OK

Rain fell Saturday, so hard. I loved every minute of it. It was so cozy in the house. It made me happy and anxious all at the same time. Happy to be safe and warm with the people I love the most in this world, in our cozy little nest. Sad that this seems fleeting. That the future is uncertain. I don't like uncertainty. But every one's future is mostly uncertain, so I guess it would be silly for me to think that my own would be any different. For a moment on Saturday evening, it was like we were in a bubble. It was safe.

I finally got a phone call from my friend Nichol. Her baby is doing a bit better. She is stable, and in a children's hospital, here in the U.S. She sounded so matter of fact, like she was describing what she was wearing, when she told me about how close to dying her baby has been. She told me about the uncertain future her baby has. Some doctors have told her that the baby will be both physically and mentally disabled. Some have said she will be a bit behind. Still others have said, only time will tell. So now they wait. She said that there isn't a normal moment with her baby. She is constantly scrutinizing every look, and sound, and movement. Instead of gazing into her babies eyes, she watches how her daughter tracks things. She looks desperately for any sign that tells her, everything is going to be OK.

When David was unemployed, our future never seemed more uncertain than it ever had been. I was pregnant. We had no income. No health insurance. Every day was stressful, and laying in bed each night, wondering, was terrifying. I used to ask David, every night the same question. "Are we gonna be OK?", and every night he smiled, and said, "Of course we will". Some nights, I believed him. Some nights, I heard the fear in his voice.

I don't ask David that question anymore. I stopped a while ago. Even, when things got scary. Even with the uncertainty of what will be. What lies ahead for my family. These people that I am in awe of, everyday. (most everyday, anyway.) One day turns into another, and months pass. What I was worried about turns into another worry, and before I can realize it, what I was scared of has passed. It just keeps transforming into something else. And here we are. Still in one piece. Still healthy, and breathing. We seem OK. 

I don't know where we will be in a year. But I was scared a year ago where we would be, and here we are. Some days, I can really paint a frightening picture in my head of where we will wind up. But after the rain on Saturday, and the black, sky that we watched cover our neighborhood last night, the sun is out this morning, and my coffee tastes especially good. Birds are everywhere, and my daffodils finally opened.

 All the bulbs that I planted long ago, are still hanging in there.

Bunnies

Easter is next week. David gets paid tomorrow, so this weekend, I can get the girls their candy from "the Bunny". The girls believe. Olivia, poised to turn 8 in May at least has me believing that she still believes. She had some Santa doubts this year, but all we had to do was explain that we would never be able to afford the gifts she got, and she saw the logic in it. I know this belief is coming to an end. I just didn't know how brief it would be. And poor Charlotte will lose that magic even sooner, by default of having an older sister.

I had no idea that S-E-X and the Easter Bunny would share some time together. That has been on my mind this week. The talk that I have been finding every excuse in the world not to have. Here it is. It is time. I thought there would be more fanfare. More time to prepare. Less questions. Much less awkwardness, and discomfort on my part. I am the mother. I am the adult. I thought I could be matter of fact, and teach my girls something I know they are already hearing frightening bits about behind green pleather seats on the school bus. Yet here it is. The simple word. Olivia spelled it. S-E-X the other morning. I poured my coffee, gulped, and turned on my heel, and pasted on a big, weird, smile. "Do you know what sex is Olivia?"

Did I really want her to answer? I thought my wonderful tale of her father and I falling in love, complete with birds tying ribbons in my hair, and a wish we made together for a baby was sufficient. Magically, the baby was placed in my body, and grew, until she was ready to emerge, and there you have it. She has bought it all these years. Or has she? She will be in 3rd grade next year. Oh Gosh....I have put this talk off way too long. I knew about everything by 3rd grade!! Everything!! I knew my parents did some sort of adult movements, behind closed bedroom doors, at least twice!

My mother gave me a book, entitled How Babies are Born. It was really cute. Pictures of puppies and kittens. A baby horse, and piglets. It explained everything. How the egg is fertilized. How the cell divides. Even the proper scientific terms. I got it. I more than got it. I knew more biological terms than any other 2nd grader. Yet my mother skipped one detail. I remember being in the living room. It was a beautiful sunny day. My mother looked so relieved, and pleased, at my understanding of every detail of how a baby was born.

"How does the sperm get to the egg"? I remember her smile, fading from her face. She turned quickly, and took a hard covered book off the shelves. One page was dogeared. There was actually pen marks around a paragraph. "Read this", was all she said. And I did. And I remember feeling so embarrassed. The kind of embarrassment that makes you wish yourself to shrink up, and disappear. My mother looked at me, and said "Any more questions?"...."No." That was it for me. I got it.

So today, I guess in my free moments, I will research how other parents have done this. I will see how much I should say, without saying too much. I will be thankful that Brownies is tonight, and put this conversation off another night, knowing the whole time that the perfect opportunity to talk to her, is when we are alone in the car this evening. And I will listen to her chatter about Easter, and what the Bunny will bring, and wonder, how did we get here?

Just when I thought I had hit a bit of a stride with my girls, they go and swith it up on me.

Lunch break

Molly is sitting with me, eating her lunch. I gave her leftover chicken, peas, and cheese. She insisted on the cheese. When I wasn't looking, she grabbed a pear, and is chomping away at it. Little sneak. I have to admit, watching her eat is pretty entertaining. Food all over her face, and she chews loudly, happily looking around, and telling me how good everything is. She is getting bigger by the minute, and speaking clearer everyday. She is adorable in every way. Except for the pear juice painting she is working on, at this very moment.

Two days. That is how long it has taken to scan documents into our hand me down, ancient, computer. All of our mortgage paper trail, now loaded into our hard drive. I cannot tell you how frustrating each minute of doing it was. And now, I worry that the whole thing may just blow up. After scanning and scanning, when I went to actually save the files, my computer kept sending me a fail message. On top of that, the space bar is going, and the whole keyboard has a delay when you type. David and the kids saw me at my best last night, when my frustration level had reached it's crescendo. Proud moments.

I spoke to a lawyer on Monday. I read about a class action suit that has been filed against my mortgage company. My eyes popped out of my head, for a brief moment, when I read it. I know they did. The press release that I read, on line, on The Street, said this:


Philadelphia PA, April 5, 2011/PR Newswire
"The Law firm of Berger & Montague, P.C. has filed a class action complaint in the United States District Court for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania on behalf of all Pennsylvania homeowners whose mortgage loans have been serviced by Citimortgage Inc. and who, since April 13, 2009 (1) have entered into a Trial Period Plan Contract with Citimortgage and made all payments as required by their TPP Contract and complied with Citimortgages requests for documentation, and (2) have not received or have been denied a permanent Home Affordable Modification Agreement that complied with the U.S. Department of the Treasury's Home Affordable Modification Program rules."

It went on to say that if you feel that you have been denied a loan modification improperly, contact the law firm. It also stated that the complaint alleges the following:

Citimortgage accepted billions in government bailout money, earmarked for struggling homeowners, to help them avoid foreclosure. It stated that "Citimortgage systematically slows or thwarts homeowners requests to modify mortgages, depriving borrowers of Federal bailout funds that could save them from foreclosure. The bank ends up reaping the financial benefits provided by TARP funds and collects higher fees and interest rates associated with stressed home loans."

      !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Eyes popped !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I could not dial the phone number fast enough. The lawyer called me back, and we chatted for quite some time. So the scanning began. And will continue. Hopefully, my computer will not begin smoking.

I feel some comfort in knowing that we are not alone. But it makes me so incredibly angry that they have not helped countless people who lawfully deserved it, when they could have.

When they should have.

It is criminal.

Learn

No word from Nichol. I kept checking my e-mail and jumping every time the phone rang. No news is good news for sure, in this case.

 I went to bed, and had one of the worst sleeps I have had in years. It was interrupted by two of my three girls. Nichol was peppered in there, in the brief spells of sleep, where dreams, and awakening walked a fine line together.

We were on a beach. There also was some old friends from college there. There was a thatched roof hut set up on a beach, with drinks being made, and food being served. The sea was raging, and the sky was black. The waves kept crashing in closer and closer to us, devouring more and more beach with every pound. The wind was whipping, and my hair kept getting blown in front of my eyes, and into my mouth. The horizon had the blackest sky, with lightning flashing and the slow groan of thunder approaching. Everyone was laughing, and having a great time. They were trying to light pillar candles, and giggling over their futile attempts to light the match. I didn't understand how they all could be smiling, and carrying on with themselves, when right behind my shoulder was such danger. How could they all hear themselves laugh over the crashing surf, and pelting rain, and howling wind? How could they not see what was happening all around us? Did they not see the ominous sky, right before them? Could they not sense the danger?

Open drawers, and the sugar canister left out. Every morning. Half open drawers on the dresser, and some mornings, the medicine cabinet is ajar. Why can't David close these things all the way? Every day, I push drawers in so they are flush with furniture. Every day, I hang damp dish towels, that I find in wet lumps on the counter. David is a selective perfectionist. Some days, it makes me swear under my breath. Some days, it makes me smile.

The deer here are inbred, and mangy looking. There are too many of them, that should  be hunted to thin them out. They seek shelter in the woods here. No one will kill them. They are safe. Protected. So they are everywhere. They eat everything. Plants, flowers, even right out of your garbage cans. They are unafraid of people. If you get too close to them, they stomp their hooves, and blow hot air out of their nostrils.

They don't eat daffodils. The daffodils come up every spring, and they steer clear of them. In the small rock garden in front of my house, daffodils come up each year. Planted among them, years before I lived here, is a peony. I noticed it the first year we lived here. I thought it was a weed sprouting, but I let it go, to see what came up. The deer found it, and ate it. The following spring, it returned. This time, I was sure it was something other than a weed. I sprayed it with the awful deer spray we must constantly spritz on anything we want to see thrive and not be chomped to the stump. It is a stinky mix of eggs, and garlic, and mint. The deer don't go near it.

The weed turned into a plant, and the plant grew a flower bud.  A tight, perfectly round golf ball. The first summer, it was one, fluffy, tissue paper flower. In the years to come, it yielded more. I spray it religiously, each week, every year. Some people in my neighborhood have fences around each plant on their property. Large nets encasing the flowering plants they love. I always think those plants look kind of sad. Delicate blossoms behind bars.

Some weeks ago, going through old papers, I found a tattered newspaper clipping. My mother cut it out of Ann Landers, many moons ago. I used to love someone very much, for many years, who never quite returned my feelings, but always led me to believe, that one day soon, he would. He never did, and I spent far too many years waiting on the day that was never to be. It is a corny poem, when I read it now. Yet, I held on to it for years. Literally years. It meant so much to me, that each time I changed purses, I put the poem in with the other contents. I referred to it constantly. It always, always, made me cry. I felt that it was speaking right to me. That the author wrote it for me.

It is called After a While

After a while you learn
The subtle difference between holding a hand, and chaining a soul
And you learn that love doesn't mean leaning and company doesn't always mean security.

And you begin to learn that kisses aren't contracts and presents aren't promises.
And you begin to accept your defeats with your head up and your eyes ahead
with the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child.

And you learn to build your roads on today because tomorrow's ground is too uncertain for plans. And futures have a way of falling down in mid flight.

After a while you learn that even sunshine burns if you get too much, so you plant your own garden, and decorate your own soul instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

And you learn.That you really can endure. That you really are strong.
And you really do have worth.
And you learn and you learn.
With every goodbye, you learn.                                                     

-Veronica A. Shoffstall

Bumper stickerish? Yes. Sappy as hell? Yes. Yet, as I read the words for the first time in many years, I felt, both sad for the young girl I was, so long ago, finding comfort in those words, and thinking how slowly, yet beautifully those words have revealed themselves to me. Like the peony, out in my rock garden. It took a while for me to notice it, and it didn't quite get off the ground right away, but with care, and protection, yet free from fences, to bask in the sun, even with the threat of deer, it grew. And it is lovely.

I look around, and know that life is happening all around me. It is almost as loud as it is visible. These girls. This man. Oh this man, with his half opened drawers, and soggy dishtowels, and shower curtains left to the side...it is all here. Like the beautiful beach party. They are all lighting the pillar candles right in front of me, and laughing at the strong wind. They are making the party so much fun, and they don't even notice the dark swirl right behind their backs.

So, while I am standing on the sand, I think that instead of running, and hiding in fear, from the frightening dark sky, I will dig my toes into the sand, and enjoy the crashing of the waves. And smell my hair as the wind whips it in front of my face. And listen to my babies giggle, while they are still this small.

I sense the danger. Every day, I feel it is too close. But the storm clouds must pass eventually. It cannot rage on forever.

You do learn.

Reality

Reality checks have a funny way of smacking you upside the head. Hard.

After feeling sorry for myself yesterday, I showered. I missed a phone call, from my friend. I saw the blinking light on my phone, signaling a message. What I heard on the other end of the phone, broke my heart.

Her voice was panicked. She was screaming and crying. She could barely catch her breath. My friend, my dear friend, living so far away, across the ocean, was out of her mind. Her tiny baby is dying. She is not even four months old. She has been sick and in the hospital since she was born. Her condition is deteriorating.

They are flying back here, today. They were going to take the baby to Children's Hospital in Philadelphia, but have been told that she should be in a hospital, close to her family, and the people who love her.

I cried, standing in the kitchen. I was making black bean soup, and I left the kitchen, littered with cans. I went into the bedroom, and tried to wrap my head around what my dear friend must be going through. Molly came in the room, and saw me. She said "Kay?" She was worried. Charlotte came in, and handed me a miniature piece of paper. On one side of it, it said "I love you", and on the other, was a drawing of a sun, with long sunbeams radiating off of it.

Huge smack in the face.

Please help this baby. Please help my friend. I prayed. Chanted. Whispered. To something. Someone. Anything.

I miss you Nichol. So much.

Sick day

Today, I would like to call in sick. I can't stand Molly's cry today. It's like nails on a chalkboard. Charlotte has been sick since Thursday. She had a 104 degree fever last night. Her eyes were rimmed red. She was out of it. I want her to get better. I want sickness out of my house, once and for all.

I wish I could walk through the woods, alone. I want to hear quiet. Stillness. I want to hear my own breathing, and sticks cracking beneath my feet. But I am scared of the woods. I am scared of bears. So I would never be alone in the woods. Maybe I would just like to be brave. That is one character that I do not posses. I am afraid of everything. All of it. Some days, it is paralyzing. I am tired of being so fearful.

My girls should see a mother who is strong. Not one who cowers at a thunder storm. Not one who fears strong wind. Not one who panics when the lights go out.

They should see a mother who walks in the woods. Happily. Without hesitation. Not one who fears animals. They should see a mother who swims in the ocean. Not one who imagines murky creatures beneath the waves. Not one who is too petrified to go in, past her knees.

Today, I want to call in sick from being me. Just for today. Because this fear is just too much to take sometimes.