The Door

“…this empty cathedral, where your face stains the windows.”

The absurdity of loss. The uninterrupted moment of a physical ache in the abdomen, like the wound it is. Sometimes all you can do is take a breath in, and hold it. Count to five, and hope to God you can’t let it go.

Choices, choices, choices. Excuses, a day without meaning. Into the void. There’s nothing like the knowledge that another day has gone by, with no words, no calls, no little kisses. The guilt stacks up, the pain ravages another good memory. Your face is everywhere. Your scent is still wrapped in tear-soaked fabric, a door I can’t open and stays bitter. Eventually, everything beautiful lets go.

I Can’t Take It

I had a dream the other night, of my daughter coming home with me. It was so real and so detailed, I’d lay my hand on a Bible and swear to its actuality. I woke up with a broken heart, yet again.

There is nothing I can do, nothing I can throw myself into, to fill the huge gaping void of her absence. I think about her constantly – especially at work, when it’s just a lonely monotonous routine and I have no other way to occupy my mind. The last time I saw my baby girl, I was putting her down for a nap at her father’s house, on her second birthday. I kissed her chipmunk cheeks, ran my fingers through her golden brown hair, and told her I loved her and to have sweet dreams. She curled up on her side and closed her eyes, content to have Mommy help her drift off to sleep, like was our former routine.

I miss her so badly that it’s killing me every day. I feel like I’m swimming against a current of grief and I’m losing. I’m trying to hold on; I’m trying like hell to get up every day and keep going. To keep smiling, acting like everything’s okay when really, I’m losing my mind every day that I don’t get to see her, hug her, kiss her, laugh at her funny little ways of saying things. I’m so very, very sick of always losing.

My own mother isn’t worth honoring on Mother’s Day. She was/is cold, abusive, and uncaring. She gave me life; but the only other thing I will ever give her credit for, is teaching me what kind of mother I DON’T want to be. My child is my heart and soul; the very most precious part of me. She is what I will honor on Mother’s Day; for making me a mother. I’d do anything, ANYTHING to get her back. I just have to find a way to hold on to life until that day comes.

Empty

She likes to play in the empty spaces.

The bare half of the closet, the empty painted spare bedroom, behind the kitchen table where extra boxes used to be hidden away.

If only I could find the same delight in places devoid of personality, preference, or creativity.

But instead…all I feel is an ache.

Scars

Boxes of letters have been shredded, but I won’t wipe your handprints from the sliding glass door. “Fine,” you said, “Leave. But I know who you see when you close your eyes at night.”

All our lost potential, our sorry scars. In the post office of star-crossed lovers, you wink from the sheriff’s posters, fugitive. Come home. Where is my twin ruin, my holy solace? Nothing kneels down in my tiny life – this cathedral where your face stains the windows.

– Eireann Corrigan

“Divorce”

Written by Sue Goyette, based off of Jack Gilbert’s poem “Divorce”.

Imagine waking up and hearing crying,
that quiet sob of despair and rushing through
the house, then remembering. Looking out

the window to see only moonlight and concrete.
Imagine his hand and his paper, later. He’s at his desk,
the whole house behind him, looking over his shoulder,

the door frames, the radiators. Imagine in the middle
of an empty house, the haunting of that quiet despair,
her name like a newly-winged insect searching

for light and some kind of heat, fluttering near his mouth,
the memory of a kiss he still can taste. Imagine
the details of his loss as he shifts through the rubble

of marriage for a poem, something he can manage
to bury again in four lines, bury or somehow illuminate. Imagine him
at his desk choosing where to end the line, after crying,

he decides, after house. Where else could it have ended?
If he were an architect, he would sketch a small cabin
with high ceilings well suited for the acoustics of the low sounds

of sorrow that waft sometimes like smoke. If he were a teacher
with a grade ten class in front of him, he would try reading
a love sonnet out loud, stopping at the word true, his heart groaning

under the weight of it, breaking, a little shift in his chest. He’d conduct
all trains home, make the soupe du jour a good chicken noodle to soothe
the tired shoulders of hunched regret, he would only sign out books

with long indexes and black and white photographs and deliver post cards
from tropical islands, throwing the heating bills down the sewer.
He would agree to the construction of a new bridge, cleaning up

the harbour, expanding the city, but he is a poet who sits up in the middle
of the night, thinking he heard her cry. He gets up, looks out
the window and then remembers that she has left and left so hard; the moon,

the concrete coaxing each other out. He sits down at his desk, chooses a pen
and slowly writes Divorce at the top of the long blank page of all that is left.

I Have to Say Something.

Today, and another day previously, I saw someone on Twitter get jumped on for simply tweeting about an upcoming trip to Target. I’m sick to death of this, and I’m not going to stay quiet about it anymore.

Look, the person Target donated to sounds like a pretty lousy person, I’ll give you that. He’d never in a million years get my vote. And yes, Target thoroughly apologized for this “error in judgment” and have vowed to take a closer look at where their donation money goes. Maybe that’s not enough, maybe it is. Who are we to decide?

But what really tans my hide is this: taking something that’s supposed to be this pure, clean thing – this community of writers, parents, non-writers, non-parents, PEOPLE, CONNECTING, which results in us helping absolve this all-too-common feeling of loneliness, especially with parents – and tarnishing it with their hatefulness. Do you really think that spewing your hatred and vitriol at someone is REALLY going to do anything but make you look like a jackass?

So what if this person shops at Target? Maybe they are uninformed. Maybe they don’t understand. Maybe they just prefer Target to W*lmart. Or, God forbid, THEY JUST DON’T CARE. Why can’t we just keep our nastiness and high-horses to ourselves?

One Year.

Three hundred and sixty five days. That’s how long it’s been since my entire life, our entire life, changed forever.

I’m not certain when things started to go wrong. I’ve searched in my memories, in old journals and blog posts and conversations with close friends, and there doesn’t seem to be a definitive time of “THAT! Yes, that. That is when you should have left him.”

Regardless, one year has brought us to an entirely different place. A different state, a different relationship, a different and deeper love for someone else. A different heart, a different mindset. My child is different, and sometimes I wonder what she would have turned out to be had her father been the one to be by my side for the rest of her life to raise her. If my someone and I eventually married, she still would have a different life than what I had planned for her. How will this affect who she becomes?

How has it affected who I’ve become? I’m certainly nowhere near the same person I was. I love my child deeper, but it’s taken a lot longer to trust my someone the way he deserves. Somedays, I still question. I’ve tried to push him away again and again. But he loves me, wholeheartedly, baggage and all.

I had absolutely  no intentions of getting into a relationship for months, possibly years after my husband and I split up. But this incredible person, this heart-shaped gem, this rare gift, found me. Chose me. Loved me. Inspired me to be better, to get better, and to continue getting better. I still have a long way to go, but with his guidance and support, as well as the love of the God I know in my heart, and the incredible friends I have in real-life and in the online world, I will not just survive: my daughter and I will thrive and be something, do something great.

18 Month Love Letter

My sweet baby –

It’s been far too long since I’ve written to you, my love. I think our last letter was at five months old.

You are eighteen and a half wonderful, adorable, frustrating, temperamental months old. I think you’ve hit the terrible two’s a little early, in fact.

We’ve been home in the Midwest now for over five months, and you have adjusted beautifully. You’ve met some of my friends and family, you’ve fallen in love with my best girl friend – who we affectionally call Aunt Wibby. You run, dance, wiggle, and make me laugh every single day.

Your vocabulary has exploded since your first birthday. Your words now include:

• Mommy/Mama
• NO!
• PuhPEE!
• Larky (Larkin is your Nana and Gampy’s dog, who you found irresistible this summer)
• Ball
• Ba-ba (bottle)
• Kitty
• Beebee (Baby)
• Tank ee (Thank you)
• Bah (Bath)

A swears that he heard you say his kids’ names once, the shortened version (omitted in this public letter!) but I haven’t heard you say it since. You’ve also used several words only once that you haven’t repeated yet, so I haven’t included them here.

You have twelve teeth: all four front on top and bottom, and 4 molars, evenly spaced. It’s been a while since you’ve broken through a new tooth, so I’m awaiting that misery for you!

You still refuse to let me clip your fingernails and toenails, so that is a difficult fight. At least your fingernails are tiny enough that your daily activities keep them worn down. You love to “brush” your teeth with your little yellow Elmo toothbrush, however. I love watching you imitate those kinds of things that you see me do!

You love brushing your hair, and now that I use detangler on that crazy amount of hair you have, you like to run away from the spray and steal the brush away from me!

We have a routine down right now, since I’m home with you during the day. You wake up between 8 and 9 most days, and you come out to the  living room with me, curl up in the big chair with one of your two favorite blankies, and chow down on a bottle or sippy cup of milk with some favorite cartoons. I make you breakfast, then after you’ve eaten, you like to follow me around the house while I take care of whatever little things I can do while you’re awake. You go down for a nap around noon or 1pm, then sleep 2 hours – sometimes 3 on a good day. 😉 After naptime is a late lunch or snack, depending on whether you’ve wanted to eat before your nap. You play so well on your own and love to make lots of little messes in every room of the house. There is a “Caia trail” at the end of every afternoon!

I run the vacuum in the early evenings, and you always grab your blankie and climb up into the big chair to watch. You won’t usually stay on the floor, you dislike loud noises. You like to play hide and seek when I run my hairdryer, and I love to watch you giggle if I blow your hair for you.

If I’m folding laundry, you always want to climb up on my bed and either “help” by throwing everything onto the floor or trying it on yourself, or you climb up on the pillows and try to finagle the blinds to see outside. You love to take off your own pants or shorts, and usually run around in just a diaper and t-shirt. You’d take your shirt off, too, if it’s one that easily slips over your head! (Also, a few days ago, you figured out how to undo your diaper and ran around with absolutely not a stitch on. I really should have taken pictures!)

Two of your favorite pastimes are stealing Mommy’s keys and trying to “use” them on the filing cabinet, and trying on everyone’s shoes. You always get frustrated with this and end up throwing a tantrum, but the other day you figured out how to put on one of your own sandals! (It was on the wrong foot, but regardless. Heehee.)

You love to swing at the park, and go down the bottom part of the slide. Going from the top seems too scary for you, but you like to climb up part of it at the bottom and slide down.

Playing in the refrigerator is hilarious to you, and you always go for the pickle jar! If you aren’t playing in the fridge, you’re sitting in the dishwasher after pulling the door down.

Your diet is still a little difficult, so we supplement with Pediasure Nutrapals daily. Your favorites are string cheese, baby goldfish, Trix cereal, Poptarts, pickles, Capri Suns, bananas, grapes, and blueberries. I’m hoping to expand your dietary horizons very soon, especially since you don’t eat much protein!

You are just a ball of fun and energy, and the frequent temper tantrums are getting easier to understand and deal with. I used to get frustrated with you, but nowadays I usually just laugh and pick you up to distract you with something else. Sleeping through the night is still occasionally an issue – you just need to snuggle with Mommy for a little while at 2 am, 4 am, or 5 am.

I love you more than life itself, and every day you make me so glad you were given to me. I am so proud to be your mother.

I love you sugarbean-peanut-honeybunches,

Mommy

What’s In A Name? Especially When It’s Not Your Own

I never had much of a relationship with my father growing up. He was sort of just this figurehead in my life, that occasionally I would be sent to visit between the ages of seven and thirteen or so. I don’t remember him before that age, and he wasn’t around much after. He didn’t want a relationship with me, and my mother certainly never hid this fact, so I didn’t want much of one with him either.

He and my mother had me at a very young age. My mother graduated high school a year early, and had just completed her first and only semester of college (she returned when I was a young teen) when she found out she was pregnant. I was born nine days before her 18th birthday. She and my father weren’t together anymore at my birth, and she was seriously (so I’d assume) dating a man with the initials JF.

I went to go pick up my birth certificate yesterday in the awful, dirty little town I was born in. Just driving through that city makes me cringe. I moved out of there when I was five, and have scarcely found reasons to return since I turned 18. It’s just a dark, depressing place. I think the only way I could find beauty there is through the lens of my camera.

I arrived at the health department, expecting to grab and dash essentially. I filled out the little card with my mother and father’s names, my birth date, all the essentials. The lady started looking through the files – and here’s where I started becoming fascinated – my records weren’t computerized. They are WRITTEN IN A BOOK. With WHITEOUTS and HANDWRITTEN RECORDS. Omg, apparently I’m old. Or just from a little podunk town. -ahem-

She proceeds to ask me if I’ve been adopted. Um, what? She then says that the father’s name on my birth certificate is…different. Not the biological father I grew up half-knowing. I start wracking my brain; I know of JF and parts of his history with my mother but I cannot for the life of me recall his name. I remember that the card in my baby book, that was taped to my incubator at birth (I was over two months premature) bore his last name instead of my own.

She took his name off my birth certificate, at my request because I know that he’s not my father, and gives me the certificate. She recommended I head over to the clerk’s office to find out just what on God’s green earth is going on.

The clerks office is full of kind-hearted ladies who are more than happy to assist me. They find the court documents of my mother and JF’s history, and I sit down at the little worn table to thumb through the worn, faded documents. I was born in the summer of 1984. Approximately six weeks or so after my birth, there is a court request to change my last name from my mother’s maiden name to JF’s name, and for my birth certificate to be changed. Seven months or so later, there is a request from JF to remove it and remove him from parental responsibility. He states in his request that he was “deceived and given false information”, I’m assuming, my mother told him he was my biological father even though she damn well knew the truth. My head is spinning at this point.

Fourteen months after my birth, my name is changed back to my mother’s maiden name, my maiden name, and he is ordered to be removed from my birth certificate. Apparently, it was my mother’s responsibility to have the Health Department change this information, and she didn’t do so.

How IN THE WORLD did this happen my entire life? She had to have my birth certificate to enroll me in kindergarten, in my new school every time we moved. For health insurance, for all sorts of things. She saw this information day in and day out, and I could have sworn that I have seen my certificate beforehand – didn’t I have to have it for my marriage license? I can’t remember. It’s insane, this entire situation.

My biological father was ordered to pay child support when I was growing up, so I know there had to have been a DNA test to confirm he was the father. But why didn’t he ever see my birth certificate? How did he not know? Apparently if he did, he didn’t care.

My head is just SPINNING.

There is so much more that happened yesterday, but it will have to wait until later. This is all I can manage to sort through at the moment. I’m going back through the court papers today, and will likely make a trip to the county where my biological father’s court documents are held and get copies of those.

I just wanted my birth certificate. Turns out, I had a mystery to solve instead.

Moving On

He makes me smile.

He does little things, like bring me flowers for no reason. Leaves sweet cards in my car. He sends me long, rambling text messages that make me swoon. He made me one heck of a dinner tonight.

I’m scared.

I know better than to hope, to tie a string around this happiness and let it float me away. I have to keep my feet on the ground; lest I lose all sense of reality and think that “maybe, just maybe, I can be happy this time. Maybe this time will actually be the one that works.” Maybe I’m not dreaming.

I know how I feel, beyond a shadow of a doubt. I know I love this man more than I could put into words. I know he never fails to show me how much he loves me in return. He’s been trying for months; finally, I’m starting to believe it. It’s scary as hell, and fills me with a childlike giddiness at the same time.

We’ve gone through a tremendous amount of stress together thus far, particularly in the last two months. Outside stressors as well as inside. I’ve even gone so far as to try and end things at least once; for his sake. I’ve asked him on many occasions if he’s “sure”, and I always get the same answer in return.

He is kind, compassionate, creative, wickedly intelligent, has a great sense of humor, and has endless amounts of patience for all my crazy. Which is a lot, sad to say. -grin-

I’m working through my feelings from my divorce, and will be entering counseling shortly. I don’t want any baggage coming between us, and as there are kids in the picture (I have one, he has two) I want to be the healthiest person I can be, for myself, for him, and for our children. I want this to work; I want us to be as ridiculously happy as possible. I want a new start.

He makes me smile.