Welcome to my happy hippie misadventures of self discovery in artistry, marriage and motherhood merrily carrying the baggage of mental health and an autoimmune disease. I promise to keep things interesting and almost always look damn good while doing it. BTW my baby ruins lives and you'll hate me for my husband. 

Praying to my unborn baby - Rowan's Birth Story/Part 1

I just spent the last hour and half rocking my son in his magical room while reading the Savannah Witches novel #1. *Spoiler Alert* but one of the characters has an unwanted pregnancy and it took me back to a place I was so close to that same space. One I often find myself in unexpectedly and filled with gratitude. 

As I'm thinking of this, Rowan jumps awake from him sleep. Not the normal infant startle response but a gasp of fear and for a moment he isn't breathing until I softly reassure him "it's okay. We are safe." just as I did daily while he grew in my belly. 

My children will grow up in a home without fear and it's what I am the most proud of. 

That thing which for some may seem inhiert was very much a conscious choice on my part. 

I grew up afraid and feeling alone. I nearly repeated the cycle but saved myself, saved us, at the last minute. 

I want to stop writing about this. I want to be done with it. Over and over, late at night, I write but keep the words hidden in journals and behind the scenes, unpublished drafts. I assume it will continue pouring from my fingertips until I let the fireflies out of the jar. So here it goes. 

It's been 2 years, 2 months and 11 days since I said no more to a passionate and abusive love affair. It's been 2 year and 22 days since I fully walked away. A short 1 month and 26 days until I forgave and thought I was free but until I let the story trying to escape me into the world I don't think any of it will let me rest. 

See...this part of my story is as much an aspect of my son's coming earthside story as our magical backyard birth is though it's much more muddled.

He very easily could have been a different person entirely
and it's only the times I decided to pray
to something I didn't believe in
that kept him waiting for when I was
where I was meant to be
for him to come to me. 

I was 16 years old when my mother came home after seeing a psychic who told her there was a little one wanting to come before we were ready so I'd better be careful. I attended a Psychic Fair myself last week but at the time, considered her crazy. The warning didn't carry much weight until within only a few weeks of eachother two of my friends discovered they were to be teen mothers and fear of possible truth set in.

Thus began my agnostic praying journey. Late at night in the dark of my room beneath Starry Nite and a mosiquito netting, I asked this unseen child to "please, wait for me." I wasn't sure I believed anything was listening but with full conviction made a promise...

One day....
I'll be ready
and the perfect mother
If you please just wait
so I can be better than I am now. 

16 year old me wasn't even sure what that could mean but I pleaded with everything I was and trusted in my request to be answered. Only a handful of instances more I spoke to something bigger I didn't yet know or understand but repeatedly over the years my baby waiting on the other side and I had the same conversation. 

I'm working on it,
I promise I'll tell you when it's okay. 
I'm not who I want to be yet. 
You deserve better. 
Please, just wait for me. 

Once when I was 21, my boyfriend and I had broken up but my period was nearly a month late. It was inevitable we weren't going to work out; he was 14 years my senior with 3 kids of his own and an ex-wife. I was closer to his oldest son's age than his and was his first love. I had a way of doing that, making men fall in love with me. Partly because I wanted them to, half because they imagined an idea of me that didn't actually exist. Call it my Taylor Swift complex

I called him 'Papa' and he called me 'Mama'; sweet talking me with plans to put me on his health insurance and a house with enough bedrooms for his babies and ours. He picked me up like I was nothing and would squeeze his hands into my hips begging me to not lose any weight because he liked my softness. I'd melt into a puddle when he'd wake me before dawn as he left for work by gently rubbing his fingertips across my back whispering "I love your little baby hairs."

From the very beginning I knew it was a bust but loved him wholeheartedly anyway. If I decide to give you any of me, you get it all. My old man couldn't handle his first love being a 21 year old, burlesque dancing, college girl when he wanted a housewife and possessive jealousy poured out of him in waves. It was 9 intense and destructive months. We were either fighting or fucking. Playing house or screaming. There was no middle, just full throttle all of it. 

It took a near death experience to finally end us. Driving 85 on the freeway we rolled my FJ. Mere moments before the crash we'd been arguing over him refusing to put on a seat belt. He said he wasn't afraid to die. I justified having children who need you that choice is no longer one you can freely make.

Then we hit a pool of water, hydroplaned and suddenly we were upside down. I was hanging from my seatbelt when I looked to my right toward an empty seat. He was laying on the roof beneath me. I panicked after pushing him screaming his name afraid I'd hurt him further or worse. I could hear Thena, my pitbull, whining in the back but had no way of freeing myself without falling onto him.

He rolled over with blood pouring down his head and sputtered out 'baby...' 

Anger took over me and I demanded he let me down. Cut my knees crawling to find Thena and my old man kicked the door open against the wet gravel while I fought back a panic attack. Somehow, aside from his forehead cut and several bruises, we were both fully safe and okay. Thena walked away without serious injury too. 

The next week, we stopped talking.

It came from both sides...the shear shock of it I guess. Our different lives had been a struggle to stay connected anyway but the work to make it just didn't seem so important anymore. I just felt numb and too shut off to hurt yet. He was handling it with the maturity of a highschooler deciding it best to hate me to cope with loving me.

Another week went by and I found myself sunburning on my front porch willing him to answer to 9th phone call. It took a text saying "I need you..." for him to call back talking with forceful indifference. Hurting and afraid said, "I'm late." He jumped to plans of playing step mommy, I stopped listening and again I prayed...

Please baby.
Not now. 
Don't come now. 
Wait for me. 
We can do better than this. 
You deserve better than this. 
I don't want you to hear me yell and right now I don't know how not to. 
We can have our own whole family if you just wait for me. 

Two days later I woke covered in blood.

Enough that even then when I didn't cope or let myself even think it, I knew was a miscarriage.

I rolled over and my sheets were so saturated it pressed up onto my fingers as they clutched my belly leaving a hand print of blood where I'd later grow my baby...

I promise I'll be better.
Please, just wait for me. 

To be continued.... 


Friendsgiving Day - November 26, 2016

A letter to my Son after the 2016 Election...

A letter to my Son after the 2016 Election...