for her fellow man but for that flawed chick looking out of the mirror. I now rise with a feeling of promise and an understanding for the world. (I say "nearly suicidal" because I accepted long ago that a mother should never give up, should never hurt her kids that way/that much, should never set that kind of example. But the desire to off myself still settled over me like a thick, dark fog, until he helped me grow into a more positive person.) I've moved from being a people-hater to one of the most nurturing people-lovers that I know. I've learned how to love the unlovable and how to do the “impossible”. When he met me, I hated the fact that I had been born female and I was holding a pretty big grudge against God for it. Watching the reverence and awe that Olin shows to his sisters, his daughters, and to the memory of his mother, made me take a longer, deeper look at being female. It made me realize that I could never have been a "mother" if I had not been born a "female". It has made me see that being female is fine. As a matter of fact, from my point of view it's perfect. I've learned to love it! I can now sing with my mother when she breaks into an old song that quips, "I adore being a girl."

      Don't get me wrong-- I get some of the credit for my improvements, all of it if you factor in that when I married him I was hoping he would help me improve and I could help him improve. I've grown only in the direction I wanted to grow and only on my own stubborn terms, (Lord bless him for putting up with them!) but Olin has shown me paths I'd frantically overlooked many times before. He pointed out a life that I had only dreamed could be real. Of course, I had to choose which paths to walk, I had to walk them myself, claim the life as my own, but I would likely still be searching for it, ear deep in briers, if not for him. And, --this is the best part-- he doesn't feed me fish. He teaches me to fish. The practices and truths he's taught me will roll into improving my life forever. I've moved from being a desert to being a lush oasis teaming with life and possibilities. I'm in a different so-much-better-place than I was . I'm happy. I've grown in leaps and bounds, in positive ways, and most of my growth is a small tribute to the man that loved me enough to teach my stubborn ass how better to get along in this old world! I'm sure I would have survived without him, but I'm certainly glad I didn't have to! Olin is one of the best of many blessings my Creator has given me. My husband's very existence in my life offers sure proof that God loves me.

     To my husband, when you read this:

     Thanks and kudos to you, my best friend. I know it's been difficult for you too, many a time. I know that you have expended more energy on me than Oak Ridge harbors. I'm sorry for all the times you felt like pulling out your hair-- or mine. I'm sorry for any gray hairs I put on your head. And I'm sorry for every time my stubbornness, which you pointed out so long ago could be a good thing or a bad thing, has been a bad thing. I'm sorry for every time it worked against me instead of for me. I've got a much better handle on that now, but I know I can never repay you for all those headaches and all those hours. Still, I promise to make my stubbornness work for us not against us. I will channel that stubborn nature and I will continue working on me with more tenacious backbone than ever. I will not forget that actions speak louder than words. And I will be an investment. The more you help me the more I can help you. Love is wonderfully circular that way, and I do love you bushels, and ever so much more than I did on on that day we were wed beneath "The Hanging Tree". 

     To the rest of you:

     If you don't know this man you should. I wish you all an 'Olin' in your own life. We should all be blessed enough to have someone that will ask us the tough questions and hold our hand while we grow...

EVERY DAY IS SEPTEMBER ELEVENTH

Artwork: Peace, Dove, Love
By Skitch

NOW:

      It's one of those questions that, as an American, you'll probably hear the rest of your life, and I'll bet you have an answer for it, “Where were you on 9/11?”

      I woke up on September 11, 2001 feeling sure that this was going to be just another day in what I hoped would be a long life full of mundane days, sprinkled liberally with spectacular moments. It's how I'd begun to view life, how numb I'd become to all but the gas hand on my vehicle, the cell phone in my pocket, the money in my purse. 

 

      That morning my husband and I had an old quarrel concerning our blended family. Our values were and are very similar, but our methods have always been polar opposites. He Plans (note the capital p) and though I've now learned the power of a good agenda, I love being spontaneous and wouldn't think life worth much if it were all as rigid as a plan. He and I are also separated by the churches of “feels” and “think”. I'm a feeler and he is a thinker. To be fair, he is largely correct when we hit the brick walls in our relationship because even my staunchest spontaneity and warm fuzzy feelings have to admit that logic should almost always prevail over emotions in the end. Add to all this that my husband has lived a few years more than me, is wonderfully intelligent, and is incredibly aware of life, and you end up with a relationship that's just a bit more one sided than what is likely ideal. He has somehow managed to give a myriad of things a lot more thought than I have and usually that wins out. I learned early on that often I was going to look back on our arguments and begin to think of them more as sessions. While I had my face buried in “True Story” he must have been pondering the ways of human nature and the truths of the universe. It can be embarrassing and is always frustrating, but I don't know if it is more frustrating for him or for me. I know it has been a beautiful life beside him, but it has been humbling for me, and likely exhausting for him. 

 

      I had to go to work on that tragic yet beautiful day. Aren't they all beautiful? I made a quick stop at the library, and checked out some books, including a thick volume by Kevin Leman entitled “Keeping Your Family Together When the World is Falling Apart”. Ironic, I know. The library atmosphere struck me as “odd” that morning. There was a charge in the air that I did not understand. I bundled my books into my bag and left, assuming they were getting ready for some bookish event. 

 

      I first heard of the twin tower tragedies in my car on my way to work. I switched on my radio a few moments after leaving the library. I drove through miles of autumn tinted woods without seeing them. I drove on auto pilot while I listened with disbelief and more than a little fear. I parked and went inside, wondering a million thoughts at once, feeling raw inside and out.

      My husband stopped by my work station later in the day. It was a slow time of year and no one was out much, they were all glued to their televisions, so I'd had time to both dig into Kevin Leman's book, and time to ponder the attacks going on around me. They did not make sense, but the book did. I'm sure it would have made sense on any day, but it rang as true as a bell on September 11^th. Suddenly our petty differences didn't mean very much. My husband and I embraced and assured each other that, come what may, we were in this life together. His arms felt like a harbor from the storm, after the fierce reminder of how precious and fragile life really is. Our problems were put into a very real and very painful prospective. How could a few differences in parenting methods mean anything when people were dying so tragically and with such injustice? 

      Many petty arguments later I find that I'm still struggling to hold on to that idea. Sometimes my husband reminds me, “This isn't a big deal. Remember September 11^th?” Sometimes he reminds me of my own favorite words in such times, “Will this matter in a hundred years?” And sometimes he gets sucked into the faux drama of our lives with me. I struggle to remember before he can remind me, that life is too fragile to worry about minor things. It's too fast to focus on this instant enough to be angry about something that isn't a big deal in the grand scheme of things. Ask yourself, “Will it matter in a hundred years? Will it even matter in five years?”

      I want to remember that day. I want to remember the only thing that seemed good about it: The realization that we are not in this alone. Every day I struggle to hold onto the good that came to me as a result of that tragedy. I've become more aware of life as a whole. I've come to believe that September 11^th is everywhere and it's all the time. As you read this people are dying, killed over things as silly as religion, as pointless as ownership of the land that was here millions of years before us and will be here millions of years after we are gone. People are killed for the harvest that land holds, be it vegetables or oil. It doesn't matter if these people are in America or if they are in Iraq. It is pointless to wonder if they are Christians or Muslims. I don't care what color their skin is or if they are male or female. They are my brothers and sisters and I care that they are dying needlessly. It cannot matter if they are my countrymen, my religion, my color, my sex. All that matters is that they are dying pointlessly and that they are human just like me, just like you. 

 

      These days, I try to be more aware, more educated, to make better decisions that may truly matter in the long run. The world has bigger problems than my emotions, and though I strive to always remember, “This isn't a big deal,” when my husband and I don't agree on some trivial subject, what I never want to forget is that the big deal is out there, the big deal is all around us. I try to concentrate on what I can do about the things that are important. We can each make a small difference and a lot of small differences can make a large difference. We can reach out to our brothers and sisters that need us to look at the big picture, to stop quarreling with our spouse or neighbor, to stop looking at the gas hand, the cell phone, or the money in our pocket. They are counting on us to take a breath, look at the world around us, really see it, and concentrate on the things that will matter in a hundred years.

ONCE UPON A SKITCH

Skitch in a Diaper // First Photo 

THEN:

Once Upon a Skitch Or Other People's Memories of Me

It was a dark and stormy night that bore me out of the warmth of my mother's womb and into the hands of a waiting Catholic nun. 

 I didn't make a sound.

My mother tells me that the nuns gathered around me and worked frantically, desperately, and she knew that something was very wrong. The doctor had been late but I was impatient. The nuns had delivered me when I insisted on showing up -- doctor or no doctor. My father was fast asleep in the family car, dream-listening to the rain on the roof above him. It was one-thirty in the morning, my birth day, but I was not breathing. My mother began to cry in my stead. She repeatedly asked what was wrong with me, but she was ignored. The nuns were busy trying to fix what was wrong. They had no time for words.

Later they told her that I was a "blue baby". They said my navel cord had been wrapped tightly around my neck and tied in what they described as "a perfect bow." They told her my skin was blue from lack of oxygen. I wonder, these days, if those first blue minutes had anything to do with the learning disabilities I've learned to cope with. Perhaps there is a connection. Thankfully, they managed to free me from that death  grip, and my mam says my cries then were the sweetest sound in the world.  

Funnily enough, it was Johnny Cash and June Carter's fault that my mother's world was suddenly filled with the sounds of a new baby. In 1966, my parents went on a trip to go to a John and June concert. They were aiming for the sounds of good country music (not a baby crying to the top of it's lungs.) They got their money's worth in good country music, that is true, but my folks "forgot the protection," and after the concert they were feeling so happy and so romantic that they thought, "Just this one time, it will probably be okay." To this day, I'm convinced they were right. It is okay! I'm glad to be here. Thanks mom and dad! Thanks pseudo mom and dad AKA Johnny and June! Wonder how many lives you two jump started?!

My parents had hoped for a boy. After having three daughters and being forced to leave one in a cold December grave, I suppose it was natural for my farming family to hope for a son. Likely, it was a double disappointment to find that I was not only a girl child but that I, unlike my sisters, looked almost identical to the gone-child, Patricia. Pat had had straight blond hair and blue eyes. Sandi was dark haired and had brown eyes. Lila and brown hair and green eyes. And here I was, blond haired and blue eyed, just like Pat. The only difference was that, once it dried and grew a bit, my hair fell in curls. I remained a constant reminder of what they had lost.

"William Dustin" was the name they had chosen for me, so when I surprised them by showing up a female, they allowed my aunt to name me. She gave me a very unusual name, which was good. I was to be a very unusual person. It took me many years to grow to love it, and to realize that it was fitting. But does the name suit me or do I suit the name? Perhaps, the odd name shaped part of my uniqueness? In school, I had friends with one unusual name and one "normal" name. For a commonplace touch, they would often go by the one that raised fewer eyebrows. I was not afforded that opportunity. Both my first and second name were unusual. "Normal" it seemed, was not for me.

My mother tells me that she was very weakened by my birth, and that, although they sent her home when I went, she had to return to the hospital to recover and to endure a D & C, though probably not in that order. My father was more of a hands-on type of dad then most of his peers were, and my sisters were 12 and ten years older than me. So, I was in good hands until my mother made it home.

She was home with us when the nurse came to see me for my two week well baby check up. Mam says the nurse was intrigued by the intense, even "knowing", look in my eyes. She held up a finger in front of my tiny face and moved it back and forth. My eyes followed the movement. The nurse was amazed and told my mother, "I've seen a lot of infants this age but I've never seen one that would do that! She must be very smart!" Whether I am smart or not is still up for debate, but the fact that I was unusual was not long in doubt.

My parents tell me that, before I could even sit alone, my mother would prop me up with pillows and leave a book in front of me, not a book with photos, just a book full of words.  They swear that I would run my baby finger along the lines of print and babble as though I were reading aloud, that I would  be totally absorbed in this activity, and sit happily for long periods of time while my mother cooked or cleaned. My mother's uncle, Luthor, came to visit and refused to believe it until he saw the odd sight with his own eyes. Then he remarked, "That baby is either a genius or she's dumb as a stump!" He was a little more pragmatic and a little less tactful than the nurse.

When I was a few months older and had learned to sit up and, not to crawl, but to scoot around on my bottom, there came a day when my father says I came to him in the deep belly of a Virginia coal mine, kissed him on the cheek, and disappeared. It gave my dad the heebie jeebies. He told the man working with him that they needed to get out of that mine now. The fellow followed Dad out into the blinding sunshine, grumbling much of the way. Just as they settled down under a tree and Dad's heart rate returned to normal, the mountain grumbled, followed by a crashing sound, and then a billow of dirt and coal dust rolled out of the mine entrance. An investigation revealed that the exact area Dad and his friend had been in when I kissed him was now filled with dirt and rock. If they had not come out when they had, they would both have died.

My father tells me that insomnia has been a life long battle for me. He says that when I was a tiny thing, he was telling me stories about "Rawhide and Bloody Bones" because I could not sleep. To which I replied, "Maybe I couldn't sleep because I was afraid of Rawhide and Bloody Bones?" Dad laughed, but he swore it was the other way around: I couldn't sleep, so he told me the stories. He also said that, at that time, I probably could not understand a word he was saying, let alone that it was supposed to be a scary story. But that just when he got to the spooky part, I pulled the covers over my head. He went on telling the story in a low voice, pulled the sheet down a few minutes later, and I was sound asleep. Rawhide and Bloody Bones were nothing to be afraid of with Daddy around. I must have known that, even then, in those days that I cannot remember.

THE SECOND TIME I TRIED TO KILL MYSELF

Photo: "New Mother"

THEN:


     The second time I tried to kill myself, I was twenty-one years old. Certainly old enough to know better! Looking back I think the same thing about that attempt as I do the first time I tried it when I was fifteen: "What the hell was I thinking?!" Life was tough, for sure, and it was going to get tougher, but life was and is also wondrous, beautiful, interesting, hopeful, breathtaking. Life is so many things, some horrible and some wonderful, but over all, if you just learn to look at the water in the bottom of the glass instead of the air in the top, life is awesome! And not only that, but this time I had a son to live for. 

     My son Cory was about nine months old and, my first husband, Greg and I had bought our boy a Beagle puppy. Greg named the pup Butch. Butchy was a cute little dog with those Beagle ears that are softer than satin. I remember how calming those little ears could be, just the feel of them made you believe in God. They felt like a miracle, like living silk.
   
    One evening I was a little stressed out with trying to keep up with a nine month old, housebreaking a puppy, and getting dinner on the table at an expected time. We'd fallen into the habit of eating in front of the television, so I sat my plate on the coffee table and went back to get my drink. By the time I made it back into the living area Butch had his nose in my spaghetti. Greg was watching the television and hadn't noticed. I made a disgusted sound and an accusatory, "Greg!" as I walked into the room. When he looked away from the television and saw that the pup was eating my food, Greg grabbed Butchy by the back of the neck and hit the dog, hard and repeatedly, before I even made it to the coffee table. In ten seconds I moved from annoyed to devastated. I wrestled the dog from him, crying, "He's just a puppy! He doesn't know any better." The pup had given a loud wail at the first blow but was too injured to cry anymore. His eyes rolled back in his head and blood began to ooze from his nose. I looked at my husband with fear and revulsion, and fled the room with the dog. I took him to the baby's room and tried to gather my wits and my strength and figure out what to do for the dog.

    We didn't have any money for a vet and I was suddenly afraid of Greg. I was sure I did not know him at all, did not know what he was capable of. I did not want to even walk back through the room he was in. I cleaned the blood off the pup and watched as he seemed to regain his senses, then I hid him in a box under the baby's bed. I sat in the floor in the hall, my back against the door going into that room and felt like a pathetic, puny, worthless guard. My thoughts went crazy. I decided I'd married a monster. I didn't feel safe. I didn't think my son was safe. I'd created a nightmare for both of us and for the little pup. Cory's dad was malicious and his mother was a frightened idiot that had brought this nightmare on. The baby would be better off without either of us, and if I died Greg would give him away. He would let my sister have him. Cory would be so much better off with my sister than with Greg and me.

    While all these crazy thoughts were going through my head I could hear Greg cussing, smashing the plates full of food into the sink, popping the top of his first beer of the evening. It was sure to be followed by many, many more. He turned off the television and turned on the stereo. He started playing, "Leader of the Band," by Dan Fogelberg, which (though Greg's father did not play an instrument) made him think of his dad. I had introduced him to the song, and I soon wished I had kept it to myself. He would play that song and "Cat's in the Cradle" by Harry Chapin until my brain was fried. The stereo got louder as he listened to "Leader of the Band" repeatedly and drank one beer after another.

    I did not want to live like this, and I didn't know how to get out of it. Divorce was not an option in my mind at that time. I decided that the only way to not live like this was to not live. I made up my mind to drink everything my husband was overlooking, everything in the liquor cabinet, to both bolster my courage and to make a statement about drinking, and then cut my wrists and save Cory from this life. Maybe if I got drunk and killed myself Greg would quit drinking. Maybe Cory would never drink.

    I gathered my courage and went to the kitchen liquor cabinet and carried the first three bottles to my room. Greg had his back to me and the music up, and he never knew I had walked through the room. I sat in the floor against the foot of my bed, watching the door to Cory's room, thinking about how much I had ruined his life and mine too. He never woke up in the middle of the night now and dinner had been so late that he'd been asleep in his crib for hours now. I finished a nearly full bottle of brandy, half a bottle of peach schnapps, and half a bottle of Jack Daniel's. I laughed at the idea that Greg and I were drinking together alone. I felt a little happier with my decision, a little happier with everything, as I made my way into the kitchen and brought out the last three bottles of booze, swinging by the bathroom to grab a razor blade along the way. I was saving us all. Maybe even Greg would find a better life without me.

    I tucked the razor blade into the padded frame of my water bed, thinking in my boozed up head that Greg might come in the room and take away my chance to escape. I wanted to finish off the last of the liquor before I sliced myself, make a bold statement about drinking. So, I drained what was left in a bottle of vodka, some gin, and some Southern Comfort. By then I could not keep up with how much was in the bottles, but I knew when they were empty. I tossed all the empties into the same pile and felt accomplished. I pulled the razor out and thought about how I had enjoyed cutting my fingers when I was four years old. I wondered why I had done that, and then I thought, "If Cory cuts his fingers when he's four, will it be because I left him?" I shook my befuddled head and reminded myself that I was doing him a favor, doing us all a favor. I laid the blade against my wrist, and just as I started to push it against my skin, Cory, the baby that never woke up in the night anymore, woke up and started crying. I could not stand the idea of him crying all night, and I knew his dad was too drunk to even hear our son, let alone make him a bottle. Besides, Greg did not know how to make the bottles. I figured if I made Cory a bottle and he went back to sleep then I would be able to kill myself believing that he would not cry again until after I was found dead.

    I stumbled into the kitchen and made a bottle, no longer caring if Greg saw me. When I entered his nursery, Cory was standing in his crib, whimpering, and sobbing my name. "Mum. Mum. Mum," over and over. I looked at the tears in his eyes and I suddenly knew that no one would ever love that child as much as I did. I was drunk, but I wasn't too drunk to know that. Yes, there were better mothers, better fathers, better lives, but no one would ever love him like his Mum. I also knew that killing myself would not be something he'd shrug off. "What," I thought, "What if he wondered why he wasn't enough of a reason to stay around."

    I took my son from the crib and he snuggled into my shoulder and as he stopped crying I began to cry. He needed his "Mum" more than a bottle. I sat down with him and fed him the bottle, and tried to not keep him awake with my drunken sobs. The last time I'd tried to kill myself I begged God to forgive me. This time I begged my little baby boy to forgive me. I felt I had nearly wronged him more than myself, Greg, or even God.

    Once I stopped crying and Cory went back to sleep, I put him in his crib and headed to the bathroom. I knew I had drank enough to possibly hurt or kill myself without even using the razor. I leaned over the toilet and forced myself to throw up. I remember the vomit being red, and I remember trying to tell if it was red booze or red blood. I could not tell.

    I had black outs the rest of the night. I do remember that Greg figured out I was even more drunk than he was and decided it was entertaining to hang around me. He annoyed me so much I ran outside and crawled under our car in my nightgown. He pulled me out and put me back in bed. 

    The next day, Greg went to work and I took care of Cory and Butch. They were both especially good, and I knew I didn't deserve it. I was so sick I could barely breathe, let alone move for necessary tasks like making bottles and changing diapers, and picking up puppy accidents. I vomited a few more times, but I did what had to be done. I also sat around a lot with only my fingers moving, rubbing Butch's soft, soft ears or stroking Cory's silky hair, thanking God for both of them, and for this new but painful day. Somehow Co and I got through that day. Somehow, we got through many, many more.

    I cannot say I love my kids more than God, but I can say I think they need me more than God does. I broke my word to God and tried to kill myself after promising to never do so again, but I never broke that promise to Cory. I never felt free to leave him, free to set the example of a quitter, free to take the risk that my leaving might make his life any harder than it had to be. My sons have saved my life over and over and forced me to be a better and stronger person than I knew I could be. Motherhood is not for everyone and I'm not the best mother in the world, far from it, but I do hang around as long as I can, as hard as I can. I do try to show them how to hang tough and stay alive. I do keep my promises to my sons. Motherhood saved me.

    If you love anyone, don't hurt them by giving up. Make sure they know they are enough of a reason to hang around...