My holiday winter babies have come and gone and there's a lull until families start contacting me for summer due dates. The lull sucks. It's "woe is me" and "I never want to be on call ever again" all rolled into one confused but adorable me.
It's the quitting season.
It's the point of the year where I mull over each e-mail I get and wonder if now is a good time to hang up the rebozo and live the carefree life of someone who isn't constantly stressed about childcare and if the Doula Wagon will self-combust on my way to the hospital. I daydream about last-minute vacations not sandwiched recklessly between births and on-call periods. I fantasize about not having to navigate dark inner-city parking lots and the twisty-turny catacombs from the after-hours Emergency Room entrance to Labor & Delivery. I smile at the idea of sleeping in my own bed all night instead of contorted into a Cirque du Soleil performer in a rickety vinyl chair for broken seconds of sleep before I'm needed again. I dream about knowing I'll likely never be put in a position where I'm so tired I want to puke and/or cry.
And then I sigh and press the "reply" button to set up that interview.
Deep down, I don't know how to quit this. Not entirely. Because when I walk into that coffee shop and sit across from a mother who is full to the brim of hopes and possibilities, I know this is such an amazing thing to be part of. It's insanely difficult, yes, but nothing short of miraculous. And then I'm pulled back in to repeat the cycle.
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
Vortex Shmortex
2014. The winter of the Polar Vortex.
Polar Vortex. Sounds like an amusement park ride. I guess it kind of is like a rollercoaster, but with more frozen snot bubbles and less fun. Negative 15 degrees and close to -40 wind chills? Fuhgeddaboutit.
No, I mean, really. Forget about it. Because if you don't, you will flee Michigan as soon as you can get your car battery to hold a charge again.
When we look back at this winter we will be reminded of how close we came to joining a monastery and/or finding creative ways to off our family. That's what happens when you end up with roughly 24597 snow days after Christmas break. My kids' brains literally turned into cream of wheat in the space of three weeks. Three verrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry loooooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnngggggggg weeeeeeeeeeks. In case you wondered, it is not favorable to have kids with craniums full of porridge. They don't have porridge kids in the monastery. Or in jail.
Oh, please. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. I'm sure you had fantasies about that whole "vow of silence" thing. And arsenic. But I didn't do it, and neither did you. I chalk that up as a win.
In an attempt to break this funk, the other day I tried to recreate Dittrich fur's bareback, fur-wearing gallop through the snowy countryside--except with a saddle and without the fur. Oh, and at a walk. In snow up to her knees, my horse felt more like a camel than anything else. We made it two times around the yard before I called it. Horses can have heart attacks, too. The way my day was going, I didn't want to push it.
Oh, and I miss running.
Really. I just said that. And I even meant it. It might be a sign of the end times--better check that.
I miss running outside. It's not the sub-zero temps that scare me, because I've been out running in -11 degree wind chills (and colder temps than that doing barn chores). It's not even the snow or ice on the road, thanks to my handy-dandy snow chains. No, I'm a tough cookie. That road is just not big enough for the both of us, a car and myself. And I can't trust my neighbor not to schuss straight into my kneecaps with his redneckified F-10. Plus, the treadmill's been unkind to my foot this week, so I've taken some time off to help it heal. I guess sitting in bed mainlining chocolate chip cookies is the next best thing.
There's no real point to this blog, other than this winter blows. Pass the cookies!
The End.
Polar Vortex. Sounds like an amusement park ride. I guess it kind of is like a rollercoaster, but with more frozen snot bubbles and less fun. Negative 15 degrees and close to -40 wind chills? Fuhgeddaboutit.
No, I mean, really. Forget about it. Because if you don't, you will flee Michigan as soon as you can get your car battery to hold a charge again.
When we look back at this winter we will be reminded of how close we came to joining a monastery and/or finding creative ways to off our family. That's what happens when you end up with roughly 24597 snow days after Christmas break. My kids' brains literally turned into cream of wheat in the space of three weeks. Three verrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry loooooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnngggggggg weeeeeeeeeeks. In case you wondered, it is not favorable to have kids with craniums full of porridge. They don't have porridge kids in the monastery. Or in jail.
Oh, please. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. I'm sure you had fantasies about that whole "vow of silence" thing. And arsenic. But I didn't do it, and neither did you. I chalk that up as a win.
In an attempt to break this funk, the other day I tried to recreate Dittrich fur's bareback, fur-wearing gallop through the snowy countryside--except with a saddle and without the fur. Oh, and at a walk. In snow up to her knees, my horse felt more like a camel than anything else. We made it two times around the yard before I called it. Horses can have heart attacks, too. The way my day was going, I didn't want to push it.
Oh, and I miss running.
Really. I just said that. And I even meant it. It might be a sign of the end times--better check that.
I miss running outside. It's not the sub-zero temps that scare me, because I've been out running in -11 degree wind chills (and colder temps than that doing barn chores). It's not even the snow or ice on the road, thanks to my handy-dandy snow chains. No, I'm a tough cookie. That road is just not big enough for the both of us, a car and myself. And I can't trust my neighbor not to schuss straight into my kneecaps with his redneckified F-10. Plus, the treadmill's been unkind to my foot this week, so I've taken some time off to help it heal. I guess sitting in bed mainlining chocolate chip cookies is the next best thing.
There's no real point to this blog, other than this winter blows. Pass the cookies!
The End.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
The Tapestry Of
When I posted my rant about wishy-washy birth partners the other day, the call to arms I so cleverly titled "This One's For the Fellas", I never dreamed that 100+ people would read it. I imagined a few would skim it and the husband hate mail would begin piling in, but never 100-something sets of eyeballs on my frustrated words.
So far so good on the husband hate mail. I'll give it time. And, no, that's not an invitation. I love you guys, really. Just not as much when you're being a pain in the behind.
On my Facebook wall, where I originally posted this, I explained to my friends that I'd written "This One's For the Fellas" over a year ago when I'd had the displeasure of meeting a couple of particularly unsupportive husbands. One man completely belittled his wife (and, frankly, myself) in public and then left abruptly in the middle of our interview, leaving her to blush and apologize for him when she needed an apology from him more than I did. Luckily, for as many clueless, borderline abusive relationships I've come across in my life and in my work as a doula, I've been blessed to know so many really connected couples and birth partners who go above and beyond. It's amazing to see this first-hand, but really a wake-up call to me when I come across a crumbling situation.
As a doula, I don't have a psychology degree. I'm not qualified to help these families in any way other than preparing themselves for birth. But I still see it. The very primal essence of birth brings all of these emotions to the surface without any effort. If there's a rift in your marriage, I probably will get a good glimpse at it. If you have fear or scars from past abuse, I can guess they exist based on how you bring your baby into the world. Maybe it's science or something else explainable, but I prefer to think it's intuition and knowing after watching a hundred families interact. Or not interact.
We are a hopelessly intricate tapestry woven with the bitter threads of daddy issues and doubts and insecurities. Each one of us are beautiful and tragic works of art.
I cannot fix a lifetime of problems in a few short months. But I can hold witness to it. I can say, yes, I see it. Yes, it happened. You aren't crazy.
I do not expect to right the wrongs of a thousand inattentive partners in a few short paragraphs. On the other hand, I do not wish to rile up all of the volatile pregnant women, either. But this matters, what you are doing as a unit. You are creating a new person who will be a confusing, glorious jumble of threads from you and your partner. This baby deserves your very best, not only for him or her, but also for your relationship.
Families leave me short weeks after baby arrives, and our communications usually go the way of the buffalo. But I always wonder what becomes of the struggling partners after our silence is established. What becomes of the wriggling child I watched gulp its first breath of being? Is this as good as it gets, this outpouring of love and joy at the birth of this child?
I hope not.
So far so good on the husband hate mail. I'll give it time. And, no, that's not an invitation. I love you guys, really. Just not as much when you're being a pain in the behind.
On my Facebook wall, where I originally posted this, I explained to my friends that I'd written "This One's For the Fellas" over a year ago when I'd had the displeasure of meeting a couple of particularly unsupportive husbands. One man completely belittled his wife (and, frankly, myself) in public and then left abruptly in the middle of our interview, leaving her to blush and apologize for him when she needed an apology from him more than I did. Luckily, for as many clueless, borderline abusive relationships I've come across in my life and in my work as a doula, I've been blessed to know so many really connected couples and birth partners who go above and beyond. It's amazing to see this first-hand, but really a wake-up call to me when I come across a crumbling situation.
As a doula, I don't have a psychology degree. I'm not qualified to help these families in any way other than preparing themselves for birth. But I still see it. The very primal essence of birth brings all of these emotions to the surface without any effort. If there's a rift in your marriage, I probably will get a good glimpse at it. If you have fear or scars from past abuse, I can guess they exist based on how you bring your baby into the world. Maybe it's science or something else explainable, but I prefer to think it's intuition and knowing after watching a hundred families interact. Or not interact.
We are a hopelessly intricate tapestry woven with the bitter threads of daddy issues and doubts and insecurities. Each one of us are beautiful and tragic works of art.
I cannot fix a lifetime of problems in a few short months. But I can hold witness to it. I can say, yes, I see it. Yes, it happened. You aren't crazy.
I do not expect to right the wrongs of a thousand inattentive partners in a few short paragraphs. On the other hand, I do not wish to rile up all of the volatile pregnant women, either. But this matters, what you are doing as a unit. You are creating a new person who will be a confusing, glorious jumble of threads from you and your partner. This baby deserves your very best, not only for him or her, but also for your relationship.
Families leave me short weeks after baby arrives, and our communications usually go the way of the buffalo. But I always wonder what becomes of the struggling partners after our silence is established. What becomes of the wriggling child I watched gulp its first breath of being? Is this as good as it gets, this outpouring of love and joy at the birth of this child?
I hope not.
Thursday, January 2, 2014
This One's For the Fellas
Yeah, you heard me, guys..... And, when I say fellas, this isn't to exclude the ladies, should you be in a same-sex relationship. If you're in a relationship and not the one physically growing a human being, I'm talking to YOU. Filter off, and quite possibly, gloves off. I'm blaming this a wee bit on not being topped-off in the sleep department, but maybe just a little because I've seen a recurring theme over and over (which is what a recurring theme is, I guess). And, frankly, for you thrifty gentlemen, I think you could practically put me out of a job if you'd just pay attention and figure out how to put into practice what I'm about to say.
Since when did giving birth to a baby become strictly women's work? Because it involves extreme focus around your old lady's hoo-hah and bodily fluids? It's only okay to be interested in those things when something is entering, not exiting? Why should the weight of this experience rest on your babymama's shoulders? Why is she the one reading the books and scouring the Interwebs for every tidbit of pregnancy and birth-related info to ever be published?
"Whatever makes you happy!" is the knee-jerk (and only appropriate) response for when she asks you what color to paint the nursery or what she wants to eat for dinner, NOT for when she is asking what your opinion is on such hot-button topics as circumcision or immunizations.
What you're not getting is that this birth will affect your family and your family's family forever, meaning, like, a really long time. Your woman needs you to take some interest in what's going to be going on because she may not be 100% wanting to make all of these decisions in, you know, the minute she has to rest in between waves of the most intense discomfort she will likely ever experience. When you have no idea what the birth process looks like or what that machine over there does and why these people in Haz-Mat suits are swooping in like a scene from E.T., you are along for the ride, which is exactly what you've primed yourself for.
Your baby will have to live with his or her birth experience for the rest of their life. Your partner will live with the scars or badges of honor from this birth for the rest of her life. Let's face it, she may dump you somewhere along the road, but a child is forever, for all three of you. Whether you care about making this experience awesome for your partner, you should care for your little one. Protection of your baby doesn't begin the second you walk into your house. Know what typical birth looks like. Know what questions could come up in the course of a birth. You know that old saying -- "Failure to plan is a plan for failure." Some couples luck out just rolling the dice and showing up at the hospital with no clue, but those people also should buy a lotto ticket.
Also, don't make the assumption that picking a hospital full of all of the latest and greatest technology means that all will go according to [your woman's] plan. Statistics show that all the technology under the sun isn't improving birth outcomes. Oh, and your choice to go with Dr. Amazing doesn't assure that you will be transported on a fluffy little cloud from "pregnant" to "parents".
And, psssssh. Is this about blood? Most of us have an aversion to blood. And other things. If given the choice, I'd say your woman probably would choose to sit in the Waiting Room and let you handle this by yourself. Man up! I know you can! There are plenty of places you can sit and participate with this birth process that doesn't involve a front-row-center eyeful of the nitty gritty. Just pretend the doctors or midwives are working on your wife's carburetor. A carburetor with a baby stuck inside. I'm sure that'll help. But even if it doesn't, there are ways around it.... and I promise she won't let you forget it if you leave her to go it alone.
As a doula, I'm often hired because women don't feel the confidence in their partners to know what in the world is happening. And while I'm thrilled to support women and families who need it, I'd also be ecstatic if doulas were extinct like.... Sasquatch? Something that's extinct? I don't know... because partners were setting aside a little time to pick up a book or even minimally tune into that weekly childbirth class they've been forced into for the next month.
Am I ranting? Totally... but it is because I see your glazed-over expressions lock into place when the word "birth" is uttered in a sentence. I hear the way her voice raises a couple octaves every time you shrug your shoulders when she's looking for input on your child's birth plan. "That's just the way he is." They tell me, as if that makes it all okey-dokey. Odds are, if you're married, you had more opinions about your wedding.... And I'm pretty sure you spent longer putting together your bracket for March Madness, so why the complacency here? If I could take you by the shoulders and shake you for a couple seconds, I would. Care about this, goshdarnitall! I know you've got it in you.
I know you've got some brains in your noggin--that's why you chose your amazing partner. Why not use your powers for good instead of meh? Start by thinking of ways you can become more involved: Challenging yourself to five minutes of reading something birthy each day; discussing specifics surrounding the event of the year (your baby's birth day) with your lady; really shock her by putting together ideas for your birth plan; encourage her to practice her relaxation or all those silly positive sayings you usually make fun of her for.
Guys (and non-guy counterparts), you've GOT this.
Since when did giving birth to a baby become strictly women's work? Because it involves extreme focus around your old lady's hoo-hah and bodily fluids? It's only okay to be interested in those things when something is entering, not exiting? Why should the weight of this experience rest on your babymama's shoulders? Why is she the one reading the books and scouring the Interwebs for every tidbit of pregnancy and birth-related info to ever be published?
"Whatever makes you happy!" is the knee-jerk (and only appropriate) response for when she asks you what color to paint the nursery or what she wants to eat for dinner, NOT for when she is asking what your opinion is on such hot-button topics as circumcision or immunizations.
What you're not getting is that this birth will affect your family and your family's family forever, meaning, like, a really long time. Your woman needs you to take some interest in what's going to be going on because she may not be 100% wanting to make all of these decisions in, you know, the minute she has to rest in between waves of the most intense discomfort she will likely ever experience. When you have no idea what the birth process looks like or what that machine over there does and why these people in Haz-Mat suits are swooping in like a scene from E.T., you are along for the ride, which is exactly what you've primed yourself for.
Your baby will have to live with his or her birth experience for the rest of their life. Your partner will live with the scars or badges of honor from this birth for the rest of her life. Let's face it, she may dump you somewhere along the road, but a child is forever, for all three of you. Whether you care about making this experience awesome for your partner, you should care for your little one. Protection of your baby doesn't begin the second you walk into your house. Know what typical birth looks like. Know what questions could come up in the course of a birth. You know that old saying -- "Failure to plan is a plan for failure." Some couples luck out just rolling the dice and showing up at the hospital with no clue, but those people also should buy a lotto ticket.
Also, don't make the assumption that picking a hospital full of all of the latest and greatest technology means that all will go according to [your woman's] plan. Statistics show that all the technology under the sun isn't improving birth outcomes. Oh, and your choice to go with Dr. Amazing doesn't assure that you will be transported on a fluffy little cloud from "pregnant" to "parents".
And, psssssh. Is this about blood? Most of us have an aversion to blood. And other things. If given the choice, I'd say your woman probably would choose to sit in the Waiting Room and let you handle this by yourself. Man up! I know you can! There are plenty of places you can sit and participate with this birth process that doesn't involve a front-row-center eyeful of the nitty gritty. Just pretend the doctors or midwives are working on your wife's carburetor. A carburetor with a baby stuck inside. I'm sure that'll help. But even if it doesn't, there are ways around it.... and I promise she won't let you forget it if you leave her to go it alone.
As a doula, I'm often hired because women don't feel the confidence in their partners to know what in the world is happening. And while I'm thrilled to support women and families who need it, I'd also be ecstatic if doulas were extinct like.... Sasquatch? Something that's extinct? I don't know... because partners were setting aside a little time to pick up a book or even minimally tune into that weekly childbirth class they've been forced into for the next month.
Am I ranting? Totally... but it is because I see your glazed-over expressions lock into place when the word "birth" is uttered in a sentence. I hear the way her voice raises a couple octaves every time you shrug your shoulders when she's looking for input on your child's birth plan. "That's just the way he is." They tell me, as if that makes it all okey-dokey. Odds are, if you're married, you had more opinions about your wedding.... And I'm pretty sure you spent longer putting together your bracket for March Madness, so why the complacency here? If I could take you by the shoulders and shake you for a couple seconds, I would. Care about this, goshdarnitall! I know you've got it in you.
I know you've got some brains in your noggin--that's why you chose your amazing partner. Why not use your powers for good instead of meh? Start by thinking of ways you can become more involved: Challenging yourself to five minutes of reading something birthy each day; discussing specifics surrounding the event of the year (your baby's birth day) with your lady; really shock her by putting together ideas for your birth plan; encourage her to practice her relaxation or all those silly positive sayings you usually make fun of her for.
Guys (and non-guy counterparts), you've GOT this.
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
2013: The Best of My Worst, The Worst of My Best
I'm in my pajamas on New Year's Eve.
Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course. Say what you will, but pajamas make nearly almost everything better. Even Wal-Mart. Pretend you don't agree--I won't believe you.
My stomach is protesting for the fourth day in a row. I'm afraid to eat the salad with Italian dressing I'm craving knowing salad is never awesome the second time around, knowing I hold no interest in becoming a human Salad Shooter.
A pain throbs between my eye sockets and the base of my skull. I've seen movies like this, where a person's head splits in two, revealing the sparking, beeping innards of the robot menace within. I'm hoping there's a robot menace within, at least, because I have a busy weekend ahead and the human menace (me) doesn't want to deal with the holiday clean-up that this dumb virus has delayed.
It's probably dehydration. Darn.
Two Advil and a lot of water later and the headache's not getting better, so I pull on my sleep mask while Mr. Ohboy watches Moonshiners. Seriously, Moonshiners. I can't get behind this show, even with a main character, a full-grown adult named Tickle. No. With the twangy lullaby of sweaty gentlemen wearing overalls and no t-shirts, I'm asleep by 8:30p.m.
An hour later and the unofficial neighborhood fireworks wake me up. I proceed to text my friend Allison, who always seems to get the "Seriously? Fireworks?" texts from me and I don't know why, other than to also stress her out because now she owns a horse who may or may not appreciate said fireworks. We quickly established that my age bracket is sliding closer to that of a Medicare recipient than its rightful place of 35. (The fireworks and random machine gun firing awoke me again just after midnight. Happy New Year! Huzzah!)
On New Year's Eve I like to write a blog post reflecting on the past year. It's not happening tonight. The pressure of my pillows against my head and my back make me feel nauseated and sore. I'm in a bad mood. I'm uncomfortable from the tippy-top of my head to the ends of my toes. I feel sorry for myself, which makes me cry. Sad me is sad.
Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course. Say what you will, but pajamas make nearly almost everything better. Even Wal-Mart. Pretend you don't agree--I won't believe you.
My stomach is protesting for the fourth day in a row. I'm afraid to eat the salad with Italian dressing I'm craving knowing salad is never awesome the second time around, knowing I hold no interest in becoming a human Salad Shooter.
A pain throbs between my eye sockets and the base of my skull. I've seen movies like this, where a person's head splits in two, revealing the sparking, beeping innards of the robot menace within. I'm hoping there's a robot menace within, at least, because I have a busy weekend ahead and the human menace (me) doesn't want to deal with the holiday clean-up that this dumb virus has delayed.
It's probably dehydration. Darn.
Two Advil and a lot of water later and the headache's not getting better, so I pull on my sleep mask while Mr. Ohboy watches Moonshiners. Seriously, Moonshiners. I can't get behind this show, even with a main character, a full-grown adult named Tickle. No. With the twangy lullaby of sweaty gentlemen wearing overalls and no t-shirts, I'm asleep by 8:30p.m.
An hour later and the unofficial neighborhood fireworks wake me up. I proceed to text my friend Allison, who always seems to get the "Seriously? Fireworks?" texts from me and I don't know why, other than to also stress her out because now she owns a horse who may or may not appreciate said fireworks. We quickly established that my age bracket is sliding closer to that of a Medicare recipient than its rightful place of 35. (The fireworks and random machine gun firing awoke me again just after midnight. Happy New Year! Huzzah!)
On New Year's Eve I like to write a blog post reflecting on the past year. It's not happening tonight. The pressure of my pillows against my head and my back make me feel nauseated and sore. I'm in a bad mood. I'm uncomfortable from the tippy-top of my head to the ends of my toes. I feel sorry for myself, which makes me cry. Sad me is sad.
My guitar hangs from a peg on my bedroom wall. I'm mediocre at so many things, but I especially struggle with the guitar. While my youngest was still in the womb, I took lessons with a little old Irish guy at a local music shop that has since gone out of business. In the hands of my teacher, my guitar sang like a heartbroken lover or a carefree dancer. In my stuttering hands, my guitar hesitates and falters. Practice makes things perfect, usually, but I haven't been able to bring myself to practice in a couple of years. Last night, so lost for something to do, I pulled the guitar down and tuned it. I thumbed through a few easy melodies, single notes, no chords. As I pick away at a phrase, my baby boy, now four years old, walks in and watched me.
"What are you doing?" He asked, sucking in his lower lip beneath his front teeth.
"Do you remember when I used to play guitar when you were in my tummy?"
"Yes." He says. I don't know if he really remembers, but I want to believe it's true. That even my imperfection means something to him. Even the best of my worst (or the worst of my best) tickles his memory of a time before.
I've managed a lot of good things in 2013. I've written two novels and a short story, all of which I hope to edit and do something with in 2014. I've randomly become a runner and completed my first race, a 10K (6.2 miles) in December. All good things, but I feel guilty. In pursuit of any of my goals I've been more withdrawn from friends and family and lately I've been feeling like I'm the reason why certain of my kids struggle in school or my house isn't very clean.
At the moment, all that I accomplished in 2013 matters little to anyone else, even my family. My kids don't care that I can run a mile in 11 minutes or that I'd like to try to run the equivalent of a half marathon in one outing before 2014 is through. They don't care what happens to Claire or Liam, or if Lucy figures out why she's in Mitte. They don't care if my horse gets ridden every couple of days or if there's manure in the pastures. Maybe they will care someday, but right now I don't see it.
2013 was kind to me, but I want 2014 to be kind to my entire family. For the blessings that surround me to surround them, as well. I want the best of my worst and the worst of my best to mean more to everyone I love. That's what I want for 2014, not just riding and publishing and miles.
To mean. To matter. To make a difference.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Third Time's a Charm
On July 22, 2011 I met Claire Darling for the very first time. At the time, Claire was an 18-year-old high school student by morning, horse trainer by every spare hour after that. She quickly became a friend of mine because she's sarcastic and self-deprecating, a good soul. Two-and-a-half years and three books later, she and I are pretty tight. I've fought for her to fall in love and I cried with her (over and over) when her heart was shattered into pieces. She's struggled and she's endured. She's no Super Woman, but that's why she's real. Well, real is a relative term, but you know what I mean.
Over the past couple of years, I've come to adore good guys Liam and Graham. I've loved to hate all those shady characters--Rayna, Rowan, and Maureen. Maybe you've found the strings of your emotions tugged by one or more of them, too. If that's true for you, then I thank you for investing yourself in my humble words.
There's so much I want to say, but so much I can't because I don't want to give anything away. That, and I'm so overwhelmed by the day that I don't know where to begin and where to end.
Maybe Liam says it best in the last paragraph I wrote today that brought the third and final novel to a close:
"With any luck, tomorrow his big heart will eclipse anything he lacks. At least, this is what I pray as I stare out at the stars strung in the deep blue. I want him to find his own place to belong, because I’ve found that place for myself, a home, and I’m homesick."
Like Liam, I've found a home in Hope Creek and I'm already homesick.
Thanks, guys, for everything you've given me. You'll never know what you've done for me.
Over the past couple of years, I've come to adore good guys Liam and Graham. I've loved to hate all those shady characters--Rayna, Rowan, and Maureen. Maybe you've found the strings of your emotions tugged by one or more of them, too. If that's true for you, then I thank you for investing yourself in my humble words.
There's so much I want to say, but so much I can't because I don't want to give anything away. That, and I'm so overwhelmed by the day that I don't know where to begin and where to end.
Maybe Liam says it best in the last paragraph I wrote today that brought the third and final novel to a close:
"With any luck, tomorrow his big heart will eclipse anything he lacks. At least, this is what I pray as I stare out at the stars strung in the deep blue. I want him to find his own place to belong, because I’ve found that place for myself, a home, and I’m homesick."
Like Liam, I've found a home in Hope Creek and I'm already homesick.
Thanks, guys, for everything you've given me. You'll never know what you've done for me.
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
A Doll For Daphne
I press my lips together and follow him as he leads the way toward the nuns in the back. He’s so focused he doesn’t realize a soft doll slips from one of the bags under his arm and falls to the ground.
“Liam!” I call out. “You--”
A girl with brown ringlets framing her round cheeks runs toward the doll before I catch Liam’s attention. She looks both ways to be sure no one sees her, then snatches it up and into her arms. The doll fits perfectly in the crook of her arm and a smile brightens her face.
“Hey! Little girl!” I say.
She freezes and clutches the doll tightly to her body. Her fearful blue eyes dart to me and back to the doll as I step toward her.
“Hey!” I repeat, coming closer. From a few yards away I can see the tremble in her shoulders. The little girl drops the doll and runs from me.
I stoop down and pick the doll up from where she’s landed in a heap. There’s a smudge of dirt on its plastic cheek and I wipe it away with my thumb. Liam’s over talking with the nuns, and he glances my way.
“That girl--who is she?” I ask when I reach them. I don’t wait for introductions. One of the nuns, the younger one with round spectacles and a pointy chin, looks like she really wants to give me a quick lesson in manners.
“I’m sorry, dear?” The older nun says, wrinkling her forehead beneath her habit.
“There was a girl, maybe four years old. Curly brown hair, blue eyes--or at least, I think they were blue.” I scan the yard as I describe the little one.
The older woman smiles, bouncing the child on her hip. “Ah. You must mean Daphne.”
Do I mean Daphne? I have no idea.
“She ran from me. Do you know where she might have gone?”
The thin, bookish nun nods towards a strand of trees near the rear of the property. The trees are short and sparse, obviously very young, and don’t offer much shelter. A little form huddles at the base of the one in the middle, facing away from us.
I peel back the corner of the foil around the cookies and grab a couple, then hand the tray to the young nun. When I reach Daphne’s hiding spot, I find her with her knees tucked into her chest. Tears streak her face, which she presses to her knees.
“Can I join you?” I ask. I don’t expect an answer, and she doesn’t disappoint. I sink to the grass, leaving several feet between us. “My name is Claire. They told me your name is Daphne.”
She remains quiet except for a soft shudder.
“Daphne’s such a pretty name,” I continue. “A pretty name for a pretty girl.”
The little girl raises her head to glare at me. Blossoms of crimson burn at her cheeks. “Go away.” She hides her face again.
I place the doll next to her gently, so gently I’m not sure she knows I’ve done it. “That’s a nice doll you have there.”
Daphne brings her head up again and starts to say something angry. Our eyes connect and I glance down at the doll laying next to her. She looks down, too, and then back at me.
“It’s okay, pick her up.” I say. “I brought her for you. I knew you would take very good care of her.”
The girl scoops the doll into her arms again and snuggles her little cheek against its plastic face. Her eyes squeeze shut in joy. When she opens them again, I smile. “Would you like a cookie?”
She nods and tentatively takes the cookie from my outstretched hand. Daphne reminds me a lot of Taran--flighty, suspicious, and upset. Like Taran, I don’t push her. I eat my cookie as she eats hers. When it's gone I stand up and slip away. She doesn’t follow behind me like the horse does, but that’s okay.
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