When it felt like history was repeating itself...

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The bathroom fan was making that familiar obnoxious sound it makes when the light switch is flipped on.

"Does it always make that noise?" The tall man said.

How should I answer? I can't lie. What happens if I say yes? Will I get in trouble? I didn't know what the right answer was supposed to be. "Sometimes," I said.

He wrote a note down on the paper on his clipboard.

I felt like I was going to get in trouble. My mom was at work. I'm assuming my dad was too since he wasn't there but  I don't remember much more from that day.  Later my mom questioned me about the inspection, what the tall man said, how I answered. I remember a sense of feeling like I had answered wrongly, ruined things and our rent was not going to be paid.

We were on welfare, which included some form of rental assistance. When DPSS is paying your rent, an inspector is regularly sent to assess your home and make sure everything is in proper working order. That's how I understood it anyway. I remember my aunts would come before the inspector's scheduled appointment to help my mom make our home spotless. I mean *spotless*!!!

Like many children in the 80's, my brother and I were latch-key kids. Walking home after school to an empty house, alone and unsupervised, while our parents worked. My childhood changed drastically during the recession of that decade. I started my education at a private school, driven to and from school by my stay-at-home-mom. By third grade I was attending and walking to and from the local public school. The recession provided my dad with a string of lay-offs to add to his resume.

Why my parents thought it was ok to have their very shy, young daughter, allow a stranger, a grown man, into our home, while alone, and give him a tour, I have no idea. I had to show him every room in the house, bedrooms, kitchen, restrooms. I knew he wouldn't look in the closets though. Which was good because that's where I threw all my stuff when I 'cleaned' my room.

This incident from my childhood immediately came to mind when the investigator showed up at my door last week. I wasn't sure why. Why it came to mind and WHY I was going through something so similar as an adult. Were my children destined to relive my own painful childhood moments?

No! My childhood is not theirs! What happened last week--my children didn't have to experience alone, like I did. They didn't have to take on any adult responsibility, like I did.

I am the mom now and I am the adult in charge, facing adult situations. My children haven't been left to figure out challenges that children shouldn't have to figure out. I am there for them.

I answered the door last week and closed it behind me to shield my children. Oldest was standing next to me, but he's a grown man and I still handled it. It stops with me. My children aren't growing up with awkward memories of coming home after school alone. I'm not putting my fears on them. I'm not forcing them to face situations that I am too embarrassed or ashamed to face myself. I have not left them unprotected.

I am doing something different. I have changed their future and my past. My past is not being repeated negatively, but being used positively to shape the way I parent, which shapes the childhood my kids have.

I am learning from my parents choices and how it affected me as a child. I am applying those lessons forward. I refuse to blindly repeat past mistakes. I am learning from them. I am free and so are my children. I am not a victim of my past, destined to never escape, repeating negative cycles and perpetrating the same fears and disappointments I experienced as a child, onto my own children. I am paying it all forward, positively.

Having felt rejected--I accept my children. Having felt unloved and insecure--I reassure my children and show them my love. Having felt alone and abandoned--I am there for them and am not going anywhere. Feeling like I had to grow up too fast and take care of myself--I AM the grown up taking care of them.

I am applying these truths to every area of my life. How my parents treated each other, which trickled down to us kids, I am learning from. The good and the bad. My parents had fears and wounds they could never escape from. They unknowingly passed them on to us kids. I see this around me every day, parents, adults, repeating their own parents negative patterns of behavior. I won't do it.

Instead I choose to acknowledge the weaknesses and pray for the grace to make better choices. No, my past is not going to repeat itself for my kids. I am choosing to break the negative cycles and embrace, appreciate and pass down the positive legacies I am still inheriting from my parents. My mom was a woman of faith. Regardless of the hardships she faced or mistakes she made, she kept on believing. So will I...and even better.

7 Years

That's how long she's been gone. My mom.  I remember every detail. At least I believe I do. I feel like I know her even better since she died. Maybe it's not a knowing but an understanding. So much more makes sense to me now. Things she did, choices she made, how she behaved.

Mostly, the anger. I think the anger was disappointment and frustration really. I get it now. I've known it. It breaks a heart. Sometimes there's nothing a heart that is so broken, can do, but be angry. It was more apparent at times than others.

"You were such a good baby. You never gave me any trouble," she said. Implying I did now? 

The ktbunch and I stayed at her house that last week. My sister-in-love and I took shifts staying near her. We wrote down her temperature, doses of medication, blood pressure. I slept in the living room, on an air mattress, trying to get some rest occasionally for a few hours.

People wanted to come and visit. It seemed a little too late to me. It created more work for us. I felt like my attention was divided between 'entertaining guests', who whispered in not so hushed tones,  'How much longer does she have?' and spending my mom's final moments with her.  There was the occasional out of place laughter in the living room, as if there wasn't a woman dying in the next room over.

"I am going to wring your neck!" OR "I swear, I will break your arm!" She yelled at me often. Even though I never really believed her, I knew better than to risk it.

The hospice nurse stayed up with her, informing us another nurse would be coming to relieve her. I don't remember how many nights it was before she passed. I went to the living room to get some sleep on the air mattress. I thought it was a dream. I don't think that now. Something woke me up. I saw mom passing by the doorway. She was slowly walking down the hallway to the restroom, accompanied by a male nurse with very long hair. I knew she'd be uncomfortable with the male nurse but I was just too tired to care that much. I figured, he's a professional. I'll meet him in the morning, I thought and went back to sleep.

The next morning, I went into the room and saw the same hospice nurse from the night before. She must've come back after the night shift nurse? I was confused. "Where's the other nurse?"

"Huh?" She was confused.
"Did you take my mom to the restroom last night?"
"No. She's been asleep all night," she answered.

At some point I stopped taking it.  I didn't care if she was able to get me over her knee-I was not going to let her spank me any more...or see me cry about it if she did. The counseling started soon after the wrestling. I only remember going one time but it may have been two. I sat there in defiant silence, refusing to speak a word to the counselor.

She was waking up, indicating she had to use the restroom but was too weak. She sat there, embarrassed. The nurse, my sister-in-love and I wheeled her down the hall. We set the bath chair up in the middle of the restroom. I was so glad my parents had redone the floor in tile. It was awkward transferring her from the wheelchair to the bath chair. She could barely sit up. We washed her up quickly using the hand-held shower head. Once we got her back in bed, she never got up again. I don't think she ever woke up after that either.

"I thought we'd be best friends and you would tell me everything," she told me often. Initially, she seemed more hurt that I didn't tell her I was interested in having sex with the Mr. than the fact that I had gotten pregnant. 

Grandma died four months before mom. I thought that was hard. It was only the beginning. Grandma, mom, my father-in-love, a dear friend, a childhood friend, a church friend...and those were just to death. Security, stability, income, a car-though we got it back. I've lost my husband twice-or I guess, he's lost himself. A ministry, friendships, trust, love, dreams, years of pictures. At least grandma was old enough to die.

"I just wanted you to be happy and everything to be perfect. I wanted to be the perfect mom," she said. She never understood how valuable it was to be enough.

Seven years of losing has led me through seven years of finding.

"You don't know what I gave up for you!" It wasn't for me to know...or carry.

Here I am.

Katy Street

There once was a girl named KATY
but no one knew her name.
"Kathy."
"No, Katy."
"Hello, Cathy."
"Katy."
There once was a boy who
stole a street sign for a girl
named, Katy, because it had
her name on it.
It would have been romantic
except he was a control freak.
And short.

It's Time to Love Yourself

I remember being told, often, that I was 'beautiful', growing up. I'm not sure if it had anything to do with the fact that it was mostly by grown men that gave me the creeps, or that I was a little girl and too young for men to be looking at me like that and calling me beautiful, but I don't think I ever really believed it to begin with.

I don't know when it occurred to me to not believe it. I wasn't ever much of a dieter either. To this day I don't even own a scale, but I can still tell you about how much I weigh.

But somewhere along the line, I began to believe I didn't measure up and I certainly wasn't pretty. I wasn't 'enough' of anything. I was just average.

That began to change this last year. Maybe it has something to do with turning forty. God had been giving me glimpses of myself, in the mirror... Then I attended this conference and the female speaker shared this verse, Eph 5:29, about loving your body.

It sealed the deal. I was done. OVER it. I was going to LOVE myself. I wasn't going to slander God's creation one more time by speaking negatively in regards to myself, especially my body and outward appearance.

We weren't created to hate ourselves. Somehow, we woke up one day and had believed the lie. That we were less than we were created to be. And whatever and however we were created simply wasn't good enough. It's a lie.

We believed if we just walked, ran, or ellipticalled ourselves enough--we would magically love our bodies. It isn't true. It never has been and never will be. I decided then and there to give up trying to make my body into something I might some day love and be satisfied with. Instead, I would love it now. I would be satisfied now.

We had it backwards. We bought into the idea that if we worked out enough or weighed the right amount we would then love ourselves. It was supposed to be the other way around. I don't do yoga so that I will then grow to love my body. I love my body, therefor I have grown to love yoga.

I take my daughter to yoga with me BECAUSE we love and care for our 'temple' and want to treat them right. The love was supposed to come first. I stopped fighting my body. And I stopped caring what you think about it.

I had to get my daughter a new swim suit this season. She's too big for the girls sizes but obviously not a grown woman to fit into some of the womens adult sizes and styles. It was a bit frustrating. It didn't help that the swim suit section of the store was a total mess! I felt complete dread in having to go get her a suit. I didn't want her to dread it. I didn't want her to experience standing in front of a dressing room mirror, trying on anything, like I had so many times in the past, and grow to loathe her body. Highlighting every minute flaw.

I found her one that I thought would do and a few others for choice. I didn't make it about how she would 'look' in it. I made it about which one fit right and she felt comfortable in. Done. We found a cute one that fit her great.

Then I realized I needed a new suit. Nothing was on sale and nothing was on clearance. New thought #1 was: I am worth full price! New thought #2 was: I am going to find a swim suit and I am going to look fabulous in it. Guess what? I did! It was amazing. I went in with a positive attitude toward myself and I even left with one. The most painful part was paying full-price, cause I love a good bargain.

We all have flaws, regardless of our waist size. We all have insecurities. I have just decided I am done pointing out and focusing on mine. DONE! I am more than just a body. More than a specific body part. When I focus on my flaws, I objectify myself. I judge my value and self worth on how one part of me, a few square inches, or more, looks.

By focusing on my outward appearance, even negatively, I am devaluing what I claim to hold as worthy: my inward character. Either I value character or I don't.

It's time to let go. Physical insecurity--buhbye! Being physical flaw focused--no more! It's time to stop hiding and hating who we really are, once and for all. Love yourself and be free, sister. It's time.

Ever get that feeling...

like everything is moving, suddenly, but you aren't sure exactly what direction it's all going in...but it feels exciting. You embrace the change, full of anticipation for whatever the future holds.

Then.It.Just.Stops!

You're back to wondering what is going on? It feels like you're in a freeze frame of slow motion except everything around you, maybe, is still moving at a lightning speed? Maybe I'm in Dorothy's house, while the tornado of the world is outside my window, spinning madly around me. Yah. Maybe that is what is happening.

I am not sure where I am going to land. Or, at this point, if I ever will.

Maybe it's because I recently had my birthday. (which was fabulous, by the way) Or maybe not. Maybe it's because birthdays force us to think of our births...and the woman responsible for my birth is not here. The woman I originated from, of whom I am practically a twin of--no longer exists on this earth.

In a few days, it will be Mother's Day. Another reminder of who I thought I was, a mother, but realize, is only one aspect of who I am. Also a reminder of what I am missing. Mother's Day is the most crowded day at the cemetery. I try to avoid going, if possible. I couldn't be a mother if it weren't for my kids. I am blessed to have them. I wouldn't be a mother if it weren't for my husband either. For whatever that is worth--even if only to me.

On the other side of my birth...is the paternity of it all. A sudden surprise, bigger than the party they threw me?...a man I can remember meeting when I was nineteen...or maybe twenty. I know I was already married, though my husband was not there when we met. I don't remember where he was, but I wish he would have been there. I really wish he had been there. Oldest was a newborn.

I met him but I don't remember saying much, if anything. He and my mother spoke to each other, while I stood there awkwardly, silent, like a little girl trapped in my grown body. They spoke of me, of my existence, of my coming into being, into their lives, though I was standing right next to them...once again invisible.

I couldn't really tell you what he looked like. I knew he was fair skinned, like me. Eyes. Where my blue eyes came from? He held my son, for a dance. That was it. I never expected or imagined anything beyond that.

But here we are. Surprise! I'm not the little girl I was when he first met or left me. I am not nineteen or twenty...the age of my mom, when he left her? The age he was when I was born?

I just turned forty. I've had a dad all my life. In my life. I am his daughter.

But he wants to call me his daughter, when we meet...again. Again, my husband isn't here. That's strange isn't it? I wonder why this is, that he isn't here for this. I really wish he was here, this time.

I know what he looks like now. In this cyber-age of technology, I can click on his picture whenever I want. It doesn't tell me much though. Not really. I'm not even sure of what I want to know. Can you really express forty years of a life-time in an email? Is it even worth the effort at this point?

I want to believe it's worth everything. Maybe if we just start now. Working forward and not backward. I do not know. I don't have any great answers. I don't even have great questions anymore.

I think the house I'm in, that was spinning through the air, just landed.
I think, maybe, the journey home, starts now.

Care Bear Movie

This was a prompt from a school assignment this past semester: not a recent event.

*     *     *

“Katy.”

“HI!” I smiled in surprise.

“Do you remember me?”

Jason Flores. My elementary school boyfriend. He looked exactly the same, bony and skinny, drawn face.

“Yes! Of course. Jason Flores.” I emphasized his name to prove I remembered.

“Well, give me a hug.”

I stood up from the cheap plastic chair, slightly embarrassed. I had been waiting for our pizza order to finish. My family was visiting friends and the wife and I were making a quick dinner run. Why did I choose not to wear make-up today?

“You look exactly the same.”

I blushed at his compliment, knowing seventeen years were impossible not to notice. I hadn’t seen him since I switched schools for eighth grade.

*          *          *

I blushed when I turned around and realized it was Jason who had whistled at me. Whistled, while riding his bike past my lane. He was the sweetest boy I knew but he was on the fringes of our social circle. He often wore a baseball hat over his dirty blond hair and had light skin, though his dad was Hispanic. I don’t remember the color of his eyes. I knew that he madly adored me.

          

I was finally old enough to ride my bike home from school. A blue beach cruiser. We took the same route home because we lived in the same gated complex. Back then ‘gated complex’ didn’t have the positive connotation it does now. It was simply known as “The Manor.” He lived somewhere near the front of the complex and I lived closer to the back.

He offered to ride me home on the handle bars of my bike. It sounds romantic but since we were both at the age where all the boys were skinny and short and the girls tall and getting curves, it was only awkward. I was afraid he’d realize how heavy I was and not be able to support me on the bike. I stayed on the handle bars for only a minute before I pretended I was freaked out and made myself fall off. That’s all I remember from that walk home.

Another time, for my birthday, he came to my house unexpectedly to give me a gift. It was a thick metal bracelet that looked like gold. I think he bought it from Thrifty’s. It had my name in cursive letters across it. Spelled wrong, of course. My name can never be found spelled correctly on personalized items.

After he whistled, he rode up to me and some sort of chit-chat ensued.  “Hey, maybe we can go see that Care-Bear movie sometime.”

“Sure.” Feeling too uncomfortable to continue making eye contact, I looked down at the concrete sidewalk and didn’t say anything else. I didn’t want to see a dumb Care-Bear cartoon!

*          *          *

“Well, our pizza’s done...It was nice seeing you,” I said.

“Yah, you too.”
I had forgotten to introduce my friend. “Oh, Glenda, I’m so sorry. That was an old boyfriend I had when I was in elementary school.” I told her as we got back into her car.
She smiled and laughed. “Wow, he didn’t stop smiling the entire time he was talking to you.” 

 Neither did I.