Baby Fever: When You Don't Want To Wait

My husband and I have been married for just over 8 months. We married and had an instant family--my daughter and his daughter and son. I remember getting a text from a friend when we came back from our honeymoon that said, "Did ya'll make a baby while you were gone? lol." I responded with some quick text saying how we had enough to last us awhile and there wouldn't be any additions anytime soon. 

Prior to us getting married, we decided we'd wait at least a year before we had another child. We'd wanted a bigger place that we would purchase (we are currently renting), more financial stable and emotionally ready to intentionally bring our children another sibling. Simply put, we wanted to be ready. Or, as ready as we could be. 

But about six weeks ago, I started to get that itch. Playing around with the idea of having a baby. Not now, but right now. I started seriously asking my husband if he wanted to have another baby but then laughing along with him when he asked if I was serious. Further, I found myself genuinely excited by the fact that my period was 6 days late. Then, was genuinely sad once it came (I confess, I cried real tears). I had planned a summer baby shower in my dreams and even began to write down names. Oh, it was bad. 

When I started a new job in the beginning of January and met a co-worker who was expecting in a few weeks, I excitedly told my husband about how cute she was when I got home that evening. Now, my response changed when people asked me if I had anything "cooking in there."

"I wish. Keith says not right now."

or

"I'm tryin'!"

My anxiousness was so great that I began researching midwives, birthing centers, home births, water births, pregnancy yoga and all things that equaled organic + childbirth. I had announced to my husband that I had "found our midwife," to which he chuckled and said "baby, we're not having a baby right now."

It wasn't until a few weeks ago that my husband and I had a real discussion about having a child that I reigned my emotions back in and had a talk with reality. The reality is we're not ready. Financially or mentally. And we all know how much each weighs on the other. Having a baby right now would put me in a similar state of panic that I was in 2008 when I was living in Atlanta preparing to be a single mother, 900 miles away from family, on rocky roads with my roommate/best friend and no real vision of what the next few months of my life looked like. Sure, there are many other factors that would change now that I'm in a stable marriage with security on many fronts. I was living under the adage that anytime was the right time simply because I was married. But I realized that being married is not an excuse to have a child in the same way having a child is not a reason to get married (the latter is a post for another day).

Having a baby changes everything. Whether its the first or the fourth, there is a life that you are responsible for you coming into the world. Tread lightly. 

After the conversation with me and my husband, I realized having a child prematurely, or, prior to when we planned, would greatly hamper the quality of life for that child and the children we already have. My temporary emotion doesn't disintegrate that fact. Truth is a hard medicine to digest. It goes down painfully but delivers great healing benefits. Sometimes those benefits or instantaneous--other times, it takes awhile to reap its rewards. The truth medicine of my baby fever is both. Being content in the now. But also patiently and diligently preparing for your future reality. There's peace in both arenas. And I'm content with that.

....But if you see me, there might be baby ramblings coming from my mouth. :-)

Short Story Sundays: Vol 3. Part 2.

Scattered Pictures, Part 2. If you haven't had a chance to read Part 1 of the story, please take some time do so, here.



The air was crisp and sharp this morning, just the way Adrian liked it. The ground was wet thanks to the sudden rainstorm that started about an hour before she took off for her morning run. It had lasted only about 30 minutes. All the while, Adrian watched from her living room window contemplating whether or not she would still partake in her Sunday morning ritual after the drops subsided. So when Adrian decided to go for it, she was sure to wear her all-weather, waterproof jacket and Nike running shoes that had good tread on them. The sky was still gray but the sun was doing its best to stretch its way through the clouds and make an appearance. Adrian was hoping the sun would win the battle today. She needed the sun. Adrian inhaled, arms up. Then exhaled, arms down. She repeated these motions five times in her driveway facing the street. The block was empty and somber. She did a few quick but focused stretches--side to side, lunges then squats--followed by one minute of jumping jacks to prepare her body for takeoff. Then her feet made greetings with the pavement.

Usually, Adrian would run with earphones tucked in and music blasting through its speakers--a fact that made her husband nervous and annoyed. But today, she'd wanted to hear what she had been missing: the music that played in front of her. 

The Near Eastside neighborhood of King-Lincoln was not what it was six years ago when her and Troy moved here. Gentrification had done a number on this once urban craddle of jazz in the 1960s and 70s turned media perpetuated ghetto of the late 80s. It was at the end of 2012 they moved in a nice, remodeled and spacious double that housed three bedrooms and two baths on 21st Ave. It was near downtown and near their jobs. The rent was more than reasonable and it was perfect. Previously, Adrian only took her morning runs on Broad Street, one of the main streets in Columbus that housed important buildings and ushered you into the downtown area. Perhaps the media perpetuated crime, dilapidated house and down on your luck people got psyched even her free-spirited mind, and so she did not "feel safe" jogging throughout the main neighborhood. But any preconceived notions about the people (who were in fact, her people) was smashed when she saw a group of black women running down Mt. Vernon Avenue one morning on her way back from an early morning coffee run for Troy. And so it was, the next day, Sunday that her ritual began.

Pat, pat, pat, pat.

That was the sound of her feet, a sound she was not familiar with. Adrian didn't know the rhythm of her feet well or the crunching of the gravel beneath her, nor the splash of water that she occasionally stepped in. She breathed in the soft and steady gusts of wind that made that cool autumn air all the more apparent. She even waved to new faces. Or perhaps they were old faces that she'd seen before. Now, her ears weren't shoved with her music of choice that could range from Pharrell to Mara Hruby to Kendrick Lamar to Jack Johnson. Adrian chuckled out loud.

There was music in front of me. 

Adrian's teeth would clinch tightly closed when any thoughts of the next three months entered her mind. She also pumped her legs harder. She used to find peace and excitement when thinking about her future--immediate and otherwise. Now she felt tension, anxiety and fear. The latter word was uncomfortable to her. When she felt fear, she wanted to crush it or run from it. It was what propelled her take up boxing as means of recreational workout when her brother told her only men do that for fun. Or, when her friends and family looked at her funny when she told them the neighborhood they'd settled on to live. What made her go for the second and last Master's degree. Sometimes it was the fear in another's eyes that propelled her to action. But now it was her turn to fear her future. And she could not run and do the opposite. She would have to face it. And she was not ready. She was afraid. 

Her watch informed her she had been running for 22 minutes and three miles. She saw him when she got to the beginning of her street where she had decided to walk the rest of the way home. Troy was fumbling around in the car while on his cellphone--her source of annoyance and one of his idiosyncrasies she accepted. He momentarily went into the house then was outside again, two of her bags in his hands. He opened the trunk then hung up the phone, putting it his jacket pocket and commenced to rummage around in the trunk. He looked up and saw her. He straightened his back. She saw his white teeth smiling at her before she completely saw his face. Instant chills ran through her whole body. She sped up her walk, excited for her immediate future that ended with her face buried in his chest. She closed her eyes and breathed in the familiar smell of vanilla and musk. 

The chemotherapy would be intense and often. 4xs a week, twice a day. Because of these Adrian would spend four straight days housed in the cancer treatment center--a resident in a hospital that donors wanted to feel more like a home. Today, she'd start on a Sunday. After that, it would be Tuesday through Friday. FMLA leave had not yet been approved through Troy's employer so he could not immediately be present for each bout of chemo. Surprisingly, Adrian's older sister Candace had offered to sit with her during the afternoon while her mother was fortunately available to her day or night.

Adrian had read online that meditating had proven to assist patients emotionally and mentally in "getting through" prolonged medical treatments.  And so she started practicing her most closely held scriptures and quotes with a soundtrack of quietness. But no amount of meditation could prepare her for the first IV injection that was both gently and aggressively forced into her forearm. It was not the initial sharp sting of the needle's end into her skin. It was everything that came and would continue to come after that: sterile food the nurses passed off as stellar, uncomfortable beds, the doctors orders that call upon her to sleep straight up or sleep on the right side, then the left side two hours later and again on the right side another four hours later, calling for assistance because she was too weak to lift herself to get out of bed. And the worst part was knowing this would be her future for the next 2 months, "or more." The latter Adrian overheard the oncologist say to Troy one evening although those words were not explicitly spoken to her.

That first night Adrian had the fish dream. It was the same fish dream she had the previous two nights. The fish dream was a colloquialism that proved to ring true time and time again. It meant that there was a current pregnancy yet to be revealed. Or, there was a coming pregnancy yet to be discovered. She had called her mother the morning after the first night she had the dream.

"No, not that I know of," Barbara stated after Adrian asked if there was a family pregnancy her mother forgot to mention to her.

"Are you sure?" This Adrian asked twice. She knew the fish dream just didn't come to pass.

"Yes, I'm sure," her mother answered.

And so it was the third night that she had dream of fish that woke her at 4 a.m. to dimmed hospital room lights and the television turned on but the volume on mute-just the wait she liked it. As she was becoming fully awake, her heart began to race rapidly as she tried to scan her mind to the last time her period had come. Her menstrual cycle had remained consistent, all while cancerous cysts danced along in her abdomen for who knows how long. She touched her forehead as she could feel sweat starting to seep through her skin. She looked over at the desk table that housed her purse that housed her phone. She couldn't immediately reach it.

"Ms. Duffey, are you ok?"

That was the nurse's station. 

Stupid heart monitor must have alerted them.

Adrian told some silly white lie about being excited about a television program she was watching. She continued to try to reach for her purse. It was far enough that she'd have to get out of the bed, but just a little. She rummaged around in her purse. It made her even more anxious once she realized she had not cleaned it out the way she planned before her trip to the center. The phone was lodged in a middle pocket below receipts and other miscellaneous papers that needed to be thrown away months ago.

Her thumb was playing ping pong with the phone's commands as she fumbled through apps upon apps to find the one that held her ovulation calendar. Adrian made a sound that sounded like a combination of a grunt and a sigh when she could not find it or remember under which header she kept it. Her eyes widened as she discovered new information that was literally right at her finger tips. She fumbled with the remote and pushed hard and long on the red button to signal that it was her who now needed assistance. 

"Nurse, I need a urine test right now please."

Love: In Your Words

"Love is what you make and with whom you make it." -- Love Jones.

"Don't settle for a relationship that won't let you be yourself." -- Oprah Winfrey.

"So it's not going to be easy. It's going to be really hard. We're gonna have to work at this everyday. But I want to do that because I want you. I want all of you, forever. You and me, everyday..." --The Notebook.

"Love is friendship caught on fire." - Laura Hendricks.

And so I ask you, what is love -- to you? Is it romantic moments with your husband? The freedom of being alone? Time spent with your friends? Watching your child sleep? 

One of the most crucial times in my life on my journey to love was when I began to spend time with myself. Not entertaining the next man because I wanted to be dined. Not finding jealousy in my friends successes of marriage and pregnancy (and not forcing myself as the third wheel). Not overly exerting my loneliness on my children as a means for them to bring me attention. No. Just getting to know myself, enjoying being alone without feeling lonely (there is a difference). Practicing the art of being patient. Shedding myself of self-doubt, insecurity, bad choices...all while in solitude. It was a season of contentment for me. My husband says as a result, when he met me, he sensed this contentment and fortitude I had of myself. 

So here's your chance...As St. Valentine's Day approaches, I'd like to hear from you all. What is love to you? When was your defining moment, moments or season in which you believe you found love? Or, if you're searching for this meaning, what does your search look and feel like? I want to hear from you!

I'll be featuring your responses on my blog the week of February 9th! Please send all comments and opinions to my email: tiffanywill57@gmail.com. Because love is not short and quick but complex and rich, there is no word maximum or minimum. Both men and women are encouraged to submit their thoughts!

I cannot wait to hear of your love journey!

Peace.

Old Music That's New To Me!

I am NOT the music buff I used to be! I was the one my friend's called to get the latest scoop on the newest, hottest, independent artist. And, well, that just doesn't happen anymore lol. So now I play catch up!

This past weekend I was looking at Pharrell's Instagram page. Pharrell to me is like a female version of Solange, one of my favorite artists for her eclectic style. (Or, perhaps Solange is the male version of Pharrell). They both push the line and create wonderful creations outside of music. Anywho, I happily came across this:

In turn, I discovered his latest single, affectionately called Happy, from the Despicable Me 2 soundtrack. A movie I have yet to see which is why I had not yet discovered the song nor the video. I've been replaying it over and over because it makes me, well, happy (pun intended)! Enjoy!

Short Story Sundays: Vol 3. Part 1.

Scattered Pictures

Adrian Duffey was sure she'd heard her doctor wrong. She immediately started to perspire and in turn immediately began to feel embarrassed and self-conscious that she had done so. She'd heard her husband say something that sounded like muffled noise coming out of a bull horn. She looked at him when he talked but saw an outline of his face. She looked again at the doctor whose faced also looked foreign and blurry. She blinked furiously then closed her eyes, squeezed them shut and opened them again. That was better. She looked around again. Her husband was still there but Dr. Gresham was no longer in sight. She took this time to invoice the items in his office. 

This was a different doctors visit. Gone were the sterile rooms of annual exams with boxes of gauze on top of boxes of plastic gloves on top of boxes of over-sized Q-tips. There were no educational posters of the female reproductive parts, no gallons of hand-sanitizers or bright orange warning labels above trash receptacles. Instead there was a warm inviting office with a couch and two comfortable desk chairs--the latter where Adrian and her husband, Troy were now seated. The office walls were painted a warm blue--not too dark or gray--but just enough white in its tint to remain calm and warm. Accents of black, white and greens could also be found in the room. Degrees upon degrees were hung on the wall. But it was the picture of Dr. Gresham, his wife and their four children that Adrian solely focused her eyes on. She squinted and cursed herself for not bringing her glasses. She had a heavy astigmatism in her left eye that required her to wear her glasses daily. However, if she'd admitted it, she was too vain to wear them consistently. She fanned herself, still hot and perspiring. She felt her husband's hands on her shoulders, shaking her to present time.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," she said, breathless. 

"Are you okay?" Troy asked.

"Um, I don't know," Adrian answered.

Dr. Gresham walked back in the office at that moment. He had a glass of water in his hands and extended that hand out to Adrian. Silence hovered and Adrian looked at Dr. Gresham, then at the water, then back at him.

"Is that for me?" she asked.

"Yes, you asked for water," Dr. Gresham answered.

She swallowed, further embarrassed. She shook her head as if to confirm that she now remembered. But she didn't. She still took a long swig or two from the glass. She also noticed there were two ice cubes in the glass, exactly as she prefers her water.

I wonder if I told him that too.

Dr. Patrick Gresham along with his wife Janese were Adrian's gynecologists since she was 19 - the age in which she became sexual active. They had seen her birth control options, HIV testing and even a hiatus of three years when she became abstinent before marrying her husband. Two years ago she was back in her office asking again about best methods for birth control once she and her new husband had decided to postpone having children until they were married a few years. 

Dr. Janese followed behind her husband not too far afterwards. She had a few folders in her hands--one of which had Adrian's name on it. Dr. Janese hugged her and whispered in her ear: We'll get through this together. Adrian was still not sure she'd her Dr. Patrick the first time, still oblivious to this news. But Janese's pseudo-condolence that was offered to her almost confirmed what she thought she heard him say. 

Janese started to talk first this time. Adrian only heard buzz words to which she could not speak out loud. 

'What did you just say?" Adrian interrupted her mid-sentence.

"Me?" Dr. Janese said.

"No, no. Dr. Patrick what did you say? Before you stepped out to get my water. What did you just say?" Adrian's voice was a loud crescendo by the time she ended her statement. 

"Adrian you didn't hear Dr. Patrick at all?" That was Troy. Adrian sighed in irritation.

"I know what I think he said Troy. I just want to be sure," she was loud now. 

"Again, doctor. What did you say!?"

Dr. Patrick was visibly shaken and it was him that swallowed this time. He was certain he would only have to repeat this news to Adrian just once. He had practiced it many times in his mind--even role-played with Janese because he knew it would be hard. But only once did he want to have to say it aloud. Speaking things into the air gave things life. Although he was Adrian's doctor, he was also her friend. And wanted this news to die from the first time her lab results came in. In fact, he sent them back three times. The fourth time Janese insisted he not send them back again. It was Janese who'd called them for an office appointment after hours. But Patrick wanted to be the one who spoke the news to her.

"It's ovarian cancer Adrian. The cramping  and vomiting you thought were morning sickness it is actually being caused by cancer. You have a few--well--four small tumors protruding your ability to be fertile."

Dr. Patrick leaned back in his seat, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Adrian's face was sterile, a look of shock he was sure. He looked at Troy who was looking at Adrian. Janese was also looking at Adrian. Patrick marinated in the silence, grateful for a break in busy air. Adrian sipped more water, first slowly then taking another long drink. She shook her head, slowly.

"That's what I thought you said doctor." 

Adrian put her hand over her mouth, still shaking her head. She touched her fingers to her lips, rubbing her top lip back and forth, back and forth, still shaking her head. 

"Yea, that's what I thought you said," she repeated. 

There was a break in her voice and Adrian felt like she might cry. 

Nope, not today.

Adrian got up and walked out and around the corner of the office. The first bathroom she came to she went in. She looked herself in the mirror. She laughed out loud at her appearance. It was the same as it was before she came in this afternoon. And the same as it was this morning and the evening before and the days and years before that. She did an inventory of herself. Her wide and bright eyes, light brown, from her mother's side. She smiled and zeroed in on her small dimple and the small cluster of freckles that collected below her eyes. She touched her neck then her right arm. Then she touched her belly, above her abdomen. Funny, she thought she'd be rubbing her belly for the polar opposite reason as she was now. Adrian was too young for such a diagnosis. Fit and 32 years old, she had been robbed, she'd thought. Robbed of her future--immediate and otherwise. No smoking, a slim list of sexual partners, occasional alcohol and with the exception of her and her husband, had always, always used protection. Then the anger rose in her chest and she felt flustered again. She felt her brow sweating and Adrian thought to herself how sweating was probably going to be a mainstay for her for--awhile.

Without thought, her fist met aggressively with the glass that used to be the mirror. Now, she looked different. The glass made her face torn and her vision skewed. 

Now, I looked like cancer. 

Giving Our Children Room

Leave it up to my daughter to teach me a hard lesson, softly.

Thursday evening I informed my daughter that tomorrow was "wash day," the day I wash, condition and style her hair. She gave no objections and replied with a simple "ok, mom." I asked her if she knew how she wanted her hair styled. She began this elaborate explanation that included bangs, twists into a puff, braids and, "oh yea, beads at the end." I asked her a series of question to attempt to decipher what all of the above actually meant. She continued to insist on "beads, mom, beads." I cringed at her repeated requests. 

"How about we do something else?"

"Awwwwww," Trinity said in that infamous but not so pleasant objecting whine that I'm certain all kids are privy to. "You always ask me what I want but you do something different."

She had me. Trinity had pulled my card, waved it in front of my face and then replayed the tape to prove it. She was right. I did that! I asked her every two weeks how she wanted her hair styled but always ended up styling it to my liking, tolerance and skill level. This immediately took me back to my childhood in conversations with my father and us kids. It went EXACTLY like this.

My Dad: Hey what do you guys want for dinner tonight?
Me: Um, I want Wendy's.
Brother: I don't like Wendy's. I want McDonald's.
My Dad: I'm not going to Wendy's or McDonald's. I'm getting a pizza. You'll just eat that!

Um, Dad...why not just ask what kind of pizza we wanted. He already knew going into the conversation what he wanted to eat...why lead us on? lol.

I realized I was also leading Trinity on. I was asking her opinion about her hair, then doing what I wanted with it. Yikes! Now, to some people, even to some mothers, this may not be a big deal. And perhaps an isolated incident may not be. But Trinity let me know I was clearly starting a pattern she did not appreciate. 

My daughter and I are opposites in many ways. She asks for beads probably once a month but hasn't worn them in over a year. I realized I was perpetuating my style on her. I didn't like braids as a girl so I didn't want her to wear them. When she chooses her clothing, I cringe and insists that it "doesn't match" and asks her to go find something else. Again, I am perpetuating my style on her. 

I am a strong proponent that as parents, we should guide our children in living up to their truest potential. I am a firm believer that my daughter is really not my own, she's a child of God. I am to be a steward over God's creation, a teacher who leads her in actions, efforts and deeds--not in misleading questions. I should give her room to grow, choose, succeed, fail and ultimately, bloom. There are very few indulgences 5 year olds receive in this stage in their life--why not hair and clothes? Is she really hurting anyone if her striped leggings don't match her shirt? Nope, nothing but my ego. And the ego must die in order for one to live. 

So beads it was for her! And she was so happy--especially when I commented to people that she chose the hairstyle. It gave her confidence and made her feel good about her choice. And no more putting my hears on her. I'll give her room to grow. 

Short Story Sundays: Vol 2. Part 3.

It's a new year and Short Story Sundays is back! 

Sometimes you have to carry things into a new year in order for them remain successful...I've received many requests urging me to address Symone's story in one final installment. Symone is a young woman recently dismissed from college due to lack of academic success. Raised solely by her father and brother due to her mother's death when she was just an infant, she comes home to Atlanta to the surprise news that her father is now remarrying to a stranger.

Symone's story is close to my heart and I am so grateful you all connected with it so well!

Catch up on part 1 and part 2 now.

***********************************************************************

It was dark albeit the overhead light in the kitchen from above the sink. Symone lit a candle and placed her head face down on the kitchen's island. She had made solace with this place before sunrise many times in the last six weeks. The scent of lavender and vanilla was loud over the silence. Head still on the counter and eyes closed, she massage her temples, slowly and delicately. Her headaches were becoming a mainstay so much so they now felt tender to the touch. It seemed the tips of her fingers to her skin ignited the already wretched pain that stayed with her all day and got worse at night. Often times, cold sweats would wake her up out of her sleep or she'd be sleep deprived after meeting insomnia the night before. 

But this morning it was a nightmare that aroused her out of her sleep cycle. And it was not just any morning. It was the morning her father would become a husband again. The morning he would receive a wife, the morning he would receive another daughter; the morning life did a permanent somersault across her heart. 

She'd thrown up after waking up from the nightmare. She was a ball of too many emotions to attempt another chance at pseudo-rest. She was hoping the lavender and vanilla scented candle would relax her tense shoulder or loosen her clenched jaws or stop her leg from twitching. And for this brief moment in time, it had done all of those things. Symone relished in that moment. The last six weeks had been a blur. Mr. Curtis had politely yet sternly let Symone that with or without her consent (that he didn't really need), he was moving forward with his plans to marry Jessica Chambers. Dinner at Symone's house had commenced every Sunday for the last six Sundays to attempt at some type of peace for Symone's sake. Yet Symone still felt like an outsider. Her brothers, father, Jessica and Ashley Chambers all had a familiarity with one another prior to her coming home from college. Their cohesiveness seemed awkward, unpleasant and staged when Symone was around. Symone asked mountains of questions to catch up on the last year: holidays spent together, activities, events, books read and outings that she had all missed with her family. She and Jessica had a fleeting conversation about Jessica's baking skills her brother Alex had flaunted about. Feeling vulnerable, Symone wanted to know more.

"Can you make strawberry shortcake?" Symone asked.

"Yes, I can! It's one of my favorites," Jessica replied, smiling.

"Mine too," Symone smiled back. "But I mean, from scratch. No fake strawberries, artificial flavors or sponge like shortcake. The real stuff."

"Oh yea, nothing but homemade," Jessica said, giggling but shaking her head in assurance.

The next Sunday, Jessica was happy to announce she'd baked a special dessert for Symone and that she'd get the first taste. 

Symone opened up the cake's lid and burst out laughing.

"What's this?" Symone asked.

"Banana pudding. Your favorite right?" Jessica said, that same smile from a week ago plastered to her face like a Barbie doll's. Funny, Symone thought--it looked real last week.

"Wrong," Symone said. She was disgusted. 

I hardly utter many words to this woman. And the ones I do, she doesn't even remember. 
She's not trying to get to know me, she's trying to appease me. 

Apologies and I'm sorry's were tossed around to which Symone accepted. But not before small lectures on the side from her brothers and father who thought she was unreasonable, rude, ungrateful and any other synonym that was the opposite of hurt. Other conversations between Jessica and Symone were few and futile with Symone only answering directly to what was asked of her even if Jessica attempted to prompt her for more. 

A soft but sure breeze prompted Symone out of her reflections. Her fathers aging but still handsome face was looking back at her. He had taken a seat on the opposite side of the island, his head in his hands to meet her face. Symone giggled at this gesture. He used to do this with her when she was a kid. He laughed too. The sun was rising, allowing just enough light to enter the room. 

"Please forgive me Symone," her father abruptly stated.

She flinched then looked down at the nervousness that beset her at his words. She hoped he hadn't noticed. Silence had swam its way into the room again and engulfed it.

"Will you forgive me?"

Symone had not considered this. So, while perhaps odd, she pondered his question. She had been too busy being angry she had not considered forgiving. She did not say anything but looked directly in her father's eyes. She realized she did not recognize his gaze. She had not been in this place with him before. Never distant. She squinted to try to focus in on his emotion behind his eyes. Her eyes relaxed, then squinted, then relaxed again. She looked down to feel her leg twitching nervously. She grabbed aggressively to get it to stop.

"You know Sy, you're mother would have done anything in her power to stay with you," he said.

Now Symone's eyes were glued back to his. Her father went on to talk about how her mother nicknamed her Sy in the womb. How she had cried because she could no longer breastfeed after being diagnosed with cancer just 8 months after her birth. And lastly, how Symone and her brothers had been present that afternoon when her mother went peacefully. Symone had not heard the latter story before. Perhaps it was a repressed memory, too painfully tender to produce from her mind that was too full of empty memories eradicated by a mind to young to birth to life. 

"I'm so sorry Symone."
They were in full embrace now. No island between them, lavender and vanilla still soothing them together, melting their arms tightly around the waists.  

"I took for granted the fact that you wanted her only to realize that her love is what you needed," he stopped, swallowed and continued. "Need."

Those were the words of empathy and sympathy that were wrapped in her headache's healing. Acknowledgement of the deception someone had told her masculine family members years ago that at some point, the little girl no longer needs her mother. But what of the motherless daughter? What of the little girl who never knew her mother's touch, scent or voice, yet alone her love? Who grows up for her?

Later Symone would put on the soft pink dress she earlier had denounced but now felt honored to wear. Her stomach would still toss, flip and flop and she might even throw up again out of anxiousness, nervousness or even perhaps out of joy. She'd be polite to Jessica and even inviting to Ashley because after all, she'd always wanted a younger sister. And as she walked down the aisle--alone and without an escort--she'd stop at the foot of the altar of the sanctuary and meet her father's gaze once again. Her eyes would well up, but she was unafraid of anyone seeing it this time. She'd smile and he'd smile back. Symone would make her way to her spot with the other members of the bridal party, look back at her father and mouth the words:

I. Forgive. You.

Re-Blog: 5 Things You Can Do NOW!

Lately people have asked me, "So what did you do to lose weight?" When I comment about lifestyle changes specific to food that my family has recently made, it's always met with curiosity. One of the first blog's I came across that helped me feel more confident about changing my eating habits is 100 Days of Real Food. Lisa Leake, takes readers on her journey of what it's like to change your eating habits and get rid of processed food. What sealed it for me is that she is also a working mom of 2 and wife. She understands the working mommy/wife struggle! 

See Lisa's tips below. These are the same things my husband and I have implemented in our household.

5 Easy “Real Food” Changes for The New Year

1. Read ingredient labels.Everyone could easily start doing this today…or right now in fact (in your own pantry!). Before you eat or buy any packaged food read the list of ingredients on the back. You don’t even have to change what you are buying or eating quite yet, but just being aware of how processed your food selections are can be the first step in the right direction!
   Some things to think about: Can you pronounce all the ingredients? How many are on the list? Are they all items you would cook with in your own kitchen? Which ingredients are refined or some sort of sweetener (like sugar, high fructose corn syrup, cane juice, brown rice syrup, aspartame, etc.)?
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2. Start buying 100% whole-grain products.Bread products tend to take up a big portion of the Standard American Diet so switching to 100% whole grain could potentially go a long way. Many common grocery products are made with refined grains – things like sandwich bread, pasta, crackers, rice, breadcrumbs, hamburger buns, croutons, etc. So there’s lots of room for improvement here! And being a former “white bread girl” myself I can tell you I used to avoid whole-wheat bread because I despised the taste. I now realize that’s because I was trying grocery store, factory-made whole-wheat bread that was made with a ton of additives and preservatives. We now buy 5 ingredient bread from a local bakery (or make our own) and it thankfully tastes MUCH better!
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3. Switch to organic dairy.I’ll never forget something I once heard Dr. Oz say. When it comes to buying dairy products you just cannot peel or wash off your milk like you can your produce…so it’s best to go organic. Just one of many great reasons to avoid conventional dairy products from animals that have been treated with antibiotics and hormones (not to mention their diet and living conditions – you are what you eat eats, too)!
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4. Eat more produce (preferably organic).If you aren’t eating a lot of fresh produce today…what’s the reason? Is it because you don’t like veggies, you think they’re too much work to prepare, or because you’d just rather have deep-fried potato chips instead?  If you haven’t been a big fan of vegetables in the past I encourage you to try fresh/local veggies, some new recipes for your vegetables, and even some new vegetables all together. Fruits and vegetables are (obviously) whole foods and putting more of that goodness on your plate will automatically displace some of the processed stuff!
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5. Offer your kids more real food.The average 5-year-old can’t drive himself to McDonald’s or Chick-fil-A and pay for a meal. So let’s face it, in most cases it’s almost completely up to the parent to offer their young children the right choices. Yes, my daughters both like real food, but if I handed them a bag of Cheetos for a snack they would totally chow down (they are kids after all!). So, as a result, I don’t hand them a bag of Cheetos and instead offer them a banana with peanut butter or a box of raisins or some whole-grain pretzels or an organic cheese stick for a snack (Note: None of these real food snacks require much more work than opening a bag of Cheetos). These are all whole foods I know my kids will eat so that’s what I give them when they are hungry. I strongly encourage everyone to do their part by offering their own children more real food this year. You never know…their response might pleasantly surprise you! 

An additional tip I'd like to offer is to explain to your children why you're doing what you're doing. I frequented fast foods at least 2-4 x's a week. Once I explained to my daughter the process of the "food" at fast food places like Wendy's and McDonald's, her face started to cringe. I talked to all of the kids about how specific foods have certain vitamins and nutrients that give them what they need. I explained to them why we no longer purchase cereals like Fruit Loops (artificial coloring), why I no longer purchase bagged microwave popcorn (possible GMOs, butane and artificial buttering) and why "yes, we're eating fruit again."  It helps them to be more knowledgeable. In turn they feel more empowered to make their own informed food choices independent of parents. 

Read more about Lisa's journey on her blog. 

Happy Eating!

Patterned Living: New Year, Old Habits

A little over a year ago, on December 24, 2012, I disclosed to my parents I had been molested when I was a young girl. 20 years I had lived a life of suppression. There were times my mother asked me if I had been molested to which I'd quickly refute and dismiss a question as ridiculous and far-fetched. One of my resolutions of 2012 was to uncover this truth to my family. It had already surfaced during a session in pre-marital counseling with my now husband. After a close friend disclosed to me her daughter had recently went through a similar situation, I knew my moment of awakening was drawing near. I found courage in my friends daughter who was just 5 but who was bold enough to speak up. The morning of Christmas Eve, I promised myself I I wouldn't carry this burden another day. I talked myself out of it many times that day. Clammy hands and a racing heartbeat, I stood up for that little girl who was compromised when she was 9.

The next day, I felt lighter--literally. In times of stress I used to get a tight knot in my shoulder. "You carry tension in your shoulders," the masseuse would say to me after undergoing a massage that left my body painfully sore days after. I have not had that shoulder pain since that day. I no longer felt heavy. Pain and guilt had left my body and I was experiencing what it was like to breathe for the first time. I will never forget what a friend told me very shortly after that day. "It's like, you never know how bound you were until you get loose!" Even my husband commented on how my overall demeanor and countenance had changed overnight. The little girl was rejoicing. I was feeling free.

Because of that moment, I was confident 2013 would be different for me. And in many ways it was. I got married to the most amazing man, worked towards blending a family, lost a job, became a stay at home mom, then got a new job. But in times of conflict I cringed, shuttered and shut down. Moments between my husband and I that required clear communication--I was absent for. Sharing my thoughts, speaking up was foreign to me. I'd practiced the art of suppression for 20 years--how could I reverse such a vice immediately? I realized I was still compromising myself through my molestation. Now the adult me was being mismanaged. I was playing small. Not on purpose but out of habit. 

It's important to understand that when we get to the root of the problem, there can be residual elements left behind that can drag you back. There was a reason I did not speak up all those years. I did not feel safe. I was confused about what happened to me. I blamed myself--thinking I had done something deserving of such hurt. I blamed my parents who did not teach me how to respond when someone compromised my body. All of those elements continued to trigger something subconsciously when faced with a conversation, conflict or insecurity that required me to exert my voice. 

In this new year, I challenge everyone to go deeper. If you make resolutions, don't just resolve to work out; resolve to be consistent and committed. Don't resolve to get into less arguments; resolve to handle your thoughts, words and emotions better. Don't just resolve to lose weight; resolve to make better choices about food and exercise. Change takes time. Don't put too much pressure on yourself. Don't get to the heart of the problem, get to the root. Once you know the root cause, clean off the dirt.

As for me and my new found voice, I'm getting better. Fortunately, I married a man who is bold and confident and I have a good role-model in that respect. However, he does not require the same things for me that he does for himself. He gives me space and room to grow, while being my soft place and comfort zone--two things the girl and woman need. My daughter's middle name is Monet (MO-NAY), a French name meaning "to be heard." This was absolutely intentional. I also understand it is not enough to give her a name with a certain meaning. I have to model the behaviors I desire for her. The best way to teach her is to show her. Yep, show and prove. Old habits die hard. But I have the power to create a new pattern.

Happy New Year everyone! What new patterns do you hope to start in 2014?