Mommy is in Timeout

My dad has always had a way with landscaping. In every house we’d ever lived in, the yard has been meticulous.Perfectly manicured, always freshly cut green grass. My friends in high school wouldn’t step on his lawn, for fear of being chased off the property for leaving behind a footprint.Landscaping beds surrounding the perimeter of the house and lot lines.Red and yellow tulips in May. Purple hydrangeas and bright pink Asiatic lilies mid July. Burgundy and yellow mums in September.Various perennials filling all of the beds. Peonies. Hens and Chicks. Hostas. Oh the hostas. So many, you would think my dad ran a hosta rescue mission out of his home.If I ever needed him in the summer, I always knew to look outside.I’d find him walking around the yard, pushing his wheelbarrow, heading to a different area that he felt needed a little of his magic. To get him to come inside, we always had to wait for him to water just one more area.He would be dressed from head-to-toe in his typical yard work gear: a pressed button down shirt with jeans or shorts, depending on the temperature. A hand clipper case attached to his belt loop, dangling on his hip.Working outside was always my dad’s alone time. That is, until a few years back, when he hired a landscaping assistant. Lanagan was overjoyed to accept the position.Watching the two of them work in the yard is one of my favorite things to see. They spread mulch in the spring. They pull weeds mid-July. They give the plants water when they are thirsty. Lanagan also takes a little for himself on occasion.My dad built a fabulous yard, one that has housed many special memories. Graduation parties. Whiffle ball tournaments. Baby showers. Water hose fights. But, I assume, his favorite memories of all, are the moments he has spent walking around the yard with his assistant.

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As I sat alone on the bus with my freshman English class, I glanced down at the children’s short story in my hands. I was proud of my writing as I flipped through it one last time. I couldn’t wait to read it to the preschooler I was paired up with for this field trip.

I made sure the illustrations were all filled in with colored pencil. I double checked that everything I wanted was on those sheets of stapled paper. I read my words over and over, trying my best to memorize them.

I glanced up and scanned everyone on the bus. I watched them all talk with each other, giggling like the 14 year olds that we were.I didn’t have a friend in the class. I was still the new girl at school. For a freshman girl, that can be a death sentence.

We pulled up to the elementary school. I stepped off bus and walked inside. We were paired up immediately and then sat down at the cafeteria tables. Over pancakes & sausage, I read my story to her.With every turn of the page, she moved a little bit closer to me.

When I finished, she gave me a hug and said “Thank you. I love it.” It was a great moment, but I didn’t realize just how special at the time.

A few minutes later, her preschool teacher walked over to me. She told me that this little girl hadn’t talked in school since she started the prior year. Not a word. Ever. She didn’t talk to her classmates or her teacher. But on that day, she talked to me.

She was deeply scarred. She felt pain that most of us never feel in a lifetime, let alone at the age of 4. She kept to herself most days in class, sometimes not even making eye contact with anyone around her.

I had hoped my words would matter to her. What I didn’t anticipate, was how much her words would matter to me.I wrote her a story but that day her reaction helped write my story. Those five words – “Thank you. I love it.” – sparked something inside and pointed me down the career path I walk today.

This post was linked up with The Red Dress Club. The prompt was to showa particular moment that defines you.

It took all the courage I could muster to get up on that exam table. I lifted myself and sat near the edge of the table, with Charlie right at my side. My lap was draped with what doctor’s offices somehow consider to be a comfortable, covering material.

My hands were clutching the white paper that lay underneath of me.The nurse took my blood pressure and then listened to my lungs. Letting deep breaths in and out for her was the first time I actually concentrated on something other than this situation all morning. It was a bit of a strange relief.

My doctor walked in and asked me to lay down. As she began the exam, I turned my head toward the window. The blinds were barely cracked, but I found a small hole that let me peek outside. I watched the rain pour down on the burnt orange and yellow leaves on that gloomy fall morning.I was determined to do anything I could to avoid looking at that monitor. I kept thinking to myself if I don’t look, it won’t happen.

Gazing out the window allowed me to stay in my state of denial.I rolled my head to my left and looked toward my husband. As I turned, he instinctively squeezed my hand tighter. I felt the tears start to stream down my temples, then into my hair.

A few minutes into the exam, the doctor still hadn’t said a word. This was a moment where I knew silence wasn’t a good thing.My doctor removed the device and held her hand out to help me sit up. She confirmed what I already knew.

It was 8 weeks and there was still no heartbeat. The baby was gone.I sat there on that table while everyone else in the room faded away. I couldn’t hear or see my husband or doctor. It was just me with my thoughts. All the moments from this 8 week pregnancy started flashing at rapid speed…

Back to when I first found out about this pregnancy and how initially I wasn’t excited. Back to the guilt I felt for having these thoughts. Why after 19 months of trying for our first son, didn’t I welcome a surprise. I didn’t have to check my basal body temperature this time. There were no trips to the fertility doctor.

Back to how I picked LJ up out of his crib one night and rocked him while he slept. Telling him how sorry I was that this happened so soon. That I didn’t give him more time just for just the 3 of us.

Back to how I was in such shock & denial, I told my husband in the most non-chalant, cold way. I blurted it out as I walked out the door to a Madonna concert. I treated it just like any other order I constantly bark at him. We need milk, oh and by the way, I’m pregnant.

Back to how my initial sadness & fear quickly faded away. And then the pregnancy began to fade as well.Back to how I blamed myself for causing the bleeding. It was my karma due to my negative reactions.

Somewhere in this haze my doctor told us she would leave the room to give us a few moments. The poor thing. I could tell she was nervous. She was fresh out of medical school and this was the first miscarriage she’d ever had to discuss with a patient.

I was begging, tugging on my husbands shirt, for him to make it comeback. Make there be a heartbeat. I knew by the look in his eyes that if there was something he could do, he would’ve made it happen.

I didn’t want to get off this table and leave the room. I’d have to tell my mom that the baby was no longer. I’d have to go home and wait for it to naturally pass. I’d have to tell my son, who I held just last week whispering in his ear that he’d be a big brother, that it wasn’t going to happen right now.

In this room I didn’t have to face anyone. I didn’t have to explain what had happened. We were protected. We could mourn. It took all the courage I could muster to get down from  that exam table.

This post was linked up with The Red Dress Club. The prompt was to giveyour readers a snapshot of a room from your past.

This past weekend, I took my kids out to my parents house to celebrate my dad’s birthday. Whenever I stay at my old house, the memories come rushing back. Every room gives a glimpse of my past.When I sit in our living room, I can see us all huddled around the Christmas tree in our brand new holiday pajamas. Our whole family opening gifts with a fire going in the background. A Christmas tree that is now filled with gifts for my kids.I have a seat at the dining room table we’ve had since I was born. I think back to how many meals this table has seen. How many different conversations we’ve had while sitting in these chairs. How many biology projects were finished on this table at the 11th hour.I look at my parents collection of books. Books that I used to stare at as a child, wondering what stories were inside of them. New books would come, some would go, but one always remained. A book with the same title as my first name.I didn’t realize a simple moment in the bathroom would stand out me the most.  You wouldn’t think a bathroom would hold memories. As I watched my oldest son washing his hands, I realized it did. He stood on his tiptoes trying to reach the running water. Using my old step stool, he reached over the edge of the counter to rinse off the soap.It was a very unassuming step stool. It’s bright red, yellow & blue paint chipping off after years of wear & tear. Text painted on the slats that reads:to sit, to stand this step stool is very grandI know the text not from looking at the stool, but from memory. Looking at him, immediately takes me back to my childhood. I saw myself standing there waiting to use my stool. My thick, long brown hair held back with a rubber band. My white fleece nightgown with red vertical stripes. My toothbrush in hand. I step up to get ready for bed.I used this stool every night as a child. Now my son was using it almost 30 years later. It was a full circle moment where I saw my son walking in my footsteps.A tiny little piece of furniture. A small symbol that reminds me of how fortunate I was as a child. How not only in my early years, but also today, my parents always lent me a step stool. How they have always been there to give me a helping hand.

This post was for a memory & reflection prompt with The Red Dress Club