I am a Mom. I’m Mama to the most adorable, articulate, sensitive and wonderfully frustrating child I’ve ever known. I love my son more than anyone or anything in a way I never knew was even remotely possible. I had a strong indication that I was more than capable of experiencing such love and joy upon the birth of my little sister, who is 35 years my junior, and born just a little over a year before my son. In fact, I’d go as far as saying that my son’s conception, at least figuratively, was a direct result of my Dad’s and non-Mom’s (no steps or halfs in our family) decision to have a child. In a mind-blowing, clarifying instant I knew that if I could love my sister this much before she was even born, then I was more than capable of loving my own child at least this much. It may sound bizarre but it’s true. There are lots of funny (as in odd and funny) things like this in what I lovingly call my funny little dysfunctional family. In summary, I love my sister and I love my son with all my heart.
I am the the wife of the most amazing man for almost 12 years. My husband is my best friend, confidante, and all around “go to” guy. He is the milk to my Oreo cookie, the peanut butter to my jelly, the chocolate cake to my Coca-Cola (inside family joke), the yin to my yang. You get the idea as I totally rip off or at the very least borrow the essence of lines from the darling film Juno (a must-see by the way). Anyway, I love my husband. I love him, I love him.
I am the only child of divorced parents who are about as different as two people can be. In addition to unwittingly providing the jumping off point for my aforementioned funny little dysfunctional family, their premarital union and subsequent marriage resulted in a funny little dysfunctional daughter – me of course. I am Daddy’s girl. I suppose the more “politically correct” way to say that now that I’m a 40-year-old woman is that I am my father’s daughter. The sun rose and set by the gravitational pull of my Dad, as did I for just about the last 30 years or so. And no, I’m not kidding. I love my Dad. My relationship with my beautiful mother is far more complex, as are most female unions, but particularly the mother/daughter ones. My mother has made my heart sing, my blood boil, and ultimately, in her own way, been my steadfast cheerleader all along (even when she didn’t like me very much and vice versa). Upon becoming a mother myself, I was faced with the daunting task of healing and re-healing, visiting and revisiting my relationship with her as I have, and will continue to do, for the rest of my life. It is a never-ending dance between my mother (who incidentally is a former amateur ballerina) and me. I love my Mom. My parents and I weathered the divorce, all bruised and battered, each of us nearly broken in our own unique way. But we survived, and like an injured plant, knitted, self-repaired, and continuing to grow, we are stronger individually, and as a whole, at those very same broken points. I love my parents.
I am an intensely personal and private person. Even most, perhaps all, of my friends (the closest ones I mean) don’t know of the extent of my postpartum… let’s call them issues…for now. The fact that I’m sharing even some of the most mundane details of my life in a blog, let alone the most intensely joyful as well as excrutiatingly personal and painful ones, is either a miracle or pure hubris. I like to think of it as a leap of faith or perhaps as “walking in my faith” (thank you to my son’s preschool Sunday school teacher for inadvertently providing me with that line a couple Sundays ago). It’s also worth mentioning as a sidebar that, despite talk of church and references to God throughout my blog, I am not by any account a religious woman. I once introduced myself in a prospective member’s pastor’s class as “an on again, off again, Lutheran.” In saying that I realized that I’m actually more of an on again, off again Christian. I do believe in God and have been struggling with Jesus and whether or not I’m a true Christian (whatever that is) since I was a teenager. I do know this without a doubt, I love my friends.
Every writer, indeed every person, has a story. The question is: Is that story compelling enough to make a good read? Up until now I thought that I didn’t have a story, at least not a compelling one, and I fancied myself a writer without a story. Which essentially meant, for all intents and purposes, I’m not a writer. For some this may have been a fact that proclaimed itself in a way like, “I don’t like coffee.” or “I’m not a biomedical engineer.” For me it was a sad truth because ever since I can remember (and people started making predictions about my writing and ultimately about the course of my life, as people will do), I fancied myself a writer – period. What follows is my story in my own words. I am a writer.