A Single Mom's christmas list

What do you want for Christmas?

I didn't used to hate this question, though I always found it awkward. I loathe it now. What do people want me to say?
     "Oh! I'd love a cute pair of red flats!"
     "I would love nice maple cutting board. I love to cook!"
     "I'm dying for a new attachment for my stand mixer!?!"
I always feel obligated to ask for things that feel like gifts to give. People like buying you things that they think are a treat or things you wouldn't buy yourself. But do you know what I really want for Christmas?

I want groceries. No seriously,  I want groceries. I don't want to have to play "what else can we put on top of rice" game, and I don't want to tell my son for the umpteenth time that we can't go to the store and buy fresh fruit because mama doesn't get paid for another week. I don't want to get everything on my grocery list in my cart and then try figure out which third of it to put back. Do I put back the cheese, juice and broccoli, or the apples, milk and tortillas?

I want the money to fill my cavities. My dental insurance only covers one cavity every THREE YEARS, and I have 4 cavities. I have had 4 cavities for a year, and they are starting to get painful. I would seriously love to fork over the cash and have the pain be gone. You weren't going to spend $400 on my present??? Oh, how forward of me.

I want you to come clean my house. Not because I secretly hate you and want to see you toil cleaning up my messes, but because I am fricking tired, and I just can't do it all. Not even with a toddler who knows to take a rag to spills and pretends his plastic golf bag is a vacuum cleaner.

I want socks and bras and underwear. Please, PLEASE can you buy them for me? Taking a toddler into a women's clothing store is my worst nightmare. I can never seem to justify replacing the bras that are only kinda pokey, and the underwear that is totally the wrong size, but not disgusting enough to be thrown out.

I want more sick days. I use all of my 2 official sick days and most of my paid time off on sick days for both me any my son. We always get sick in tandem, and that always makes for double the days needed off of work.

Among other intangibles: I want to feel less lonely, I want to leave the house on time (OK even half of the time having on-time departures would be nothing short of a miracle). I really, really want to be told I'm doing a good job, but don't know how to ask for this, and then feel that the reply is genuine. I would really like to feel like less of a burden to society, but I know that I'm asking for a lot here.

So I guess I'll settle for asking for cooking classes, bath salts and fancy coffee. Because if I ask for what I really need you might be uncomfortable. And then we might actually have to do something or feel responsible as a society for forcing single moms to fit their square peg of a life into a round hole of convenient holiday gift giving. Please just give me the gift of being able to ask for the help I need and not simultaneously feel bad about it. That's what I really want.

After bedtime.

And then the peaceful, still silence turned into a suspicious, suffocating silence. One that breeds silent rage and shrewd doubts. While seated in the same position, all the emotion that had been stuffed away over the past few hours poured from her chest to the floor as her brow slowly tightened with the familiar stress lines that were above and beyond her anxiety medication's job description to control.
She surveyed her life with cold eyes and wondered what she should chose to see in the constellation of her life. Was she the seated queen? the loving mother? or was she the vain maiden? or worse, the betrayer? And in the midst of her genuine angst in figuring which story was the right one to tell herself so she could muster the courage to get out of bed the following morning, she admitted to herself grudgingly what the constellation really was: a web of unrelated spheres of burning plasma and light in an unimaginably vast, cold and dark universe. Nothing more, nothing less. They had less in common than the categories from the Jeopardy episode she watched on the DVR tonight. They just were - where they always were, doing what they always do. They told no story. They told no lies.
It was usually in these moments that she knew she was obfuscating the truth she intuited long ago. The one she knew was inevitable. The one she hoped wasn't true. The stories and the visions of patterns in the night sky were a way to bury the only outcome with others that were more hopeful, more sing-songy, more palatable.
She curled her toes a few times trying to resist sitting with this truth. A few tears managed to leak through before she rose to pack the lunches for the next day. And switch over the laundry, and lock the back door. She turned out the dreary kitchen light and stared through the pass through at the string lights around the porch. They twinkled knowingly back at her. She crawled slowly into her purple sheeted bed comfortable in her voluntary self delusion, and praying that she didn't really know what her future held.

On Anxiety

8/15/14 -

I just got home from a baseball game, with my boyfriend, and our son. And on a nice summer night in August, who could complain about enjoying a baseball game with the family? Huh, well like so many others, I have anxiety, and I can tell you, it was not an easy night for me. My anxiety takes many forms, and it creeps up on me even when I take precautions like avoiding triggers and taking time to de-stress. One of my biggest triggers is crowds.

I tell people often, “I don’t do crowds.” I hate crowds. I have never really liked close spaces, and as I have become an adult my dislike of crowds has only grown. I don’t exactly know what it is about crowds that I hate – maybe everything. I don’t like people who stand too close and invade your personal space, I don’t like not having direct, easy access to an exit, I don’t like talking to people I don’t know… the whole thing, really. Hate it. Sometimes I can take crowds in small doses for things that I really like (Truckee 4th of July comes to mind), or if I am not too stressed out sometimes crowds are OK. Aisle seats help. Knowing my car is close so I can make a quick escape if need be helps. And despite my aisle seat, for some reason today’s crowd at the baseball game just wasn’t working for me. We came into the stadium on the opposite end of where our seats were, and had to swim through swarms of people with a stroller (not easy). I was exhausted and close to tears by the time we sat down. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be there – crowds just really make me anxious. I have gone to several minor league baseball games this season (I don't think I'll ever go to another professional sports event ever again - the crowds - *shudder*), and was able to tolerate the crowds all right. The marvelously frustrating thing about anxiety is that it is hard to know how bad the crowd will bug me on any particular day.

I have been dealing with anxiety and depression for most of my adult life. Anxiety seemed, at the time of my diagnosis, like a nice way of saying “too emotional” “sensitive” “takes everything too serious.” I did not consider it then to be anything more than a bin they threw people in who they wanted to medicate and not deal with. I think very differently now, but stigma and mis-perception still block people from seeking the help they need, and I, like so many other friends this week, am writing this so that they know they are not alone. I also hope that maybe this will reach someone and help them in some way. The road to health for mental illnesses can be long and filled with obstacles. Health insurance, if you are lucky enough to have it, often has no or little coverage for psychiatrists and mental health counselors and therapists. And even then it can take a while to meet a therapist who is the right fit. Medication for mental illnesses is more likely to be covered by insurance, but any changes in coverage can cause disastrous disruptions in care, and even if your insurance does not change, the price of these drugs and what the insurance company will pay, in my experience, changes dramatically year to year.

The past few months have been tough for me. After graduating with my bachelor’s degree (finally) I moved to Sacramento. Moving was a lot harder than I thought it would be. It was traumatic. I know that sounds so dramatic, but anyone who tells you moving is a breeze is lying. There is still a lot of adjustment going on (my boyfriend has never lived with Otto and I full time, so needless to say we are still working out the kinks). Financial stress, compounded with job stress (and a speeding ticket, parking ticket, old landlord who is trying to charge me obscene amounts of money for imaginary “damages” and a needy and active toddler) has made it really hard for me to handle much at all this month.

I know everyone goes through hard times, gets stressed out sometimes and has bad days, but the thing that is critical to understanding depression and anxiety is that people who have these disorders have it to such a degree that it interferes with their ability to successfully live life. Anxiety interferes in my life in several ways. I have panic attacks, and when my anxiety is bad, it disrupts my ability to concentrate and get basic daily tasks done. My experience with depression and anxiety has been long and complicated and exacerbated by several big life events.

I have been having panic attacks for a long time - since at least the age of 14. Though I didn’t have a name for them then. I have been claustrophobic and afraid of heights for as long as I can remember. My fear of doctors and medical facilities is a more recent development, and so is my irrational fear of talking to people on the phone whom I do not know (seriously could not pick up the phone to talk to an insurance adjustor one time when I was rear ended – they kept calling for a statement, and I just couldn’t pick up the phone. The accident wasn’t even my fault. I don’t know what I thought would happen, I just couldn’t talk to someone I didn’t know on the phone). I have always been very particular about the way my clothes lay on my body (putting on snow clothes as a child was quite a process: socks had to be all the way up, not scrunched down, mittens had to go OVER the coat sleeves, snow pants had to go OVER the boots) and my perfectionist tendencies have always swung far into OCD territory. I have had a lot of gaps or lapses in care for my anxiety - some of them my choice, some of them not. 

When I switched to Medicaid in Nevada, The pharmacy I tried to transfer my prescription anti-anxiety medication to told me that Medicaid would not cover a prescription from a California doctor. This meant that I would have to find a new psychiatrist and primary care provider to work, as a team, to prescribe me my normal anti-anxiety medication, or pay full price for my medication ($90/month – something I could not afford). So I felt I had no choice but to discontinue taking my medication. Finding a psychiatrist is an exhausting process, and as a new mom completing her last semester of college and working part time, opening up to possibly several psychiatrists about all of my most painful moments in life was more than I could take on. Add in talking to a lot of people I don’t know on the phone to make appointments, and lots of unfamiliar, weird-smelling doctors offices, and I could not run fast enough in the opposite direction.  This is a great example of how my anxiety interferes with my life. Still to this day it is hard for me to pursue the care I need because of my anxiety.

Now I am in California with no insurance or coverage at all (because Medicaid is administered by state and cannot be just transferred across state lines). I am in the process of applying for MediCal for both Otto and myself, but the process can take up to 90 days. I had to apply Medicaid in Nevada twice because they lost my application the first time, and they treated me like a criminal in the application process. I fear that I am gearing up for a demoralizing process that may take much longer than 90 days, but I am trying to trust and choose optimism. I am looking into free counseling services in the mean time, but I have not found any that can prescribe medication. I hope writing this for all to see will help keep me accountable for pursuing getting back on medication.

Below is a longer account of my battle with anxiety and depression. I hope for this story to be an argument for awareness. Mental illness is not as easily spotted as other physical illnesses, but they are still just as important.  I hope to advocate for a better healthcare system for mental illness because the current state of coverage is abysmal. I want to tell all the new moms out there (and especially ones with anxiety) that you are doing such a good job, even if it doesn’t feel that way. I want to tell everyone with anxiety and depression that how they feel is OK. Are you upset? It’s OK to feel that way. Are you freaking out? It’s OK to feel that way. I’m concerned about you, but it’s OK to feel the way you do. You are NOT crazy. You are NOT alone. Please please please, ask for the help you need. You deserve it. Please be prepared as the following is very raw and contains a lot of things that I haven’t shared with too many people. I don't mean to upset anyone, I am just trying to tell a complete, honest account of my struggle with anxiety and depression in the hopes that it will help others who struggle with it and help those who don't to understand it better:

When I was 13, I was made to go see a therapist after my parents saw razor marks on my arms before the 8^th grade winter formal. A lot of kids my age were cutting at the time, and though I was experiencing what I would call now an anxious day, it seemed to be the end of the world to a 13 year old me. I felt everything so intensely and felt so confused by a new adult social landscape where people said things they didn’t mean and didn’t say things at all when is would have been so helpful and even necessary. I am not saying it wasn’t a good idea for me to go see a therapist at that point, but it felt like a punishment. It was mandatory for me to go, and I really felt more embarrassed about getting caught and having to talk about feelings I didn’t understand than alarmed or motivated to change. I don’t remember how many sessions I went to. It couldn’t have been more than 2 or 3.  I suffered from insomnia a lot in 8^th grade and once when my mom caught me up watching music videos on MTV at 2 a.m. she asked me if I was on speed (I wasn’t).  She thought my boyfriend at the time was a bad influence, and I don’t blame her for wildly wondering what was troubling her young, suddenly mute teenage daughter, but needless to say I stopped watching TV when I couldn’t sleep (I read Harry Potter instead).

It seemed to my teenage self that that incident was enough to make my parents insanely worried about me for the rest of my life, and I felt horribly guilty for causing my parents so much worry. I spent a lot of time signing up for every extracurricular under the sun while ensuring I was fetching perfect or near-perfect grades. It’s as if I was trying to say, “Look, mom and dad, I’m fine. I’m perfect. I’m not going to be your problem child that you have to worry about all the time.”

I was so busy my senior year of high school that in one afternoon during the fall semester I had 3 meetings at lunchtime, went to golf practice, left early to catch the end of marching band rehearsal. Then I had to attend a dress rehearsal for a dance recital, leave in the middle to drive 20 minutes while changing in the car to a band concert, perform, help clean off the stage, and drive back to the dress rehearsal to rehearse the finale. And no one knew. I don’t think even my parents or my closest friends had any idea that I was that busy. I was just doing it all – seamlessly, I thought. Just with a few panic attacks thrown in – no big deal, right?

My next encounter with therapy came in the form of a life-coach. This was also suggested and arranged by my mom whose worry clearly had never subsided. This is the therapy that, looking back, most helped me. I did a lot of work just figuring out my personality and what really does and doesn’t work for me. I spent a lot of time clarifying what I wanted out of life (which shockingly wasn’t always what I thought I wanted, or what I felt pressure to do). I hadn’t been diagnosed with anything (yet), but I still felt so guilty and like such a failure that my mom thought I needed that help (even though I did need it). I know it was stupid to think that, but it was part of the equation on this long, complicated therapy history of mine. My stint in life coaching was also brief  - not more than a summer.

Then… I was raped in college. By someone I knew, in a position of power over me, who I thought highly of at the time – you know all the statistics.  It was a classic case. A few friends who sensed something was wrong moved quickly to remove me from the situation and insisted I report what happened to me. I did, and it seemed my whole world collapsed around me. Funny how though the rape itself was traumatic, what I remember being just as traumatic (or even more so) was the reaction of my peers and being ostracized from social groups for speaking up.

This all happened the night before a football game, and when your section leader in marching band doesn’t show up on game day, it does not go unnoticed. Just before we went on to play, another section member said some very rude things about how our section leader should have been there no matter what some “bitch” said he did. He didn’t know I was the victim, and he was angry, but it became very clear how victims reporting a rape were viewed by people who I thought were my friends, who otherwise were nice people. I felt like no one wanted me there. I thought that because my attacker was the one being kicked out of the organization, I had a right to be there and he didn’t. It’s common sense right? Do something wrong - get punished for it. But that didn’t seem to be how any of my peers felt, at least not that day. Moments later I found myself standing in the middle of a football stadium marching before thousands of people under bright lights, and every fiber of my being was screaming (wow, maybe this is why I don’t like crowds?!?). I was so sore from the rape that I couldn’t sit or walk comfortably. I had scrapes and bruises on my forehead. I was so short of breath I couldn't play. Why did everyone want him there instead of me? There were people all around me, and yet I had never felt more alone or less wanted in my whole life. Luciano Pavarotti had just recently passed away and we played “Nessun Dorma” as tribute to him during that field show. That song still makes me scream-cry. Not just cry hard, or cry hysterically – scream cry. It’s a thing.

The fog of depression and shame and guilt that followed lasted at least a month, and I have very few memories from that time. The mushroom cloud of anxiety and depression from being raped and all of the aftermath that followed ballooned outward and upward for several years. In the first few months, I sat out in front of my dorm for what felt like days. With my backpack fully packed, as if I was about to go to class, but I just couldn’t go. The picnic table in front of building E in Cerro Vista was as far as I could move. My dad came down immediately to visit. My parents wanted to move me home. I understood that they wanted to shield and protect me and take me away to where they could care for me, but I refused to go. I didn’t want to be the one fleeing. I felt that I shouldn’t be the one having to drop out of school and run away in shame. That weekend with my Dad was full of the most long and painful silences of my life. I was glad he was there, but had no idea what to say.  I had never talked about sex with my Dad at all; so to tell him about how I was violently raped seemed so far beyond my capabilities.

The young man who raped me was banned from band, which was the only activity we shared at the time. But because no official explanation was given why he, the section leader and former leader of the marching band, was suddenly gone, rumors flew and tempers flared. People were so vocally angry at whoever had said anything to cause his departure.  People leaned to each other and to me, asking questions. Some were innocent (“what happened?” “where is he?”). Some were meaner (“who’s the snitch?”).  Some were much meaner than that, but I honestly can’t recall them because my memory has blacked it out.

I reverted to old habits and overcommitted and extended myself. I rushed a sorority and a service fraternity, joined as many musical groups as I could, trained to be an orientation leader, and navigated upwards to positions of leadership in almost every organization. It’s as if I was trying to scream, “Look guys, I’m gonna be just as good a leader as you thought my attacker was. It’s really OK that he is gone, cause I’m SUPER WOMAN!!!!! I’m gonna fix it all!” Unlike in high school, however, my grades suffered. I withdrew from classes left and right, but explaining to teachers over and over again that I was raped and took on a little more than I could handle this quarter became more and more painful. So then I just stopped going to classes. Then I was failing classes left and right. Then I was on academic probation. I swear I was darn close to getting kicked out of Cal Poly for poor academic performance by the time I left. Not because I wasn’t smart, or couldn’t do the work, I just couldn’t find the strength to ask for the help I needed. And I couldn’t recognize or admit that the whole situation in San Luis Obispo really wasn’t working for me.

I did see two different psychiatrists while at Cal Poly.  My first stop was actually the counseling center at Cal Poly. On my first visit I ran into my attacker (who was mandated to schedule a session as part of his “punishment”), and I never went back (duh, who would?). The first psychiatrist I saw diagnosed me as manic-depressive and prescribed me Wellbutrin. I knew the diagnosis wasn’t right (any girl who was just raped is going to be manic depressive for a while), and the pills made me feel super numb.I started to feel sure I was crazy. They were giving me drugs that suppressed my feelings, and my diagnosis seemed to say, “You are permanently depressed. You are a Debbie downer. You will never be happy again.” I felt like I deserved to be locked up in a padded room. My poor boyfriend at the time had no idea what to do with me. I cried all the time over very small things because I was only able to hold my emotions just below the surface, so something as small as having no clean pairs of jeans left turned into huge crying fits.

The second psychiatrist I saw was in Reno, and I did more sessions with her than with any other combined. I liked her immediately, and she was reputed to be one of the best psychiatrists in Reno for victims of sexual violence. I did a lot of writing activities with her, which I found very therapeutic. She had this very direct style of asking questions that was very disarming, yet strangely helpful. She helped me realize that I have been struggling with anxiety and depression for a lot longer than I thought. She helped me acknowledge and make peace with my claustrophobia and some ODC tendencies. She helped me realize how common anxiety issues like mine are and that I am not crazy, I just needed help managing my anxiety so it didn’t overtake my life. She diagnosed me as having Generalized Anxiety Disorder and prescribed me Lexapro. She explained that Lexapro is designed to just keep me from hitting the floor or ceiling emotionally. I didn’t feel numb at all and have been on and off this drug ever since.

Unfortunately, our relationship ended in a flash-bang when I had a phone session with her from SLO, and she scolded me for “not doing my job” as a student and “wasting my parents’ money” by flunking classes (which, in all honesty, was true, but not therapeutic, it totally made me shut down). She even told me that my rape wasn’t even that horrific compared to some other clients she had (a woman abducted, blindfolded and raped with a broom handle for 3 days – thanks for the nightmares!).  I have not spoken with that psychiatrist since. I don’t know if she was just having a bad day, or didn’t want me as a client any more or what. I felt like I was in this perpetual cycle of opening up to people, and then they would see how truly “messed up” I was, and they would RUN for the hills. It seemed to confirm that I was indeed crazy, too needy, too broken to fix.

            Leaving Cal Poly at the end of 4 years with no degree was both the right thing to do and one of the most painful things to do. I left quietly at the end of the year, and didn’t really tell anyone I wasn’t coming back. I honestly didn’t think anyone would miss me. I felt like such a failure, and I felt like such a stranger to myself.

I lived at home for another year and finished an associate’s degree. I lost over 60 pounds (weight I had gained from all the stress and eating crappy college food), I changed my name, I got accepted to UNR, moved out of my parents’ house, re-discovered my spirituality, and learned how to make beer. I made my own fresh start. Between summer 2011 and spring 2012 I had my shit together.  I totally felt like I had conquered my demons.

            Then … I became pregnant unexpectedly.  And just like that my whole world got turned upside-down again.  My primary care physician advised me over the phone that I should probably discontinue taking Lexapro at least during the first trimester of pregnancy. So there I was, off my medication, battling crazy pregnancy hormones while trying to finish my first semester at UNR (finals without caffeine -yikes) and trying to decide if I was really ready to parent. I knew parenting would be hard, but I knew the most joy would be at the end of that road.

And then the baby was here, and it was so much harder than I ever could have imagined. I actually thought that the only thing hard about being a new mom would be the sleep deprivation. I was sure my maternal instincts would kick in and I would have no problems bonding with my mini-me. I think it is horrible we tell soon to be moms that "it can be hard, but it's so wonderful." It IS hard. It is also wonderful at times, but having a new baby is really hard. The lack of sleep alone can make anyone crazy, but with me having anxiety, it just destroyed me listening to my baby cry, my whole body felt like it was on fire when the crying went on and on. It seemed like if he wasn’t sleeping, he was screaming. Sometimes I just buried my face in a pillow and screamed to drown out his screaming. It seemed sometimes that no matter what I did, I couldn’t solve the wailing. Otto had a lot of colic in the early months, and it’s so hard when they are fed and clean and warm and there is nothing left to do but bounce them up and down the hall – for hours and hours. Some babies just cry, some people told me.  

I felt like I had to be prepared for ANYTHING every time I left the house. If I couldn’t do it exactly the way I wanted to do it (perfectly, of course), I wouldn’t do it at all. I felt so overwhelmed by everything that just the thought of trying to leave the house was too intimidating to entertain some days. This led to feelings of isolation at times. I had no mom friends at the time, and all my close friends either already lived far away, or had just recently moved far away. I lingered a lot picking Otto up from daycare because often it was the only conversation I would have with another adult and mom all day. There were, of course, some wonderful and tender moments mixed in, and I wouldn't trade being a mom for anything - I love him to bits. But caring for a very needy tiny human who cannot thank you or even understand how hard you are working to care for them is very hard and humbling.

I really felt much more human again after Otto was about 6 months old. I had kind of gotten the whole mom thing down and couldn’t properly remember my sleep-filled, social life before him. The good thing now is that I know I can’t just let myself become so dysfunctional as I was at Cal Poly because I have someone else depending on me. It forces me to be very aware of how I am doing mentally and ask for the help I need before things get bad.  The amazing thing is that, I feel so much more resilient now that I know I can come back from everything that I have been through. I know I have the strength to take on anything, but not everything. A good lesson for anyone, I’m sure. Being honest with people about how I am actually doing helps me not stuff things too deep down, though to be honest, I still struggle with that one. I feel fortunate to have such a loving and wonderful network of family and friends who I know I can be honest with and lean on in hard times. I don’t expect that I will ever be able to say my struggle with anxiety is over, but I know I have the tools to fight it. If you are reading this thinking “I don’t have the tools to deal with my anxiety or depression,” PLEASE ask for the help you need! I’ll let you borrow my tools if you like. I think I have a battle-axe somewhere... J

Thank you for taking the time to read this obscenely long post, and to consider how we can, as a society, keep an open and honest conversation about mental health and mental health coverage. Please take the time to be patient with those around you having a tough time. Sometimes all it takes is someone willing to listen to save a life.

A Fork.

A Fork. 

Long bent spindrils that stab at an elusive destination. I will trust Frost on this one! And yet, a few steps down the less traveled road, a look back is paralyzing. A loud voice in my head, full of doubt says crisply:

"It's not too late to go the other way." 

It's as if just three steps in there is a veil that hit me so hard I lost my breath. Standing at the threshold of what could have been and what I have chosen is so intoxicatingly confusing. The moment of clarity that led me in this direction has suddenly vanished. My mind has tricked me into thinking there are more options than there are, and suddenly the loss of options seems scary and limiting rather than liberating and clarifying like it did mere seconds ago. 

There is no one on this road. I feel lonely. Suddenly I feel terribly vulnerable. 

Can one asphyxiate from loneliness?

If I could just glimpse what could have been, maybe I will remember why I am here. 

But there are not two of me, and I can't know what will be.

I don't want to navigate this winding shady path alone, but as some recognition and resignation sneak back into my senses, I know I can't go back. As my mind slowly lowers a more permanent barrier than a veil between me and my what-ifs, I window shop my old life one last time. Nose pressed against the glass at first, analyzing every detail. Slowly I step back, taking in the big picture. Perspective helps me decide to turn around and pursue the path I chose. I turned around swiftly, but tearing my eyes from the neat little display felt harder to do than breaking a chemical bond. 

A final overwhelming urge to take one last look stole over me. I tried to indulge by looking beside me, and there I saw my dark companion. With mirth I acknowledge that I will not be so alone. At least my shadow still trusts me enough to follow me. 

I am sorry shadow, I don't know how many more rocks or bumps I will have to drag you through. But as long as you are still here, I know I'll be alright. We'll both be alright. I think.

Square Bed

A square of love with two hearts beating
Every moment quickly fleeting
In this dull lull we rest our heads
On the squishy warm red bed
Then we drift to sleep and rest
But waking up is the best
With my little monkey in my nest
Some mornings with a little digit
In my hair and nose he'll fidgit
Then that little round face brightens and smiles
With fluffy nut brown hair that goes on for miles
The day has begun and is already complete
With love and laughter running from our heads to our feet
How happy and whole a house can be
With a square bed and love and you and me.

Wishes for baby

Baby, I have so many wishes and visions for you. Some of which surely will come to be. Others may be far-fetched dreams. 

I hope, firstly, that you are healthy – not only in the 10 fingers and 10 toes way, but also mentally, socially, emotionally and spiritually healthy. 

I hope you get a great education. Chances are good that that will be provided to you, but a good education is more that the teachers, schools and assignments – it is about the effort you put into your education and the people you meet and skills you gain along the way. I hope you are a life-long learner and always have a sense of curiosity.

 

I want for you to experience a love of sports (both as a participant and a fan). Being part of a team is such a rewarding experience. I hope you discover a love of music. Even if you are just a listener. I hope you explore all aspects of the human experience weather that be through art, drama, reading or science.

I cannot wait for you to experience the wonders and joys of the natural world. I hope you can see every sunrise and sunset as a miracle and see the beauty in every living thing. I want for you to breathe fresh air, sleep under the stars, swim in cold, clear, blue lakes, scrape your knees, stare mesmerized into many campfires, catch lots of fish, learn how to grow things and smile when you can feel sand or grass or dirt between your toes. I wish for you to bask in the sun and stare at the moon.

I wish for you to travel. I wish for you to try new things. I hope you push and challenge yourself.

I hope you have a great imagination and can dream big. I hope you find your place in the world. I hope you find what makes you happy. I hope you realize the value and reward in helping your fellow man (and woman!). I wish for you to realize the value and equality in every human life. I hope you treat everyone with respect. I hope you learn your life lessons and listen to your spirit guides – they are there to help you. I hope you learn to live within your means and to be grateful and thankful for everything that you have. I hope you realize that the important things in life are not things. I hope you learn to be humble and kind and sincere. I hope you can ask for help when you need it, be able to admit defeat gracefully and know that failure is not a bad thing if you can learn from it.  Your life isn’t measured by your triumphs and good days but by how you handle the bad days, the frustrations, the setbacks and the challenges. I hope you learn that while it may be easy and feel good to blame everyone else for things that go wrong, there is always something that you can do to turn things around. You have the power to change your life. No one makes good decisions all the time, but I do hope you do not live with regrets. Forgive and forget, try to make amends, but never dwell on something that cannot be changed.

Above all, I hope that you know and experience love. I hope you grow up surrounded by nothing but love. I hope you learn that you have to give love to get love. I hope you earn the love of many friends. I hope you get to experience the love of a pet, romantic love, the love of life and the unbreakable love of your family. I hope one day you find someone you love enough to marry, and I also hope you get to experience the astounding, confusing overpowering love that comes with having children. My love for you will always be abundant, true, and unending. Though it is true that risking love can end in loss and heartbreak, love is ALWAYS worth it.  

I wish for you all these things and so much more. 

Go safely into that dark night

Where do souls go when they are rejected from this world?
Do they bounce back into the universe, floating freely, unashamed?
or do they get stuck in the veil between the worlds, alone and tangled?
Please forgive me, gentle soul, for what I am about to do.
I love you, but it isn't safe here. Everything is all wrong.
I have the option to play God, and I guess I'm taking it.
And though I feign divinity now, only God knows what my terrible action will cost me.
I'll never know the journey we were supposed to take together,
But maybe - one day - you will come back to me.
In the mean time, I promise to make the world a better place for you.
Please understand. Please be at peace (for I will not be). Please don't get stuck.
And please come back to me, someday.