When we finished Logan smiled and remarked proudly, “Dat was a gate band!”  That was a great band.  Ryleigh and I laughed and agreed.  Ry had an idea to hook her computer up to the television so that we could look up karaoke versions of our favorite songs.

She put on Gotye’s ‘Somebody That I Used To Know’ and we all got microphones (towel paper roll, marker).  We stood together in front of the T.V., threw our heads back, and belted it out.

We kept thinking of songs we loved and in the middle of one, I think it was ‘Love Song’ by Sara Bareilles, I got one of those pictures I often get in my head when my love tank is rapidly being filled to swelling, and my heart beats so strongly that I want to cry tears that being wholly satisfied makes you want to cry  - a snapshot of the way a scene looks from above, if I were watching myself from the sky.

My eyes were shining, and whatever creases have formed around them thus far were certainly apparent.  My mouth was open wide and the laughter that emanated from it was heavy but it was so light, and it was melodic and it was real.

I saw the two little girls on either side of me, the smallest one unable to read the words on the screen but pretending to; the taller one passionately declaring her reasons for not writing someone a love song.

I turned my eyes back to the lyrics and smiled thinking of all the times I’d done this as a girl with my own siblings and my mother.  I remembered watching my mother let go with us, be silly with us, fly around the room pretending to be in a musical with us.

And I thought: this is what makes it so easy.

People sometimes tell me I’m going to burn out, I don’t forgive myself enough when it comes to my kids.  Or they ask why? – why do you feel you need to let your kids sleep in bed with you, still?  Why do you feel your toddler should still breastfeed, even at night?  Why is it okay for your children to talk back to you?!

And there are times I ask myself why?  I ask myself really, how bad would it be if I went in and said from now on y’all have to sleep in your own rooms?  Logan, we’ve got a good three and a half years under our belts, no more breastfeeding, Babe.  And Ryleigh, when I say something – that’s what goes, no questions, just stop.

Sometimes I do want to say those things.  Especially when I’m tired or frustrated or feeling alone.  Or when I wake up and open my eyes and all I can see is a haze of blue.

And quickly I remember that when I’m tired or frustrated or feeling alone, and when I open my eyes and all I can see is a blue haze over everything – it’s my daughters who allow me to let go.

No one else invites me to get up – all five feet, eight inches of me – to get up and flail around and scream off key and let go.

No one else stands by my side as I mouth words with the Rascal Flats and no one else understands that when I sing, “What HUUUUUUUUUUURRRRTS THE MOST!’ I’m talking about missing my mother, and no one else allows me to cry even while I laugh, and to sing with tears leaving warm, glistening trails down my cheeks.

No one else holds my hand while I sing and cry, pretending that they’re just being my back-up singer, but we really know they’re supporting me.

No one else is so unafraid to walk right up to me and demand I allow them to comfort me.

They let me let go.  And they let go, too.

After the karaoke we started playing rap instrumentals and Ryleigh and I rap-battled for a solid hour.  She got so much off her chest.  She rapped about being smaller, about how adults think they have all the power, about how she loves peaceful parenting.  She joked and cracked on my sagging breasts , and when she ran out of lyrics she said, “Now watch this” and jumped into a dance breakdown.  Lo and I put our mics to our mouths and cheered her on, shouting, “Oh!  Oh!” like we see in hip-hop movies.

We all let go.  It was two hours of no missing mothers or missing siblings or moving from North Carolina or divorced parents or grieving parents or trying to learn to read or wondering what we’ll be or self-consciousness or self-doubt or arguing or mistakes.  Nothing is a mistake when you let go.  Everything we did was what we were supposed to be doing.

My children find ways to let me let go every day.  I find ways to let my children let go every day.  That’s how we can do it.

That’s how I can put up with not being able to have sex in my own bed and not being able to read in my own bed and being hit every three hours in my own bed.

That’s why I am going to wait it out with Logan and breastfeeding.  That’s why I can say YEAH I’M PRETTY DAMN OVER IT AT TIMES but my kid is not so, meh, I’ve experienced much worse with much less reward.

That’s why when my kids talk back to me or say no to me or yell at me I can look at them and hear a voice say TURN AROUND THIS IS YOUR SWEET BABY AND SHE’S LEARNING AND YOU NEED TO MODEL WHAT YOU’RE ASKING FOR…and also -

This is the girl who lets me let go.

This is the girl who lets go, with me.

These are the girls who stand with me when we close the blinds and lock the door and we know that no one can see us, and we take off our sweaters and we put on short-shorts, and we get so into the music that I can only imagine how silly and uncoordinated we look.  I can only imagine because I don’t think about it, because none of that matters when we’re letting go.

This is what they mean when they say connection is the key to any peaceful parenting endeavor, I’m starting to understand so well.  It’s not about being happy 24/7 or always being able to answer “Yes, of COURSE you can have that!” to your child’s every demand.

It’s about finding moments to let go together.  There has to be a time when there is nothing else, because everything else is always there.  The bills, the stress, the absent fathers, the dead loved ones, the living loved ones you just can’t see for some stupid reason, the things you wish were better.

And for your kids – there has to be a time of no homework if they’re in school, of no chores, of no bathing, of no whatever it is their brains are wrapped around.

There has to be a time of simply, being.

My kids let me let go.  I can’t say that of many people.  I think this is probably true for many parents.  Who else can you be unapologetically you with, the way you can with your children?

Who else lets them let go the way you do?

Create opportunities for it.  It’s a reminder, an affirmation, an incentive: this is why I do it.  They let me let go.  They help me to clear that blue haze.  Everything stings less.  We share something that’s only between us, a secret love language that we speak best when the blinds are down and our fake mics are turned up.

After that it’s easy.  Letting go of the darkness inside me leaves lots of open space for what my girls throw at me – the back talk, the messiness, the spills one after another, the thrown toys, the constant fighting.

Now it’s not building up inside me, spilling over until I yell at them and want them away from me.

No, because when we let go together if frees up space, so that frustration has a safe place to go, and I can handle it.

I look at Ryleigh in the middle of her telling me, “YOU don’t have to have such an attitude!”  I want to lash out but then my heart draws up a snapshot – the one of the two little girls on either side of me as we say how ‘ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone’, and the little girl knows who I mean when I say ‘she’ – and I look at that picture and I know I can’t lash out at this girl.  She let’s me let go, so often, in such a big way.

I will treat her with the same tenderness and grace.  We can talk about it.

She’s so kind, that I will be kind.  And when I’m kind, she is kind.  And…well, you get it.  Keeps going.

Connection.  I’m starting to understand, and it’s so simple, and so good.

this

special -

- I’ve been blogging for a year.

March 25, 2012 is The Single Crunch’s anniversary – about three weeks before the death of my mother.

I started this blog after sharing a slideshow I made and uploading it to YouTube.  It was shared by different Facebook pages that seemed to have a solid fan base -

- and people were liking it.

I was all, “Oh snap I’m a videographer.”

Then I was all,

“Wrong answer.  I’m not a videographer.  But this was fun.  I wonder if there’s a way I could share my stories in a way that showcases a talent I do have?  Hmm…”

I ran down the list of my three talents and since one of them requires me to be naked, I went with writing and parenting.

Obviously I was going to write about my children.

I didn’t want to be an instruction-giver or a method-teacher.

I wasn’t looking for a following.

I think I only wanted to share.

I wanted to make some people laugh.

I wanted to touch someone’s heart.

I wanted to give another mother hope.

I wanted to be that mom who’s mostly not being represented on your average gentle parenting page

or your average unschooling page

or your average breastfeeding page.

I wanted a bit of community in my life.

And looking back I’ve realized

That I also wanted an escape.

I started writing just as my mom was dying and

I sat in the hospital bed in her room for weeks,

posting and sharing and replying to comments.

I was happy about the blog…proud and excited that something I’d done

was working out.

I think subconsciously

my brain knew I’d need something to hold onto.

Something to fill the planet-sized void in my life

that appeared as my mother was leaving my life.

Some weeks ago I was on the phone with Sheila Pai, one of the most calming, nurturing souls I’ve ever had

the pleasure of not actually meeting – and

I said to her that I don’t think I’m going to “get any better” than I am now.

I’ve never really bought into the idea that victims of childhood abuse can “fully” recover, because

“Fully” for me would mean I’d be who I would have been if I’d never been abused.

I decided a while ago that I’m not going to spend too much time attempting to “change”,

I focus on striving to cope.

My brain sent me a message when I was a teenager that

Sure, I can work through my past and get better but

I am who I am

and

that’s okay.

See, I can identify an issue I have and

start to work on it and

it gets better,

But then I realize I’ve had to sacrifice mastery in other facets of my life,

And that now I’ll need to go back.

Often I only get so far with an issue before I reach a place

too unfamiliar

(read: terrifying)

to try and navigate.

My brain figured out for me that sometimes

the answer to healing ourselves is in fact

not

at all

about

ourselves.

That when we cannot rid ourselves of our own demons,

we can render their presence less of a burden

by giving of ourselves to others.

Giving the good stuff,

the best part.

And that when we share ourselves openly and freely

and when we share because we genuinely, passionately love everyone alive

and we share with tender concern for the welfare of others -

they can reflect back for us

what they see in us.

And that perhaps what they see

is a lot of good.

And that maybe their voices will drown out the pained wailing of all those demons.

So I’ve learned,

I’ve always known,

that my journey is not my own.

That in order for me to be at peace with myself

and my world

my existence must be one of service to others.

That’s what fills my cup.

I didn’t fully understand that last March when I started The Single Crunch.

I didn’t get that what was making me feel so big and so proud and so full,

whenever I receive a comment from a reader,

was that the reader said

I’d helped them.

I wondered at first if it was an ego thing but

really, me, ego? 

I’ve never had much to be egotistical about so,

it wasn’t that.

It was being able to reach my arm out and caress the shoulder of a friend in Australia,

from here in my home in the busy Boston streets.

It was reading from a mom that her kids should thank me and thinking

no they shouldn’t because

I know what it takes for you to keep reading

and trying

and hoping you’ll get better, Momma

and I honestly love you and your children,

and I hope it gets better, too,

and I want you to see me and to know that it can,

it will and

the fact that you’ve chosen to share it with me

is making me better too, so

thank you.

There are still times when

it doesn’t compute that maybe

I am helping others.

Like if you’ve been buying  lottery tickets for years

and you’re there in the living room one night

and your eyes are locked on the TV

and your numbers show up on the screen

and you just stare because you’re shocked beyond words.

That’s what it’s like when I read messages from others.

Money doesn’t excite poor people because

we know it’s an illusion.

I don’t have a lot of money and

there doesn’t “seem” to be enough to go around anyway so

since there are so many human beings on the planet

I’ll trade in love and people.

Compassion is my currency.

And I won’t miss out on anything because

I was born poor and it would be my honor to die that way

as long as I’ve touched a lot of lives.

And even though I know how big the world is

my world isn’t always so big because of my circumstances,

so even one life is a lot, to me.

And there is more than one person reading my blog,

so you can imagine how I’ve hit the lottery.

There are two anniversaries approaching

in my life.

One is this blog’s.

The other is the death of my mom

and

because of a bunch of people

whom I will never regard as strangers,

I have a choice of which one I can devote my energy to.

And ain’t that pretty damn special.

Thank you for reading what I write.  I’m proud of The Single Crunch and I am forever indebted to all of you for helping me to work through my past and my present, and losing my mom.  Thank you.  All love.

Kimberley

Lo: Mom know what!

Me: What’s up?

Lo: I hadda use a baf-rewm, an it was fah away, an I was gonna pee on mysuwf because I was in XXX’s room, so I went to a baf-rewm an I dinnint pee on mysuwf.  Yew know why I dinnint pee on mysuwf?

Me: Why?

Lo: Because ______ spanks.

Me: (Really surprised by her comment) What do you mean? She spanks you?

Lo: Noooo! See spanks UH-VA kids.

Me: Well…I know, but I always tell the adults we know that no one is allowed to spank my kids. No one will spank you, even if you wet yourself.

Lo: Yew dew?

Me: Yes. I say, “Hey! Don’t spank my children, please!”

Lo: Yeah, dust tell dem, “Eveebody make a misdake!”

Me: Yeah. We have to tell them everyone makes mistakes and it’s okay.

She smiled and went back to play.

At three years old she is making decisions based on her fear of another adult.  Instead of being free to focus her mind on playing and on learning that when she needs to use the potty she should just quit what she’s doing and go; her mind is stuck on not wanting to be hit.

So she didn’t wet herself, but it wasn’t because she is working through the simple issue of not heeding her body’s signals. She didn’t wet herself because someone frightened her into not wetting herself.

So at the end of the day the issue of not heeding her body’s signals is still there needing to be worked out – but at least she didn’t have an accident all over someone’s shiny floor, right?

For the sake of adult contentment we force children to forgo their natural learning process. Logan’s natural inclinations were deadened, silenced by her greater fear of being hit.

She didn’t mention that she knows she shouldn’t have waited, as she does when I talk to her about not quite making it to the toilet.  She made it to the toilet and learned nothing but how to keep from being hit.

She didn’t wait, as she wanted to.  She didn’t get to the toilet and barely make it, wetting the rug and her pants, as she sometimes does at home.  She didn’t get to realize that she’d waited too long and to come to her own conclusion – Mommy is right, I should go to the bathroom when it’s time – she didn’t get to talk it out with an adult, to have this instance gently inscribed in her memory, to store it for later reference.  

She lost out on all that so that an adult could remain comfortable.

This was a perfect example to me of why spanking doesn’t “work”; and it made me feel so good to know that my baby doesn’t have this fear of me.

When we spank, our children know that our consequences will be dealt if they falter; but what about the natural consequences?  

What about a child’s need to learn at her own pace?  

Do we want them to believe the reason not to wet yourself is because someone will hit you and scare you, or do we want to teach them how to listen to their bodies?

Should a toddler even be this concerned with wetting herself?  Shouldn’t a toddler be scheming and pretending and flying and coloring?

In my house if wetting happens, it happens, and we will deal with it then.  I don’t want my child to spend her days planning how not to get a spanking.

We keep saying that children are our future and yet in the present we give them little time to consider themselves and their own needs – yet we expect them to consider ours later, because they’re our future, right?

Right.

Childism.

This was a seemingly small moment that meant a lot to me, because Logan came to me and chose to tell me that she didn’t wet herself and that it was because she was so scared of getting a spanking.  I don’t know why she told me or if she even realized what she was doing, but to me she was saying, “Mom I’m glad we don’t spank, because sometimes I can’t help wetting myself, and I know I will be able to control it when I’m bigger and older, but right now I’m learning, and I’m grateful to have the space to learn in an open, violence-free environment.”  Yup, that’s what she was saying.  : )

Children do not have to be hurt to learn.

And if they’re being hurt, they are probably not learning much.

All love.

Kimberley

They say my toddler acts like a baby because she still nurses to sleep.

They say my toddler acts like a baby because she “forgets her words” and whines.

They say my toddler acts like a baby for refusing to help out when I say it’s time.

BUT

They say my toddler is mature because she dresses and washes herself.

They say my toddler is mature because when she’s upset she *asks* for help.

They say my toddler is mature for stating she’s “ayn-chis” or “fustch-anated”.

They look in awe when she declares, “Iss hod tew wait but I am wade-ing.”

I say my toddler is a toddler.

I say what they say reeks of childism.

I say I see a new human being exuding growth and grace – and wisdom.

But it seems in our society

The only worthy traits a young child can possess,

Are those that allow for adult contentment -

And don’t add to our stress.

So we praise them when they use the potty and cheer when they learn to tie.

But we mock and turn cold when they hit, and call them babies when they cry.

The behaviors that belie their age we stifle and we scold,

And all that stifling does is put the behavior on perpetual hold.

I say be a baby while you’re a babe, kid.

I say don’t listen to what they say.

Whine and cry while Momma can hold you for too soon you’ll be on your way.

I’ll allow you the time now to grow,

And I know growing has its pains.

I accept you, tantrums and tossed toys and all.

I won’t rush you to change.

I want you as you are,

Because I know the behavior isn’t “you”.

It’s okay that you’re smaller.

It’s okay that you’re new.

It’s okay that you can write and button,

But can’t yet keep from hitting.

It’s fine with me that you know the words but at times resort to spitting.

I say you act like a baby.

I say you act like you’re three.

And when you’re no longer a toddler,

I hope you’ll say you found solace in me.

♥

To my spunky toddler whose energy is misunderstood by many, and to all toddlers in the same boat. And to the adults who support them and who stand against childist ideals.

Kimberley

That hippie chick chillin’ at the back of the bus.

Might catch Creedence from my headphones if the volume’s turned up enough.

Toddler nursing at my right breast, eldest writing to my left.

Mm hm, we saw you roll your eyes; but I won’t get upset.

To be honest with you, Friend, I can’t really say I care.

And it doesn’t shame me or offend me when you snicker or you stare.

I kinda wish you would speak on it, I’m so freaking prepared.

But you won’t because you’ve read my eyes -

You know that I’m not scared.

So you just go back to reading your Globe and let’s not take it there.

And listen, whatever you may think of me is likely mostly true.

But even that don’t bother me ’cause I don’t live for you.

Whatever label you’re pinning on me, please type it in bold font.

I’ll wear it proudly as I go on living my life the way I want.

And if ever you should open your mouth as wide as you’ve opened those eyes,

Let’s talk a bit, I know some stuff, you’d probably be surprised.

Because you’ve pegged me as a typical ____ who can’t hold a conversation up.

That’s cool, Friend.

Don’t forget my smile.  : )

See you tomorrow, same time, same bus.

And some days you have a moment where you lie back and close your eyes and realize you’re laughing and don’t know why.

You rack your brain and can only bring up painful memories and you wonder how you can be smiling.

And you realize that despite it all, in spite of it all, you’re growing.

Like a sunflower someone planted in a bad patch, a sunflower so beat up it thrives on grit, stretches itself to wherever the sun is at, doesn’t envy those flowers right out there in the middle, drinking sunshine in like it’s a piece of cake.

You smile at them, too, because you are happy for them. They are so tall and here you are, nearly withered, but you see yourself in them.

You watch what they do and you emulate it with your own sunflower swag.

You are laughing because the joke is on the steppers; they think if they land on you enough times you’ll stay down! Ha!

You see the shadow of the next shoe and brace yourself. It moves on and you steady.

Unfold and prepare for the journey back to that tiny patch of sunshine, just inside your reach. You get there and it feels so gloriously good, so warm and inviting, you know that’s where you should be.

So what, you have to fight to get there? When you’re there it’s so easy, the fight doesn’t seem so bad. It’s made you stronger and it makes you appreciate it that much more, because you know it will fade soon. You drink up all the goodness you can and store strength you know you’ll need.

And when the light fades again you lie back and laugh, and look at those flowers still in the sun, and you just wait patiently until it’s your turn again. It’s all love. ♥

Kimberley

L. R. Knost’s ‘Two Thousand Kisses a Day: Gentle Parenting Through The Ages & Stages’ reads as just that – a gentle nudge from a fellow momma who’s been there, done that; and who happens to also be a parenting author and child development researcher.  A mother six times over, it quickly becomes clear that her point of view is based not only on biology and sound evidence – these practices have actually enriched her own family life and her latest book is a letter to other parents detailing how we too can strengthen our family’s connection as well, when applied with practicality.

As Linda (of Little Hearts/Gentle Parenting Resources) writes, “Infants, children, and adults alike all share this life-long need for connection.  Over time that need will also be met through friendships, business engagements, social interactions, and the like; but family relationships are the steady and sure bedrock of secure connection and belonging that ground us and assure us that our needs will not go unmet even in the darkest of times.”

Two Thousand Kisses is full of guidance and information supporting a family’s need to connect throughout the various stages of child development and the changes those stages present for a family.  I appreciate that Knost acknowledges, “…Gentle, attachment-style parenting is often misconstrued to be simply about breastfeeding, babywearing, and co-sleeping.  …While those are possible choices for creating a secure parent/child connection in the early years, they are just a small sampling of the relationship-building and maintaining choices that parents can make throughout their children’s lives.”

This book goes beyond the first five years and Knost shares the wisdom she has gained through 25 years of child-rearing, helping us to appreciate that “gentle parenting is a journey, not a destination;” and the information in the book reads as a road map to help make our journey less unsure.

Peppered with relatable moments from her family’s life, the advice in the book is practical and the work feels doable.  Linda never suggests we go against what many of us feel in our hearts we should do – respond to our children when they show us the need us to – and she takes into accounts the needs of parents as well.  And, something I truly appreciated because of my opposition to childism in our society, she is an adult voice for toddlers and children, reminding us to open our minds and to try to view the world from their perspective.

From help dealing with less adventerous eaters (she’s included meal ideas for toddlers), to helping children cope with anxiety, to tackling our own guilt as parents, this book serves as a great foundation into the world of gentle parenting for those who have always know they would parent this way, or for those who have more recently discovered the idea.

One of my favorite chapters is Chapter 15: Bucket List for a Happy Childhood.  Packed with two hundred simple ideas for showing our children we are truly invested, Knost inspires us to “be in our children’s memories tomorrow” by being in their lives today.

Two Thousand Kisses covers a child’s life from the womb to adulthood; helping to prepare us to nurture and respond to the whole child, the whole human being; and to find fulfillment and satisfaction in our family life through remaining deeply connected.  Chapter 26, Too Late For Teens?, stresses that it is never to late to decide to parent positively, and the last chapter is a helpful ’12-step plan’ to breaking old habits and incorporating healthier routines into our lives for our family.  It is broken down so that a new process can be worked on each month for twelve months, and reading it, I’d say it’s a wonderful start for anyone attempting to change their thinking about what children need.

‘A Gentle Beginning’ is the second chapter of Two Thousand Kisses; fitting because that’s what this book is.  It’s an inviting introduction to the ideals of evidence-based parenting and I would feel comfortable recommending it to parents regardless of whether they have chosen attachment-style parenting or not.

_____________

This post is part of the Virtual Book Tour for the launch of L.R.Knost’s Two Thousand Kisses a Day: Gentle Parenting Through the Ages and Stages. Click here if you’d like to check out all of the other stops on the tour! 

Comment below to receive a free copy of Linda’s children’s book, “Petey’s Listening Ears.”  Share how you came to learn about gentle parenting, or how you apply it to the older children in your family.  The winner will be notified by 9 p.m. tomorrow, March 12, 20013.

TSC readers are invited to take advantage of a special offer from author L. R. Knost:

“Yeah I’m okay,” she replied shakily.  ”I need a bag or something, I’m gonna spit up.”  We were on our way to Wake-Med Hospital in Raleigh, North Carolina, to the emergency department.  My sisters and I had threatened to tell my mom’s religious congregation she was ignoring her health problems if she didn’t go.  She’d been having trouble breathing for months, health issues for years.  Lately she’d been unable to walk up stairs well, and opted for those power-chairs at the market.  We’d told her she had to go.  She reluctantly agreed.

I am horrible with directions and I don’t like to drive.  My mother was supposed to be leading the way to the ED.  We’d been driving in circles for about an hour, the hospital was 15 minutes away.  My mother was demented and couldn’t tell where we were or how long we’d been gone.  I didn’t realize it at first but as I passed the same gas station for the third time, I knew.  I looked over to my mom, who was vomiting.  We’d stopped at Panera (her request) and she was using a bag to cover her mouth.

“Mom I’m going to pull into the gas station.”  I pulled over and got out and walked over to her.  She was bent in half, vomiting into the bag for what seemed like 5 minutes.  I wiped her face and took the bag and she continued to vomit outside the car.  For some reason I wasn’t nervous.  I’d gone into caretaker mode.

“You okay now?”  She looked straight up at me as though she had no idea why I was asking.  Her eyes rolled around in her head and she kept moving her lips and teeth.  Her voice was shaky, as though she was always about to laugh.

“Yee-eeesss.  I don’t know why I’m so sick!”  She laughed and shut the door.  I cleaned out the floor of the van as well as I could have given the situation and we made our way.  Finally found the hospital 20 minutes later.  Got to the ED and they admitted her immediately.  We sat in a cold, blue room for hours.  My mom rested on a gurney with wires and tubes attached to her.  The residents were pretty sure it was her heart.  We stayed in the ED for about 4 hours before she was transferred to The Heart Center in another part of Raleigh.

At the heart center we were informed that various tests had been scheduled for my mom.  She’s so healthy they said, we can’t see why she should be so sick.  Everything checks out they said, we aren’t sure yet what this could be.

I kept my sisters in North Carolina and the one in Connecticut, abreast of what we were doing.  I called my daughters and told them I was with Gramma at the hospital and I’d see them soon.  We were in the hospital for four days before I went home to stay overnight, I hadn’t wanted to leave the hospital and my mom didn’t want me to.

I was at home when a doctor called me.

“Hi, Kimberley I’m calling from The Heart Center here with your mom.  She’d like it if you could come back, umm…there’s something she’d like to talk with only you about.  She doesn’t want anyone else to come.”  I wasn’t happy.  Wasn’t upset.  Wasn’t excited.  I just was.  Finally going to get my mom some help.

I arrived at WakeMed and met my mom and a resident in another area of The Heart Center.  My mom sat on a cold, vinyl blue chair to my right, her curly, brown wig a mess, framing her tired face.  Her chin was in her hands and she had that familiar, “I don’t care about my life” look on.  She looked so tiny and old, and she was only 54.  The resident stood to my left.  She was my age, short.  She smiled.

So she said, the tests have come back and we’ve found out that your mom is HIV positive.

HIV positive.  Like AIDS?

The resident went on.  Your mom can’t breathe because she’s infected with pneumocystis pneumonia, or PCP.  It’s sort of like thrush in her mouth and throat, and that’s why she can’t taste very well.  I remember wondering here if PCP is contagious, and worrying about my kids.

You don’t need to worry about having kissed her or anything, she’d read my mind, but your mom is very sick right now.  She’s going to be transferred to Infectious Diseases and she’ll have more tests done over the next few weeks.

“Okay,” I answered.  Didn’t really know what else to say.  ”Do you know her CD4 count?’  I knew a bit about AIDS at the time.

My father died with AIDS in 1994.  I retrieved his death certificate when I was 16, when my family moved back to CT and I finally could.  I read it and it said the cause of death was coronary asphyxiation brought on by intravenous drug use and exacerbated by AIDS.  I’d found out a bit about AIDS then but that had been a long time ago.  I just remembered that the CD4 count was important, that if it was less than 200 my mom was likely dying.  It should be between 500-1500 in a healthy person.

“We don’t know that yet because it takes a few days to get those results from the lab.  We’ve sent it out and we’ll let you know as soon as we hear back.”  Then there were lots of questions about timing, about how she could have contracted AIDS (likely from my father or her second husband), about whether I or my siblings were in danger.  In the end the doctors felt she’d had AIDS for over 10 years, that she’d been infected some time after the birth of my youngest sister in 1998.

“Okay,” I repeated.  Then my baby question, that I felt like a baby for asking:  ”Is my mom dying?”

And here’s the part I hate.  I know it’s no one’s fault, I don’t blame anyone.  But she said, and they all said: no.  You’re mom’s not dying!  It’s 2011, people in the United States don’t die of AIDS as they used to.  We know so much more!  There is so much we can do!  Your mother has a healthy lifestyle!  She can make it!

I’d forgotten to mention to them that my mom probably wanted to die.  That she wasn’t going to fight.  That I was her only support, and I am a single mom myself, and I barely have answers for my children.  I forgot to say that and if I had we probably all could have accepted the fact that they were losing a patient.

Instead I believed them.  I believed them.  I never for once thought my mom was dying until I climbed onto the gurney beside her on April 12, 2012, and laid my head on her chest and listened for her heart that was no longer beating.  Not sure if I believed it then either.

When we were wheeled back to my mother’s room she laid down on the bed and looked out the window.  We were silent.  I looked at her.  There was a lot I wanted to say but my mother wasn’t very expressive and I didn’t know how to approach her.

I asked her, “Are you scared?”

“No,” she answered quickly.  ”I don’t care if I die.”  She said it very matter-of-factly.

Don’t say that Mom, I said.

She meant it.  I wish I’d understood that.

Don’t go home and tell the kids, she said.  Just tell them I’m sick and it’s my heart and they don’t exactly know what’s wrong.

What about your sisters?  I asked.

Don’t tell them, Kim.  I will tell everyone but not right now.  I don’t want anyone to know my business.  I promised her I wouldn’t say anything to anyone.  All my life I’d kept my mom’s secrets and I wasn’t about to stop now, when I knew she needed someone.

We stayed two more weeks, three total.  Sometimes the kids came and sometimes I visited them at home.  My younger sisters who were 17 and 13 at the time, also took turns staying the night.

Before we left the lab results came in, the CD4 count was reported.

Anything under 200 means end-stage AIDS.

My mom’s count was 34.  34.  34.  34.  34.

Thirty-four.

I stopped listening to the doctors and felt everything, from my brain down, shift and slide down to my feet.  I melted.  My own body sucked my insides out.  Hearing that number was, and is, and will always be, the single greatest disappointment of my life.  When people kept asking me if I was “sad” about my mom dying I’d answer no, I’m not sad, I’m disappointed.  I’m let down.

I was standing on an already tattered, weathered rug and someone pulled it out from under me.

I thought of my baby sister who was only thirteen, my baby brother who was only 15, my sisters who were 17, 21, and 26.  I thought of my mom’s own sisters and how devastated they’d be.  I thought of all my mom’s friends and family who loved her.  We were all going to lose Irene.

And I still didn’t believe it.  I know I should have, I wish I had.  I wish I’d convinced myself that she was dying.  I was so able to say it, to form the sentences.  But in my heart I knew there would be a miracle.  How many times had Irene been down and shot up again, seemingly from nowhere?!

No way she’s dying.  She’s going to beat this and pull through, and when her CD4 count comes up I’m going to tell my sisters and brother and her sisters whether or not she wants me to.  They should know.

I am so sorry that I didn’t tell everyone sooner.  I honestly didn’t think she was dying, I didn’t want my mom to feel embarrassed or ashamed – you know how sensitive she is.  Was.  I wish I had told you all so you could have said goodbye more properly.  I apologize, it was my first time dealing with that sort of issue, I know better now.  I will do better next time.  I love you.

Kimberley

Waking up in the morning and feeling that sinking feeling in your stomach, the one you know means your mind has so many thoughts on it that some of them haven’t yet processed and reached you; there’s an actual queue in your head, a waitlist for worrisome thoughts.

Getting up and attempting to focus on what needs to be done right now like breakfast and cleaning and face washing and greetings.

You need a smile and you need eggs and milk and you need to find your daughter’s pajama pants and you probably need to go back to sleep.

But you’re not sleepy, you’re fatigued.

The difference is one is a matter of “right now I need to sleep” and one is “overall, I’m just freaking tired.”

So you forget about going back to bed because you couldn’t anyway and don’t really want to.

You get up and start the day and all these thoughts keep poking you.  Some of the time you can’t figure out if the thing is really bothering you – or if it’s just that the thing is on a long list of other things.

Like maybe individually each thing isn’t so bad, but it’s that the things are all speeding around.

You know there are resolutions to all the problems, but you can’t catch one to apply the answer.

So you know the problems and you know the answers, but you can’t connect them.

Like having a lamp and fumbling around in the dark for the socket in the wall but every time you get to it, it moves.

So you’re just there in the dark, unable to see your own hand in front of your face.

Just there knowing all the worries and all the answers are right there, just out of your reach.

That’s okay.  You have much to do.

You decide to walk out of this room, this anxiety.

It’s too dark in here to see to fix anything so really what’s the use?

Nevermind.

You walk out and shut the door and leave those worries and answers floating crazily around.

Let them bruise each other with their careless speeding about; you have other matters to attend to.

You will not sit in this room and allow these thoughts to pummel you, you can’t waste time anymore.

Time has flown by already.

You walk out of that room and into another, where your children are.

Both of them look up and beam at you, all you did was enter a room you’d been in not ten minutes before.

You’d left this room to go ponder your troubles.

You smile back at them and a thought comes – one of those thoughts that had been flying around in the dark room.

It has slipped beneath a crack in the door to the dark room, but it’s okay, because it’s just one thought.

You catch it gently and you see it now – Oh, I know this problem!

This is isn’t so bad after all, this is one I can handle.

You are glad that only the one thought came through, because now you are 1-0, because it was a fair fight.  You’re no match for a hundred problems at once.

You feel a sense of confidence.

You sit down to breakfast with your children and the three of you are laughing hysterically, eggs spilling out of the eldest’s mouth, orange juice making a mustache on the toddler’s face.

They start talking to each other and one of those thoughts slips under the door again, still just a singular worry.

You keep your chin up this time (with the first worry, you’d felt instantly saddened) and catch it more bravely.

Ha, I know this problem, too!

It’s a familiar one, one you’ve dealt with before and have learned to handle well.

Why did these thoughts all look so scary before?

Oh yes, the anxiety.  There were just too any of them and that room was dark and they were flying so fast.

Good thing you’ve learned to feel your way out of that room in the dark.  It’s lifesaving.  And life-giving.

Yes, you have a life now.

Your day continues and you read, play, ride the train, cook, drink coffee, bathe your toddler, make your eldest beg for mercy on the Wii.

Those thoughts continue to slip under the door one by one, and each time you are more confident and more prepared, until you welcome those thoughts.

You want to settle it, you don’t want the door to that room to remain shut.

You know that if it does it only collects more worries until it grows so full the door bursts and flies and those troubles make a mess of things.

Your personality, the way you treat your children, the way you think of yourself.

No, this way is better.  You will probably always have anxiety.

So always have confidence, and always keep your head high up, and always catch those thoughts when you can.

Oh, and take your St. John’s Wort more often, please.

You’re doing well with your diet compared to maybe 5 years ago but you know you can do better.  (How long you gonna let that bag of quinoa sit in the cabinet?)

Open your windows if you have to be inside – fresh air always.

And keep playing with your children.  That’s when your mind is clearest.  That’s when those thoughts sting less.

Do not fear that room, do not fear anxiety.

Be afraid to not face it.

“A 3-year-old most likely isn’t ready to reciprocate kind words in the heat of a tantrum or when another child is playing with a toy she likes – this is natural. This doesn’t mean we should change our tactic. Much like my Ikea set, the fact that a toddler is as yet unable to respond the way we are modeling, should not deter us from showing them what empathetic behavior looks like. When we model kindness, patience, and compassion, we are handing tools to our children that they can store for later use.

When the child grows and is better able to control herself, and finds herself in a heated argument with a friend or even a complete stranger, she can reach into that toolbox that her parents have filled with examples of how to treat others with respect – even when they may be disrespectful to us – and she can apply those tools in her life. She will be independent, secure in her actions, because she will remember (consciously or not), how good it felt when she made a mistake and was still treated with respect by those who cared for her.”

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