30 Weeks: Urine Tests and Bed Rest

In my mind, 30 weeks gestation was a milestone. Maybe it was because it was an even number to get to 40 weeks. I wanted bags packed and ready for the hospital by the end of January, just in case it was necessary. But procrastination, got the best of me and none of that was in place when I had my prenatal visit last Thursday, at 29 weeks and 6 days.

I knew going in my body didn't feel right. The swelling in my ankles was lingering longer than before. Sometimes, even after a full night's sleep, they would still be pretty swollen. There was also continued puffiness in my hands, mild headaches and I was starting to see spots too often. The nurse told me my blood pressure was 142/96. Further, when my doctor came to see me, there was 1000mg of protein in my urine. A normal protein reading is around 300mg. Off to the hospital I went for additional testing to rule out preeclampsia. 

I experienced preeclampsia with Trinity, now almost 8. But it was much different and much later in the pregnancy. During that time, I was almost 37 weeks pregnant and my blood pressure shot up quickly during one of my last prenatal visits. After being induced, my cervix did not dilate and my blood pressure did not go down. An emergency C-section was the result. 

The first night was repeat labs with additional blood work to check my blood platelet levels. The results of my urine tests were worse than earlier, at 2800mg. My blood pressure was also continuing to fluctuate so I was kept overnight. 

That evening, beginning at 8:30pm I was going to get real acquainted with my urine. I underwent what is called a 24 hour urine test. I peed into a small white "hat" that was secured by the toilet. I then poured that specimen into a large red jug that was sitting on ice. From 8:30pm Thursday until 8:30pm Friday, I repeated this each time I used the bathroom. 

Around 10:30pm Friday, the nurse informed me, my results were even higher: 4000mg. I almost certainly thought they would keep me on bed rest in the hospital after I heard that. One of the doctor's on-call came to my room Saturday morning and informed me they were releasing me. Because my blood work was normal and my blood pressure readings were not extreme, the doctors were okay with following up with weekly monitoring, with light bed rest. 

Each week of pregnancy is a milestone for the baby a woman nurses in her uterus. It is especially delicate when there are multiples. The biggest concern at this point is keeping the boys safe and stable until their bodies are ready. It's now up to my body to manage all of this properly. 

Truthfully, each doctor's visit and each ultrasound brings me a rush of anxiety. Perhaps it is because of a prior miscarriage coupled with the delicacy and surprise of carrying twins, I am constantly feeling for both of their movements and find myself getting more ready to see their faces and watching them taking their first breath.

So, light bed rest it is. Whatever allows my body to manage properly in order to keep the boys safe--I'm for it. 

The journey has just begun.

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

The Queen Comes Home

Sometimes the pressures of adulthood, student loans and other bills get the best of our dreams. Life has a tendency of swallowing us whole and sometimes we are minimized to the office job that bores us and never stretches us to our potential. Sure, there's honor and dignity with just having a "job," one that pays your bills and provides for your family's present and future. But what about the road less traveled? What comes of that person who knew in their heart and mind what they wanted to do as a child and pursued it? Unabashedly and unashamedly. Enter Tryphena Wade.

Tryphena is currently playing the regal role of Queen Sarabi in the Broadway production of Disney's The Lion King. The stage, the theatre, singing and dancing was that desire for her as a child.

"As a kid I would watch Leontyne Price on PBS, or Cats or whatever," she said. "And I would say, 'I wanna do that."

Tryphena great up in a conservative home, and she often questioned her love for arts.

"Is that a sin?!" We laughed.

She says that no one talked about being an actor or a dancer as a serious profession. Further there weren't many creative outlets to tap into in the Columbus market. Her family moved to Pickerington early in her college career and her dream started to solidify. Pickerington boasted a healthy and active performing arts curriculum, complete with solid classes from teachers and the ability to audition and perform quality plays and musicals. This support gave her the confidence to know she could pursue theatre as a career.

Howard University was her college of choice. One, because it was out of Ohio. Two, because of the two notable female siblings who had walked the halls and continued a lifelong career in entertainment: Debbie Allen and Phylicia Rashad. While studying her first love at Howard, she found a new love, travel. In her sophomore year, an opportunity presented itself for Tryphena to travel to Ghana. The assignment? To study the music of Africa, it's history and meaning of yesterday, juxtaposed against its acculturation of today. Tryphena swooned over people, the music, the city and the freedom of being so far from home and still seeing new faces of beauty. The idea of traveling was always in her mind. But the reality of its vastness was becoming more real.

Tryphena finished up at Howard and immediately began going from one audition to another, mainly from D.C. to New York. Her trips to the Empire State became so frequent that the obvious choice was to relocate there. The harshness and realness of the New York grind was, she says, "different."

"I tell people all the time that if you move to New York, you have to know exactly why you're there."

Tryphena saw many people come and go from New York, opting out from their dreams, deferring them until "later," or even getting caught in something other than what their purpose was. Tryphena stayed the course. She performed in some off-Broadway shows, regional and international plays. About five years ago, she was performing on a cruise ship. She was traveling the world while getting paid and performing, what more could a girl ask for? (Her favorite destinations include Italy and Iceland). A fellow performer on the ship had a connection to The Lion Kings casting director for the tour in Germany. He knew Tryphena had an interest in being in the show and forwarded her credentials. To her surprise, they responded and she was on her way to Germany for an audition -- in German. She didn't get a part and came back to New York, still hopeful.

Shortly thereafter she auditioned again for a role as the replacement for the female hyena. Although she wasn't excited about the part itself, she was called back several times. After one of the call backs, she was asked to read for the role of Sarabi. A second call back solidified their interest and she was offered the part when it was touring in Las Vegas, while the primary actor was on medical leave. A week later, she received a call saying they decided to give the role to someone else. Still, a month or so later, they offered her the permanent role of Sarabi. The match is now four years in the making.

Traveling and performing is a life she loved, though she knows full well the drawbacks. She's  comfortable and confident in her choices. She started a blog documenting her travels and experiences through words and pictures so that other people can channel that inspiration for themselves.

Another fact she is comfortable with is her single hood, something that has never been to her an affliction you can catch, then get rid of, stigmatized by the media, and just pressures of societal norms. A conversation with a gentleman while she was living in New York turned to her travels, her dreams, her goals and aspirations that didn't fit the status quo, er uh -- what he deemed as the status quo.

"He said to me, 'don't you think if you settled down and stayed in one place, you wouldn't be single?" Tryphena still laughs out loud at this moment. She went on to tell him that if he wanted a wife or girlfriend who's just sitting at home waiting for you all day, that was fine.

"But, that's not what I like to do," she replied.

She then simply added:

"We don't sit on couches!"

Although at the time, the "we" was implicit of the single woman, unafraid of her single-dom, Tryphena has learned that the "we" is all encompassing -- as long as you are living without boxes. The concept has expanded to more than a saying or hash tag to be repeated or re tweeted. It is now a brand. Or perhaps more importantly, a business. Shirts that don the saying are now available online for purchase for anyone in line with the notion that fear is just a tiny invisible and irrelevant something that holds us back from everything. In fact, another shirt available says: Fear Is Stupid. Other shirts include motivational mantras like, "Live. Love. Go. Be. Do."

The movement is picking up steam, something Tryphena never expected but openly accepts as God's way to allow her to give back what God gave her: courage.

It's the same courage and drive for more that compels Tryphena to keep moving. After our lunch date at Black Creek Bistro she was headed to Pickerington to speak to some youth in her former community. And after that more press and events to commune with those along the streets that aided in her upbringing.

Returning to your hometown after years away on the road, abroad, in hotels or in and out of suitcases can sometimes make you feel disconnected from the city you formerly knew. She admits, there are some sites and streets in Columbus that look differently. But then she sees that familiar corner or other landmark and she knows exactly where she is. And of course, her mother's lasagna and pound cake make the trip all the more familiar! But sometimes while relishing in the memories of the past, you also remember why you left. Not to dismiss what was, but to embrace what can be. To stretch yourself and breath in the world in front of us. To take the road less traveled and to literally, live your dreams.

Queen Sarabi, we salute you!

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

Columbus, you still have time to check out Tryphena as she plays Queen Sarabi and the rest of the amazing cast of Broadway's, The Lion King through November 9. Get your tickets here! Get information on other cities along the tour here.

Please also visit wedontsitoncouches.com and join the movement!

Follow Tryphena on social media: Twitter: @IamSimbasMom; Instagram @youcancallmequeen

365 Days of Marriage!

7 days ago, Keith and I celebrated are 1st anniversary of marriage. The days leading up to our day, I didn't find myself relishing in the memories of that day. In fact, some of the details I had forgotten. For example, my co-workers were giggling and shocked to know I could not immediately recall the song we danced to on our "first dance." I now recall of course that it was a Boyz II Men song, For The Rest of My Life. 

I thought I would be struck with grand revelations about what the past year taught me. I found it odd that I hadn't immediately came up with a list of witty anecdotes to write down to share with others. (Sidebar: if you're looking for a list, check out a previous post I wrote). Nope, none of that happened. Then I panicked. Did that mean I hadn't learned a thing in the last year? Absolutely not. 

It wasn't until the day of our anniversary, May 17, that I began to reflect and really breathe in that moment and the 364 days following it. Perhaps it was the fact that our day trip to Cincinnati turned out to be a bust. Everything we planned to do was a wash. The Jazz/Wine/Art Festival turned out to be the size of our duplex with the rain drowning out the jazz acts and ONE wine vendor to count (yes, 1!). We missed the Riverboat cruise and the carriage ride was a charge of what might as well have been a million dollars for 15 minutes. Through all of that, neither of us was annoyed or irritated. For trips, I normally like to plan and prepare and find myself impatient when the plan isn't followed. But there were no complaints from me and even the rain and clouds at the beginning of the trip didn't seem like such a downer.


Us by the Ohio River.

We ended up spending hours in IKEA, taking pictures, getting ideas and making plans. Plans for our new home that we'll hopefully move into within 60 days (hopefully, sooner!). We followed that up by a drive to Pappadeux. To our heart's delight, the 65 minute wait was broken up by a live jazz band that was awesome. The food and drinks were great and we shared desert that was almost as sweet as our wedding cake! 


Before the hour+ wait! lol.


Jazz band at Pappadeaux doing their thing!


Sweet Potato Pecan Pie! nom nom nom!

The day was spectacular because of who I was with, not necessarily what I did. We could drive Cincinnati any day of the week. But on that day I was with my husband--the man I'd joined my life with in love and commitment in front of 150 of the greatest people I know. Reflecting on that day away from the business of life was peaceful. We laughed at our plans going awry; when something else didn't pan out, we just laughed harder. We took loads of selfies like teenagers, kissed in public like lovers and just enjoyed the nostalgia of doing it all over again. And for the record, yes, I would do it all over again :-)

I often hear people say, "marriage changes people." I may have actually agreed with this during my singledom. But, now I'd have to disagree. Marriage doesn't change the root of a person. Their activities, schedules and priorities may change. Time spent with the girls may lessen, sure. B-ball sessions with the fellas may shrink I'm sure. But the root of who they are does not. If anything marriage puts a microscope to that person...flaws and all. I remember how terrified I was for Keith to find out how messy I was (slightly messy). I mean, I was terrified. I had this idea in my mind about the idea in his mind of how neat and clean a wife should be. And I knew for sure that I would not live up to his standard. So one night I simply told him. And he laughed out loud before asking why I told him that. After explaining my made up theory, he shrugged it off. Imagine my relief! He loved me and my flaw! Another confirmation I needed to marry him!

Lastly, in love I've found freedom. I've learned it is perfectly ok to be myself. It is ok to prefer flats to heels, sweats to slacks, a bare face than a made up face. It is ok with him because it is ok with me. Him allowing me to have autonomy on my expression of myself makes me confident in life. That's a freedom I didn't know I needed! 

Others may say that you can only find freedom in love through God. There was also a time that I wholeheartedly agreed with this statement. And to some extent I still believe this to be true--just not an absolute truth. See, I believe God shows himself through people. Marriage is a union designed by God so there's no surprise that the spirit of freedom (among other faces of God) would be etched in it! It is a freedom that praises me while also challenging me. A freedom that builds me up and never tears me down. To all you singles wanting to be married, wait for this. Hold out for it. Be realistic, but never compromise. It's there! And it is real and tangible! 

Marriage is still God's perfect gift of grace to me. Happy Anniversary my love! 

The Necessity of Solitude

Last Thursday, after picking up my daughter, I took her to spend some long-awaited time with my mom--just the two of them. My mom would drop Trinity off later that evening. My husband was at work. That arrangement meant that I would have the pleasure of spending time alone.

I was able to cook dinner, wash two loads of clothes, pray for an extended amount of time and talk to my friend on the phone for more than an hour. All without the tapping on the thigh, high pitched screams, the sudden sound of something dropping and/or breaking, call waiting from husband or an incessantly repeated question from the kids which I previously answered the first five times. 

My husband often declares, "I need my alone time," to which I almost always take offense. Such a comment is normally followed by one or both of the following questions:

"Are we not good enough?"
"Why do you want to spend time away from us?"

But, now, I get it. Those two or so hours was refreshing--rejuvenating. No interruptions. Time by myself to do me. To do whatever I wanted to do on my own time--how fast or slow I chose to do it. Growing up, I was very much an introvert. Perhaps, I learned to keep to myself because I was the only girl growing up between three boys. I found solace in books and writing; places where I could delve into the past through history; or imagination through fiction...I would get lost for hours. Now, it is hard for me to finish a book--a fact that I am sad to admit. I am drained from work, commuting 25+ minutes, mother and wife "duties," that I am not quite sure anymore what I like to do in my spare time...I DON'T GET ANY! 

Those few hours taught me the necessity of solitude. It is rejuvenating, cleansing and pertinent. As a new wife, I often reach for this imaginative goal of perfection placed in my mind by some fake illusion that is not even relevant to my life. Chasing someone else's standard only to realize it is all futile energy. Solitude is not shutting people out. It is letting yourself in. The nurturing nature of a mother is selflessness. This coupled with the emotional makeup of women and the companionship of being a wife adds up to sometimes no room for yourself. But I learned that life should not be all about pouring out. It is also about taking in. No matter how long of a relationship you have been in, you need your solitude. Request it, carve out time for it. Demand it if you have to! 

Once my daughter came home that evening, I was prepared mentally for her. I wasn't super anxious that she had gotten home later than intended or that she hadn't eaten. I wasn't yelling or impatient at her tiredness masked by her grouchiness. I was consoling and understanding. Had I not had that time to myself, I'm sure the opposite would have occurred. Remember, to be alone is not to be lonely. I'm no longer afraid of my alone time...or my husband's :-)

Brown Skin Crowned Most Beautiful!

Well, People Magazine confirmed what I (and hopefully you too) already knew. Generally speaking, People proclaimed that brown skinned women are just as beautiful--if not more--than their non-melanin counterparts. And this was done all by way of the super talented actress who has mesmerized us all (don't front), Lupita Nyong'o. 

Lupita's picture is front row and center of this cover to be seen by millions of eyes around the world. What makes this even more special is to think of her words just months earlier as she accepted the Best Breakthrough Performance Award for her role as Patsy in 12 Years A Slave at the Black Women in Hollywood Luncheon:

"I remember a time when I too felt unbeautiful. I put on the TV and only saw pale skin. I got teased and taunted about my night-shaded skin....I hope that my presence on your screens and in the magazines may lead you, young girl, on a similar journey. That you will feel the validation of your external beauty but also get to the deeper business of being beautiful inside. There is no shade in that beauty."

While some celebrity flee from the limelight and shrink at the label of "role model," Lupita is soaking it up, breathing it in and using it as a tool to inspire young girls to aspire. Her beauty from within illuminates the beauty that is first noticed from without. I didn't need People's nod to notice...but it's good to know they do.

Congrats to Lupita!!! May all women of all shades continue to be marked BEAUTIFUL! 

Read more about Lupita's blooming career, here. 

My Problem With The #BanBossy Campaign

In case you haven’t heard, there is a campaign currently catching fire that is encouraging women and girls--people everywhere basically—to strike the word bossy from their language. Facebook COO Sheryl Sandberg's non-profit Lean In and Girl Scouts of America are taking the lead with this campaign. And of course it is complete with celebrity endorsements. Beyonce is in on it. 

Complete with a website and all. 

One of the main draws of the #BanBossy movement is the statistics that state girls are less prone to speak up than boys by the time they reach middle school. In fact the entire movement is based upon the reception of girls and stigmas that are attached them if they speak up or speak out. And thus my problems begin. I list them for you below:

1). Bossy is a real thing. 

First, let's define the word bossy. Bossy: given to ordering people about; overly authoritative; domineering.

There are some actions that are blatantly controlling and constitute as bossy behavior. When my 6 year old tells her brother “why are you doing that?” followed by firm incessant no’s and don’t do that followed by directions on what to play and how to play–this is bossy! I repeatedly have coached my daughter in the difference in being bossy and controlling versus being a leader and persuasive. And I will continue to do so until she uses a tone of respect and words that illicit helpfulness and actions that allow others to figure things out on their own terms. Leaders lead from inspiration. My daughter is assertive and aggressive. Two characteristics I give to her with no qualms or shrinkage. In fact, these are attributes I wish I readily obtained as a young girl. Just the opposite, my nature was shy and introverted. It wasn’t until I became a young adult that I had to learn to be assertive and aggressive—not bossy.

2). Use words correctly. 

In terms of the person who supervises me at my place of employment; she is my supervisor. Not my boss. She does not order me around. I do not refer to her as my boss. In that connotation, I find it to be offensive. It's not the appropriate word to use. Neither is using the words bossy and assertive simultaneous. Assertiveness begets confidence; bossiness begets control. They are not one in the same. 

3). Don’t be choosy with your words. 

It is ironic to me that Beyonce is involved here. Really?? She uses the term boss and/or bossy in many of her lyrics. Why now is she determining that such a word is no longer applicable? Further, pop culture has embraced the word bossy to mean mastery of a certain skill or craft. (i.e., boss chef). Let’s also not forget the never old Kelis song, Bossy.

4) Isn’t the idea of banning a word kind of…well…bossy? 

Words are freeing. Instead of banning a word from our vocabulary, we need to teach our children the correct ways in which to communicate with each other. Putting the clamps on a singular word is a form of control--all in the spirit of non-control.

So I'll keep telling my children to stop their bossy ways of ordering others around, telling people when to come and how to go. Because such behavior is not an acceptable form of communication in our home, within family and friends and in our community. But in the idea of proper balance and respect I will tell them to speak up and stand out when you have been wronged, are uncomfortable with a touch or certain language. I will not reinforce domineering or controlling behavior but will tell them to watch their words. I will explicit tell them about one's right to speak and won't forget about to teach them about the right to respond. I will further explain that the latter point flows in both directions of communication.

Further, these attributes will be shared with my sons and daughters, nieces and nephews--all young girls and young boys alike. The symmetry of all expectations of behavior and communication should be the same for both genders. Don't single out the perception of girls without raising the standard for how we teach our boys.

Lastly, I will continue to teach my children self control of their actions efforts words and deeds -- all without clamping down others with control. 

Let's call bossiness what it is--but let's teach our children the opposite. 

A Dream Deferred...

For as long as can remember, I've wanted to be a writer. My 3rd grade teacher, Mr. David Bible, introduced me to Langston Hughes and challenged me to write my first short story -- and I was hooked. In fact I went into the journalism program at Otterbein College with the intention of being a writer and editor. I wanted to be the person to assist writers (published and unpublished) in their journey to telling the story they envisioned in your mind; to cultivate an idea's expression into a story worth reading and to be an ear of advice to the novice. But no one told me how to make this dream a reality when after graduating from undergrad and I could not land a job in the journalism field, I turned to the jobs I could get, and away from the jobs I wanted. 

Fast forward some years (I won't tell how many) and I had deferred that dream. But it was still knocking. 

Blogging has been the fuel for many writers to put their thoughts, opinions, ideas and stories to life without the backings of a traditional publishing house. Specifically, this blog has provided me a platform to talk about my struggles (past and present) and my life. It was this blog that propelled a family member to solicit me for help for his wife who is writing a memoir. To make a long story short, I have my first official editorial client! 

Keep in mind, I've done this kind of work before. Edited manuscripts when asked to, created and re-formatted resumes. But although I was operating in the form of an editor, I didn't take it seriously. So, it didn't take me seriously. It wasn't until recently that I started looking at my life from the inside. What I mean is writing down and envisioning the life I wanted. Then, looking within with the power that God gave me to bring it to fruition. Not looking on the outside to think of an excuse not to! But look for the reason inside myself that was always there! Not waiting for the right job to come around--but creating the job I wanted. Creating the life I want to live. This is the case for every area. No more excuses, no more fear! The will to do it was inside me all along...

Family is in the Feeling

Growing up the only girl in my family, I wanted a sister badly. As a young girl I would often ask my parents if they could have another child--preferably a sister especially for me. 
Now, looking back, I understand how naive I was. I was too caught up on the label to understand I always had sisters--and still do. 

This past weekend Keith said, "I liken your friends as your sisters." And he's right. My close friends are, to me, like extended family. My friends over the years have accompanied me on family vacations (and vice versa), have been there when my daughter was born and walked me through just about every life change that makes up the sum of who I am. I am fortunate.

In my blended family, the only time we use the term "step" is for legal, documentation purposes--to let those outside of us understand the nature of the formal relationship. But that's just on paper. Frankly, I had to explain to her what a "stepfather" was when her teacher announced him as such as the person who would pick her up from school one day. The essence is Trinity knows my husband as her Dad--regardless of the fact they share no DNA. His care, time, discipline and attention create for her the feeling of what she believes a father to be. I did not force this name on her. One day, after knowing him for about 4 months, the verbal transition slipped easily from her lips and the title has stayed since. She is home with him.

It is the same qualitative relationship that often propels Keith's children to call me "mommy." And the same love that provokes me to call them my children upon introduction. Sure, their mother may not agree with that label for me -- and I respect that. But there is something that is familiar about the endearing terms that are usually reserved for those we share DNA with. 

Keith often says that choosing to love someone as your family is perhaps more special than loving those who are actually your family. I think he's right. Love is a choice. People often say you don't choose your family. And formally, you don't. But I also believe family is in the feeling. The feeling of walking into my friend's house and immediately recognize changes to their decor because my visits are frequent, or not being told where the bathroom is, or even helping myself to the kitchen in preparation of a meal. It is familiar, cozy, comfortable, soothing and...home.

I've come to the conclusion that whatever label my husband's children decide works best for them, it is arbitrary to the quality of our relationship. We've built trust and love over the years and it will follow them for the rest of their lives because that's how long I'll be around. I have friends who introduce me as their sister--because the tie that binds us is as if we came from the same DNA. My sisters are here. It is extended family working at its finest. So whether Keith's children call me Ms. Tiffany, Mom, or stepmom, love still reigns. And in love, labels don't fit. 

Finish Something!

For the second day in a row, I woke up with the overwhelming thought that I need to finish what I start. I actually think this thought was in my subconscious and prior to my alarm waking me prematurely, would have stirred me out of sleep. 

I made a mental list of things I'd hoped, wanted or started to do but had yet to see them come alive: children's book in illustration limbo, novel, documentary...and other creative ideas I don't even want to name because someone might take my great idea (yes, they're that good). I've made a few strategic moves in the last few days to put some legs to a few of these but what I'm more interested in is to see them take flight. 

Finishing means you have to start, right? Sure, things take time. I get that. I absolutely respect the process that it takes to build dreams. But what propels someone to finish what they start? I realized the only thing I've ever finished was my education. After that, the rest is up to me. I've often marveled at another's ability to bring into fruition a vision, an idea or a goal that was once just a little seed in their mind. I have even asked myself, "how did they do that so quickly?" Or, "I'd like to do something like that."

I won't make any lofty goals, resolutions or promises here. The objective is simply to finish. Not in a specific time frame that is unrealistic or gives no room for mistakes. Looking back I've pigeonholed myself to timelines. Such pressure forced me to cave to it--leaving my projects isolated and alone for months upon months. This time the I'll just encourage myself to do. To work progressively toward the goal and see it through to its completion. Hard work never hurt anyone. It's time to work!

"Run mad, as often as you choose. But do not faint!" - Jane Austen

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.