Two sisters dancing. One momma smiling.
Brown Eyed Girl pulsed from the band shell while my two little blue and green eyed girls spun around the dance floor with their daddy. As darkness descended on my hometown, swirling, patterned lights bounced off the towering trees above the concrete slab in front of the stage. I sat on a bench, just 10 feet from the action, mesmerized and peaceful just taking it all in. I relaxed my shoulders, and set the half-eaten plate of funnel cake down beside me. I smiled, as a tear threatened to find its way to my eye. I felt the beat throb and bounce and jump, letting it pass through my body, the rhythm settling in my belly, that full yet empty space where our lost …
Father and daughter discuss the delights of The Sizzler. She wanted to ride SO badly, but will have to wait until next year.
He put the van in reverse, and I watched my little family begin to back out of the driveway. My girls waved vigorously from their car seats, giddy with joy that daddy was taking them to the carnival. I stepped out onto the porch, and motioned for my husband to stop. He rolled down the window.
“I’m coming. Just give me a minute.”
That moment, that split decision, was probably one of the best I’ve ever made. Fresh from hearing our sweet baby had died in utero, my heart was swollen and achy, much like my abdomen where our child still rests. I didn’t want to go. To face …
When it comes to preparing us for the moment of tragedy’s impact, the movies really do us a disservice. Foreshadowing, strategic camera angles and carefully orchestrated suspenseful music lead you to a logical conclusion. Something bad is about to happen.
But it doesn’t happen that way in real life. In real life, the room is quiet, the view is singular, the fluorescent lights blare overhead, and the moment of impact comes softly through an ultrasound tech’s whispered, “I’m sorry.” There was no foreshadowing in the plot, no indication that a sudden and life-altering blow would be delivered. Our baby was gone. Slipped away some time ago. No heartbeat. No movement. The sorrow is silent.
I’m still wrapping my mind around what happened yesterday. A happy, belly-bulging mother-to-be entered the OB’s office for a routine exam, and a …
And if all I’ve done in 30 years is learned to make the perfect biscuits, what else is there?
As I mark the beginning of my 30th year, I can’t help but feel a sense of insecurity. No, I’m not concerned about the number, but rather, the lack of competence that comes with it. I thought I’d know how to do more by now. Thought I’d feel wise and, well, grown up. But more often than not, I feel like a seventeen-year-old trapped in an ever-widening, ever-gravity pulled body. I feel both old and green, a strange combination, until I force myself to consider all the works these two hands have made. My hands, once delicate extensions of willowy arms, have shown the signs of aging more so than my face, and have a much …