You're Here

Today is like no other day.  My thoughts eventually turn down a path that is paved with small and big moments about you, Mom.  I’m not quite sure where you end, and I start.  It’s a race with no other runners, and I don’t ever win. 

I keep our stories to myself, and my inner-voice is laced with your messages.  I hear your words when Bennet is making another righteous argument, and I keep your messages in my already-packed head.  Every time I see Ruby sleeping, I say quietly to myself, “Love, you look so much like her.”  This is what I have done for so long.  My energy has been given to the lack of your existence in the girls’ lives.  Ironic how draining it is to give much energy to something that is not present on earth.   Let’s be honest—it’s not even about the children.  It’s about me, your eldest daughter, and I know it. 

Something has changed in the last few months.   I have been seeing Julie each week, and she has given me something that I have unknowingly needed this past decade.  She gave me permission to let you be alive in our lives.  I have been selfish, and I have kept you all to myself.  I am good at talking, and yet, I rarely speak your name in their presence.  You were nameless to them up until now.  Mom, they call you Ya-Ya.  It is perfect, and each time their sweet voices say it, my breath stops.  This has brought me much joy.  It also makes my heart ache, but it’s different.  There is hope in this.  There is peace in knowing that you are now alive to them.  It is starting to change, and I am finally beginning to heal. It's time.  

You’re here.  We were eating dinner not so long ago.   “Mama?” said Ruby, “Ya-ya loves the clapping song.  Remember the song?  Miss Alyssa showed us in school.”  She then put her small hands together to clap and scrunched up her round face to recall the tune.   (You always clapped when you sang to Kim, Dan and I.)  Then, she jumped off of the window seat, ran over to our family photos, pointed to your picture, and said so matter-of-factly, “There she is!  There is Ya-Ya!  See, Mama?  See?”

You’re here.  While sitting on the couch one evening, Bennet indignantly said, “Hey!   I am making Ya-Ya a picture.  How do I get it to her?!”  This moment reached into the darkest parts of me and shined the slightest sliver of light.  She came up with a solution, and I have no words for it. 

This morning on the way to school, she asked if you received your picture.  I took it upon myself to let her absolutely know that her artwork for you arrived timely and was well-received.

You’re here.  I told Bennet our favorite story.  I told her about how great-grandma left her husband when grandma was just a little girl.  I told her about how they lived in a mud home in the forest.  Were they lonely, Mama?  Then, I told her about how thieves would try to dig tunnels into the mud house.  She was very upset about this.   The robbers are the s-word!  They are stupid and mean.  I then told her the brilliant plan.  “Bennet, there was a plan.  Great-grandma had lots of different men’s shoes in the house.  So, when they heard digging, she would put a different shoe on each foot.  She would tell grandma to do the same.  Then, they stomped around the house.  And, you know what?  The robbers would hear the shoes and think that big men lived in the house.  So, they would go away!  They left?!  Great-grandma used her brain!  Here is the picture she drew after I told the story.  Mom, do you see me in the picture?  She drew me as an angel.  Mama, that’s you.  You were not born yet.  So, you’re still in heaven, okay?

Then, she went to my bedroom, found two of Jeremy's shoes, put them on, stomped around her room and quietly muttered about silly robbers. 

Mom, you’re finally here.  I've missed you.  

My Pride (and Prejudice)

The day I found out I was having a daughter, I cried.  What the hell am I supposed to do with a girl? I prefered jeans, never owned a Barbie, flirted as well as a bucket of fried chicken and occasionally (or daily) smelled my armpits.  With every cell in my body, I could not bear the thought of having my first child be a girl.  I was my mother’s first daughter, and our relationship was passionate in the best and worst of ways.  History, I felt, was repeating itself, and I was not emotionally and physically prepared.  Then, I decided that my daughter would be resilient, smart, autonomous and ooze gumption.  Ann Richards, the badass, would be a dim light next to my kid.  On a Tuesday, at exactly 11:00 pm, the world granted my wish.  Bennet, named after the loving and self-assured Elizabeth Bennet in Pride and Prejudice, has rocked my world since that April day.  I am  a woman wizard--I willed my kid’s personality.

She is the most complex, passionate and prideful (other than my mother) human I know.  I do not yell, and I stumble upon some beast version of myself that is roaring words at her face.  Working with children feels natural to me, and she makes me work so damn hard.  I naturally labored for 10 hours on Pictocin (similar to being repeatedly punched by warlocks falling from the sky) with her, and every interaction since then has remained the same—honest, from-the-gut, passionate and effortful.  She can bring me my highest highs, and she has shown me the lowest of valleys as a mother.  And you know what, I cannot contain my excitement for the woman she will one day become. 

I cannot wait for the day you let go of you pride to see your full, wonderful and bountiful worth.

I cannot wait for the day you show your true dancing, loving, emotional self without abashment.  

I cannot wait for the moment you realize how much the world needs you.

Sweet dear, you are my Amazing.  Today, I want to thank you for your wisdom.  You have taught me much.

Don’t put up with people’s shit  Since day one, some may say that Bennet is fickled when it comes to letting people in.  What I have come to realize is that she is open and honest with those who approach her without an ego.  If you try too hard, it ain’t happening.  Use lies?  She’ll see through it.  Try to coax her with lack of sincerity, she’ll just walk away.  However, be truthful, be kind and give her your time, and you have sealed a friendship for all days.  She does not have time for anything less than uber-meaningful.  This, folks, is life-efficiency at its best.  Give time to those who matter most. 

Find another way  At the age of one, Bennet wanted a cookie.  So, I gave her one.  “Mama, more cookie.”  On this day, I was not willing to agree to her conditions.  “No, Bennet.”  My father then came to the table, and Bennet quickly said, “A cookie for Popeye.”  She reached for another cookie and placed it in front of him.  As he was about to grab the treat, she simply said, “Popeye share,” and looked at him straight in the eyes.  My dad was so tickled by her selfish and brilliant antics that he gave her the whole damn thing.  She got her way, and she used her brain. 

(Really) Listen to music  Bennet loves, loves, loves music.  She can differentiate between all of the singer-songwriters.  “Mama, Passenger, Ed Sheeran and Ben Howard sound a lot alike.”  When a beat is dropped, sheesh, you best get out of the way.  Her body will start to shake, convulse and move with as much force and energy as the Beastie Boys (one of her faves).  At 13 months, Bennet would start to tear up and cry if we played a ballad.  Whether it was a slow lullaby or a perfect classical piece, her whole body would respond.  She takes the time (and heart) to find beauty in one of life’s greatest pleasures.  Music is good for the soul, and she lives this daily.

Love and love and love  She has so much love to give.  She thinks about the homeless, dogs who are lost and those who love her most.  Recently, I told Bennet about my miscarriage.  She is a baby whisperer.  She wears a real Bjorn around the house and in public.  Her favorite smell is baby (and books).  She carries her babies in a real infant car seat (this makes us look like lazy parents) and puts it in the trunk of the Subaru (this makes us look like criminals).

After several days of Mama crying and  being sad, I knew it was time to bring her in.  After watching Up, Bennet knew that sometimes babies don’t live here on earth.  She has asked a lot of questions, and we have answered them all.   I took a slow breath and told her my story.

Bennet:  Mama, your baby is in heaven?

Me:  Yes.

Bennet:  How big was the baby?

Me:  She was small, love.

Bennet:  That’s why you’re sad? Because she's not here?

Me.  Yes.

Bennet:  I love you. 

She proceeded to give me a hug and subsequent hugs over the next several days.  For some reason, her hugs consoled me the most.  She could sense when I needed one, and simply gave what she could at that very moment—her awesome and honest compassion. 

Be comfortable with YOU For the last several months, Bennet has become Simon.  She cut her hair, buys clothes from the boys’ section and spends her time correcting those who call her by the wrong pronoun.  While there are moments when she wants to be Bennet, Simon is the one typically hanging out at abode la Palafox.  I know I did not find this kind of self-honesty until I was in my twenties (same time I discovered brie —another life gift).  He has already stumbled upon this self-comfort and makes no excuses for it.  This blows my mind.

And, you know what, history is repeating itself.  This relationship is my most passionate.  We will both be better for it.  I just know it.

Personal Purgatory: My Natural (Miscarriage) Birth Story

I just want to tell my sad story.  For the last week, this one act is my consistent comfort.   If not for social graces, appropriate conversational topics and my (typical) positivity, I would likely be shouting my horror for all to hear.  I don’t want to hear about your party plans.  I want to talk about how I labored over the course of two days.  I don’t want to hear about how other miscarriages were much harder.  I want to talk about the passing and birth of my third child.  I don’t want to see the sunshine.  I want to hold the darkness that has swallowed me.  

Part of me wants validation that I worked hard. 

Part of me wants to let people know that something really shitty happened to me. 

Part of me wants others to free me of life’s daily obligations.

Part of me wants to share my story without any shame and blame.

Part of me wants to help those who have walked/will walk the same path.

Part of me wants to think or talk of nothing else. 

All of me wants to have my pregnancy and my baby.

We found out on a Tuesday that there was no heartbeat.  As if my body was just waiting for me to know the truth, that very evening the spotting began.  For the next five days, I was in my own personal purgatory.  The doctor said it would just be like my two previous labors—contractions, breathing, clenched fists, the whole shebang.  Now, waiting for a baby to come is hard.  Anticipating a labor and delivery for a baby who did not make it on our earth is messed up.

On Monday morning, I woke up to go to work.  As I was drying my hair, the familiar tightening I felt during the births of my girls came.  It was starting, and I was grateful for it.   From experience, I knew there was much work ahead.  So, I went back to sleep while my body could still rest.  The contractions never came back.  Jeremy went to work, the girls went to school and I rested that day.  When it was time to pick up the girls, I went.  I picked them up, we got in the van and the contractions started again.  Maybe it was a fluke?  The next two rounds of contractions, twenty minutes apart, confirmed my reality.  I let Jeremy know.  So, with the girls by my side, we got to work.  The strange thing about contractions is that they build over time and they are intense.  You instinctively want to curl into a ball in a dark room.  Instinct, in this case, is wrong.  Grateful for my experience, I knew to keep moving and breathing.  We went on a long walk.  As the girls chatted, I would walk.  “Girls, Mama needs to stop.  Can you find me the biggest leaf?”  As they bantered about who had the largest piece of foliage, I would breath, breath, breath.  The contractions were now ten minutes apart, and I needed to get to a bathroom.  As we walked up the driveway, Jeremy came home.  I waddled as quickly as I could to the restroom.  For the next four hours, the contractions, bleeding and passing of clots continued.  I kept walking around in my bedroom, swayed my hips as I breathed through the tightening and let me body rid itself of something no longer viable.  At 9:30, as I was reading a story to Bennet, I had four contractions, one-minute apart, and then it all stopped.  Nothing.  It was over.  Or so I believed.  

I went to work the next morning, and I was sent home.  The crying did not stop.   The physical part was over; however, the emotional counterpart  was starting her crescendo.  Again, I spent the day resting.  Again, I picked up the girls.  Again, the contractions started again.  This time, Lady Contraction quickly escalated to being five minutes apart.  Again, I let Jeremy know.  He was in South Austin.  I took the girls outside to play and kept moving by watering the lemongrass plants.  After an hour, the contractions were right now top of each other.  Jeremy was still 15 minutes way.  Completely fucked.  “Girls, Mama’s tummy does not feel good.  You girls can watch a movie on the ipad on my bed.  I will be in the bathroom.”  The elation shown on their faces did give me slight comfort as I thought about what was about to happen.  The second the girls settled onto our bed, I went to the bathroom, sat down and felt something large pass.  I looked, and I saw the sack that harbored my baby.  There she was.  This time, there was no birthing music playing.  There was no husband comforting me.  There was no joy.  Much like my other births, however, I was on complete autopilot.  There was no thinking taking place.  I washed her off, walked to the kitchen, reached over my dad to retrieve the prettiest bowl I could find and placed her inside with utmost care.   I felt like this was the least I could do for bringing her into this earth in a tiled bathroom with a window that opened up to a world with those who were laughing, cutting the grass and buying purses.  

Our baby girl was buried in our garden by a jasmine, my mom's favorite plant.  Jeremy, Bennet, Ruby and I said our "see you later."  Bennet, my wonderful Bennet, said, "I hope you come back (she feels that all babies who go to heaven come back to earth somehow), and I hope you feel better."  It was perfect.  Ruby, the lover of all small, tiny things, said, "I will find you the smallest piece of dirt."  After finding the perfect speck of earth to put over the box, she said, "Thank you."  Jeremy quietly spoke his words, and I could find no words.  The same hands used to wash the blood from her quietly and gently filled the hole.  

Bennet and Ruby’s birth story is written down in beautifully decorated journals filled with sonograms and well-wishes from family and friends.  This story will only exist here.  This story does not bear less worth.  It does not make a smaller imprint on my heart and my memory.  

This story holds no optimism.

This story empowers anguish. 

This story needs prayers.

This story needs love.

This story is whole-heartedly mine.

Tips for Those Who Have Procreated

I am a mother.  It happened on a humid evening in New Orleans after a few beignets.  Little did I know that 10 months later, I would be parenting a female offspring.  And, truth be told, on days when my memory is shot, I have two little people now saying, "Mama? Mama!  MAMA!," as every third word from their language repertoire to remind me that I am, in fact, responsible for these strange and loving little people.

Lately, I have been thinking about the language used to describe parents.  I read posts and social media ooblyjunk about the state of parenting.  It's all about how to be an involved parent, how to not be a helicopter parent and how to consciously ignore your children's needs in order to listen to Coldplay.  

I get it.  It is all well-intentioned; however, at times, I feel we give too much language to this whole procreation aftermath business.  I would bet my entire collection of Laura Ingells Wilder books that my mother never thought about whether her actions were in the "bad" or "stellar" parenting groups. So, unless you intentionally hurt your children or make them drink bitter melon shakes, I will not judge your choices. 

So, since I have told you to not listen to other people's parenting advice AND all parents are hypocrites, here's my three cents on this business of little humans.  Here's all I have to give as a multiple-time procreator:

1.  Park by the cart return.  It makes the end of a grocery jaunt more bearable.  You make it back to the car before calamity ensues.  And, buckle the kid in before leaving the vehicle.  Be smart, parents.  Unless harnessed into something, they will MOVE.

2.  When going on trips, put your stuff in your children's suitcases.  Then, teach them responsibility by carrying their own stuff.  This is a win-win for everyone.  Just happens that their win is much heavier.

3.  Play with your children.  Specifically, play hide-and-seek.  This game teaches life skills, folks.  

  

• Teaches counting skills.  Is there really a reason to count past 20 in real life?
• Teaches patience.  In a world of I-need-it-now!, it's important to give them delayed gratification.         To really give them an opportunity to delve into this skill, I typically hide in a really obscure place (with pillows and blankets).  It takes them a bit o' time to find me, and I get a power nap in.  Again, we all win, and, by win, I mean well-rested.

4.  Throw efficiency and planning out the window.  The best thing I learned about post-procreation is letting go of your own agenda.  Without expectations, we are all much happier.  Case in point -- I always thought I was the kind of mother that would listen to a doctor's directives concerning my children's health.  So, Ruby had a stomach virus.  Doc said it was likely a virus.  But, just in case, she wanted me to collect 9 stool samples to make sure it was not giardia.  I thought giardia was a sexually transmitted disease (I was confusing this with gonorrhea).  So, I begrudgingly collected 5 samples (more than 50%!) because I am a mother, and striving for mediocracy is okay. What does planning and efficiency have to do with this?  I did all the work, put the shit in the fridge and was so involved in parenting that I missed the deadline for the excrement to be considered good-excrement.  It was expired shit. So, now, I have a fridge of spoiled poo.  Nasty, ineffecient and poorly planned.  And, I am okay with (sh)it.

5.  Play music.  We listen to music constantly.  The girls can differentiate between all the male singer-songwriters:  Ed Sheeran, Chris Martin, Aloe Blaac.    When we play it, we play it loud and we sing along.  The other day, as I was driving the girls home, we were blasting an awesome song with a pump-your-fist-in-the-air beat.  "All the commotion!  The kiddie (this is so good!  this song even references children!!!)  likes play.  Has people talking.  Talking.  You.  Your sex is on fire!"  So, okay.  Parents should sort-of sensor music, eh?  Don't get me wrong.  I am all about talking to children about the birds and the bees.  I was just really hungry, and it was not the time for Mama to delve into a lesson about fiery sex.  Lesson learned, people.  

That's it.

Miscarriage Mayhem

Growing up, I always felt out of place.  I was nervous when I was among a group of girls.  I did not know how to talk about make-up and boys.  Gossip made my heart ache.  And, not until I had children, did I ever really feel like my body represented the XX in my genetic makeup.  Somewhere along the way, I found other females who liked books, silliness and hip-hop.  Then, I found assertive women who made no apologies for their actions.  These are the same women who showed me that compassion, gentleness and kindness go hand-in-hand with strength and intelligence.  Alongside these women, I found comfort and solace.  I learned to speak honestly, and I learned to speak humanly (to always use words that comfort the heart and confirm daily effort). 

Today, I am thinking about a word that is only whispered by (amazing, passionate, gifted, vulnerable) women—miscarriage.  For the last several weeks, this word started as a brief thought for me.  Then, it became a reality when the sonogram showed lack of a heartbeat.  For the last week, this word has brought depths of anxiety and sadness that I have never known.  And, for the last few days, this word meant hours of labor and work. 

As I take one step forward (and three steps back), I keep thinking of the number of women who have shared their experiences with me.

I had three before I ever had my first child.

I had two.  It was awful.

Me, too.

I am so sorry.  It happened to me.  

Me, too.

Me, too.

According to my doctor, it happens 35% of the time in pregnancies.  I have been reading and reading and reading, and some say it is 50%.  Others state it’s about 20%.  None of this matters for the women and men who fall into this horrid, dark cavern.  The truth is that it happens often, and we are left to mourn by ourselves.  At dinner each night, I will ask my girls, “What made you laugh today?”  I will also ask, “Did you feel lonely today?”  If someone would ask me this question, based on what has happened in the last several days, my answer will always, always be, “Yes.”  The words used to describe this event, “I had a miscarriage," does not, in any way, convey the feelings and thoughts I have.  To me, it will always be, “I lost my baby.  She did not make it, and I am so, so sad.”  I have been through loss before, and this death feels the exact same.  However, I have nothing to show for it.  My belly looks like I ate two, too-many breakfast tacos.  My newly purchased maternity dresses are still draped across my chair.  I did not have the opportunity to make memories with my child outside of my body. My reality was completely discounted by a black-and-white photo of what looked like a black hole.

What has brought me much comfort is the stories of friends.  They shared the horrible, physical events that transpired.  More importantly, they validated the forever emotional journey that has been placed before me.  They unknowingly consoled me when I could not stop crying entire days that were sandwiched in between productive, hopeful (and healing) work days. 

It has been strange and validating. 

It has been draining and empowering.

It has been lonely and loving. 

It has been brutal and healing.

This is my personal journey.  It is a private journey that is my own, and I have opened my heart to let those who understand help me heal.  I need the support, and I am grateful for it.  Though I wish this path for no one, I want to tell other women and men, “I understand, and I am right here with you.”  To my earth angels, I want to tell you, "Thank you for sharing your pain and your love.  I am forever indebted."  To my husband, I want to say again and again, "Your love knows no end.  You are enough.  Giving and Needing will ebb and flow, and we will walk through this hand-in-hand."

Much Too Bright

It is a Wednesday morning, and I am sitting in bed.  The small lamp across the room and the morning’s subtle light is cautiously holding in the all the darkness within the space.  My maternity yoga pants are made for my bloated belly, and I feel tinges of nausea.  I ate a banana because an empty stomach surely results in queasiness.   The sweetness on my tongue a few minutes before is now starting to sour.  My eyes are poor gatekeepers for the continuous tears.

I am waiting.  I am waiting for my body to realize that there is nothing growing in my body.  Nature creates such beauty and awe, doesn’t she?  Nature also finds cruel, but significant methods to keep us safe—and sad.    “It will be about the size of a grape,” the doctor told us.  “It will feel like labor.”  Except this laboring will not bring elation, cooing and that most perfect smell of a new human.  I am good at laboring.  I have done it twice before, and, truth be told, I miss it.  It is hard work, and I relish in meaningful, hard work.  Anything worthwhile takes great effort, and I am stumbling as I work hard for the loss of a grand, wonderful love that would have been in my arms later this year.  

I am grateful, too.  My brain knows to be grateful for the two little girls sitting next to me in bed this morning.  “Mama, why you have band-aids on your arms?  Mama doesn’t feel good.”  I am grateful for the man who quickly pulled the girls off of me when he saw my sad eyes.  This is the same man who is also mourning and must set aside his needs to be my strong, my comfort and my hope.  It is a fine balance, and he does it so well.  My brain feels entitled.  How dare I ask for another healthy pregnancy when I have already been given so much?  Many have been through much, much more, and I know all of this.  Still, my breaths are short, my heart is devastated and I am broken. 

I decided to take a shower.  The water will wash away the stiffness on my face, and the warmth, I know, always brings solace.  As I walked into the bathroom, the light from the window shone much too brightly.  My eyes squinted to shield from its taunting rays and cockiness.  I stood there to take it all in.  The Ache, the Gratitude, the Expectation will only exist together like this on this May morning.  There will be more joyful days, I know.  Silly moments are eager to resurface.  I appreciate all moments of my journey.  For now, I think, I will give myself kindness and rest.   

And, for a brief moment, I smiled and cried thinking that Mom is now with our angel-dear.  

Back to Good

A few weeks ago, I spent two hours with Rob Thomas.   He was there for me almost ten years ago, and he spoke to me once more on this standard Tuesday evening.  I know people love him as the front man to Matchbox 20.  Others did not know about him until his musical mischief smoothing around with Santana.  I just love him as the individual—specifically, the one who can sing a melancholy ballad with angst and hope that resonates with me on most days.

I found him after the release of his first solo gig in 2005.  Mom passed away the previous December, and I was needing something.  Anything, really.  Then, one quiet evening, with Mimi Pug by my side, I found it.  I found my solace.

And when the hour is upon us and our beauty surely gone
No, you will not be forgotten and you will not be alone
No, you will not be alone

And when the day has all but ended and our echo starts to fade
No, you will not be alone then and you will not be afraid
No, you will not be afraid

And when the fog has finally lifted from my cold and tired brow
No, I will not leave you crying, no, I will not let you down
No, I will not let you down and I will not let you down

I swear it was my story, our story.  Mom and me.  I felt it with every goosebump, tear and bone in my body.  I played the CD until it was too stratched to be played.   On this night, he sat down at the piano, played slowly and sung from the soul.  There were six rows ahead of me, and I only saw him.  As I listened to the song, however, I only thought about the other GENTLEman in my life.  The one who is the keeper of my giggles, the catalyst to all-things-fun at home and the rock steady. 

Jeremy stayed home with the girls so that I could go.  This is what he does.  He figures out what is meaningful to me, and he makes it happen.  With a wedding in the same week, it was not kind to the girls (specifically Ruby) to be away from home two days in one week.  As I was propelled back to 2005, my brain quickly went through all that has happened:

Blθθdbath θf Emθtiθns After Mθm’s Passing

Mθving Back tθ Austin

New Jθb

Guilt θf Nθt Being with Dad

Planning a Wedding as a Nθn-Wedding-Planning Persθn

Pregnancy
Dad’s Strθke

Pregnancy, Again

New Jθb

Pack Up and Sell Hθuse

Find a Hθuse in Freakin’ Austin

Dad Mθves In

New Jθb

_________________________________________

Jeremy M. Palafθx

So, he has been the common denominator.  He carried me through every single bit of it—the awesome, the okay, the shitty and the real-shitty I don’t ever tell anyone but him.  I try to put good in the world, and he surely is the great, the really-awesome, that comes back.  He brings me back to good, always.