Pride

Alison of Mama Wants This and Ado of the Momalog are celebrating their first anniversary of their blogs. In the celebratory mood, they are imploring us, their lovely readers to contribute our own very best or most favorite post to their Blog Bash Link Up.

As I scoured the four hundred and seventy three posts I have written thus far over the past four years, I would be lying if I didn't say I was proud of myself. My writing has evolved, as has this blog itself. At first it was place just for snapshots and quick paragraphs describing my child(ren). A virtual baby book of sorts, one might say.

As time as gone by, I realize that this blog has become my refuge. My place to vent, to remember, to pour out my heart, make a list or two, share a fear, and ocassionally tell a good story.

The piece I have chosen was in response to a RememberRed post from the group Write on Edge way back in the summer of 2011.

The inspirations was as follows:
  For this week's RemembeRED prompt, we're borrowing a prompt from Writing the Memoir by Judith Barrington. In her chapter "The Truth: What, Why, and How," she asks her readers to: "Tell the story (without any trivialization or modesty) of something in your life that you are proud of."

This post is my story, and without further adieu,
Pride


I have a love hate relationship with my body.

This is a feeling which I believe many women share. Often, I find myself criticizing the size of my thighs, or the current state of my breasts, as I look in the mirror. My clothes become camouflage for the pouch of a belly that lies underneath. In my thirty two years of life, my body has remained solid and strong. I truly love me, but think I could love me a little more if there was a little less of me! It is almost comical to think that my battle scarred belly can be a place where I hold tremendous pride. However, underneath the stretch marks lies my story.

I was a newlywed, living my happily ever after when I became sick. Luckily a doctor fresh out of residency saw me on that fateful day I walked into the clinic. A more seasoned doctor likely would have taken my list of symptoms and simply diagnosed it a muscle spasm and sent me home with painkillers.

In this scenario, I most likely would have died from misdiagnosis.

Instead, this new doctor sent me to the emergency room as a precaution, and some six hours later, I was admitted and hooked up to an IV receiving blood thinners to prevent the clot that had formed in my lungs from passing into my heart.

She saved my life that day.

After a week in the hospital, vials upon vials of blood, and visits from countless specialists, I was released home, on blood thinners, with the instructions to take it easy. Later visits to hematologists, cardiologists, and primary care doctors, agreed that it was a pulmonary embolism caused most likely from birth control medication. It was unknown what my future would hold, and how this could potentially affect pregnancy in the future.

I was terrified and cursed my body.

I was young, healthy, and newly married. I believed that I should not have had to deal with this.

Over time, my body got stronger, the pain dissipated, and went back to my everyday routine. Almost 10 months after that fateful day, Bryan and I met with a maternal fetal medicine specialist to discuss pregnancy, more importantly pregnancy for me. We met for twenty minutes, explaining my history and left the office with the green light to stop medication and try to have a baby.

I trusted that my body was strong and could handle it.

And it was that easy, as I became pregnant almost immediately.

From the moment I heard the heartbeat at seven weeks, I had a responsibility to keep this life inside of me safe and to keep my body healthy.

Fear slowly crept into my head.
Would I miscarry?
Would I have another clot?
Would something worse happen?

I was back on blood thinners, this time intravenous ones. Every night, I would take the needle out of the package and into my belly I would push. For thirty-two weeks, I did this as my belly became larger and the bruises became more pronounced.

With each week of my pregnancy, I began to trust my body.

It was strong.
It would keep my baby healthy.
It would keep me healthy.

I found pride in each shot, as it was another day I got to be pregnant, another day I was alive.

Moira was born, perfect. Weeks later, I looked at my deflated belly, stretched and sagging in the mirror. While it wasn't classically beautiful, I looked past the checkerboard and saw a place of power. My body had survived a blood clot and then sustained a life for nearly 39 weeks.

How can I not be proud of all that it accomplished in a short amount of time?

Now when I look in the mirror, I push those negative thoughts aways as I remind myself of how miraculous and amazing my body is, stretchmarks and all.

 

Autumn's Arrival

He walks over to the red wagon sitting on our porch. Grabbing the little blue rake, he insists on taking care of the leaves.
"I'll help you." he says. "You got a lot of leaves".
Our next door neighbor often comes to play with Mo and Maeve. Only six years,  but in their eyes, an expert. The pride visible in his eyes as the parade follows.
Mo first, accomplished on the art of stair climbing she asks him of his intentions as she follows close behind.
Maeve reaches her hand to me. The stairs still a daunting task to her nearly two year frame.

Step, Step, Step, then hop.

Reaching the final step, her hand escapes mine, as she runs to meet the others.

He works intensely. His inexperience with the rake evident by the lack of piles. The leaves looking no different then when he began. They stand, watching.
 In a moment,  inspiration overcomes me.
"Watch the girls for a moment" I ask. "I need to go get something."
Grabbing the keys, I begin down the drive, to the garage. Unlocking the door, I find it easily. Balanced against the wall, the silver rake sits. Hibernating through the year, now with autumn's arrival, the rake is alive again, a tool of necessity.
Walking up the path, I hear the familiar voice before I see her
"What you doing mama? Whatcha got in your hands?" she asks.
Her blue eyes look up inquisitively.
"I'm going to rake the leaves." I explain.
Her giggle overtakes her body as she explains, "You no rake! That's daddy!"

Today, it is my turn. 

Red, yellow, and orange overtake the green of the grass, as the weight of the rake falls into my hands.
The small, blue rake has been abandoned. Bodies race by in a whirl of laughter and shouts, as my own rake begins it's task. Creating small piles, the green is revealed again, occasional leaves fly by.
The pile emerges slowly. Quietly, they assess the scene.
Without reservation, they jump. Their smile and laughter fills the air.
I abandon the rake and join them.



Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns. ~George Eliot

For you, what does autumn evoke?
Show us in 300 words or less

Conjure

His hand reaches out to mine.
His embrace so familiar,
So strong.
Into his arms I melt.
For the moment, nothing else matters.
With each breath, I find my calm.
The hurricane continues around me,
But shelter, his gift to me.
My mind finally abandons the turmoil
And I let go:
The sadness,
The hopelessness,
The fear.
In its place he gives me hope.
My rock.
My love.

This week Galit asked  to conjure something. An object, a person, a feeling, a color, a season- whatever we liked keeping it under 100 words. Not sure about the word count, but this is exactly what I needed.

Knee Socks and Peter Pan Collars

I miss my childhood. I had some really great ideas growing up. Ideas that I thought were earth shattering.
This was one of them.
I walk over to the closet, and slowly open the door. Reaching my hand up, I grab the plastic hangers. The shirt and uniform hang next to each.other The weight feels heavy in my eight year old arms as I lower the two pieces down. Closing the closet door, I carefully place the grey plaid jumper on the door knob and walk over to the bed, the shirt still in hand. I liked the navy blue jumpers we had worn the previous two years, but with the schools being combined, new uniforms for everyone this year.
I dispise the shirts.
They are pink,
like pepto bismal.
I place the pink shirt down and smooth the peter pan collar. I like the collars to be flat. Slowly I unbutton the white buttons and remove the shirt from the hanger. Taking off my t-shirt, my arms go into the sleeves. With ease, since this would be my third year in uniform, I fasten all but the top button.
I don't need the top to choke me before the school day starts.
The teachers would make sure that top button was closed, but for now, it is okay open.
With my pajama bottoms still on, I head over to my dresser. Opening the drawer, an array of socks meets my eyes. I pull out a maroon pair of knee socks.
I find maroon to be such a weird color for socks.
The navy blue ones from last year seemed a normal color, but maroon, strange.
I return to my bed. Flopping down, I pull off my white sweat socks, crumbling them into a ball. Trying to toss them into the hamper from the confines of the bed across the room, I miss terribly. Hopping off the bed, I race over to the hamper, pick them up, and dunk, successfully this time.
Returning to the bed, I unfold the socks. Hiding my pink painted toes under the maroon weaved fabric, I pull on one sock, then the other. Keeping them sagged at my ankles for the time being, I will be sure that they hit just below my knee before I get out of the car in front of school. Knee socks need to be just under the knee, not lower, and not sagging.
I hear my sister in the hall, coming out of the bathroom.
Stealthily, I climb into my bed. Grabbing my sheets and comforter, and pulling them up to my chin, covering my shirt and socks.
She walks in, paying little mind to me. Turning on the nightlight, then turning off the light switch, she climbs into her own bed.
"Goodnight Jackie" she says, as she pulls her stuffed dolphin close.
I smile a wide, fulfilled smile. My mom comes in a few moments later, kissing me good night as I continue to hold the sheets tightly to my chin.  As I nod off to sleep, in my knee socks, pink shirt, and pajama bottoms, I cannot help but be proud.
"Brilliant", I think, "I can sleep in a little bit more now."

Obviously, I saved a few precious minutes when I decided to sleep in pieces of my uniform, but my joy was short lived when my mother walked in as I was putting on my pink shirt at 8:30 pm. I couldn't come up with a good enough excuse as to why I was in my top before bed, and alas, my week of sleeping in my uniform was over.
Or was it?
Secretly I kept putting my knee socks on with my pajamas for a few more weeks, that is until my feet started to get too hot. I abandoned my nighttime ritual and lost those extra five minutes of sleep.

This week's RemembeRed Prompt was to use the above photo and begin the entry with the line "I miss my childhood...".

Support

The weight of the day was felt in every inch of my body. I fought back the tears as I looked up to the clock.
Three Twelve.
I still had eighteen minutes until I was free.
As I walked back to my desk, I browsed my surroundings. Colorful and bright, I had made the classroom an inviting place, but at that moment I wanted out.
I wanted to run,
to throw open the doors,
offering my resignation as I ran by,
escaping the complete and utter chaos that was my class.
This was not the job I had imagined.
My naivete in full bloom.  Promised a class of language and learning disabled kindergartners, instead multiple social and emotional impairments met my novice self.  Resources were lacking, and being a new teacher I had yet to understand the need to advocate for myself.
Instead I wallowed in silence.
I brought it all home, but candy coated it for my family and friends.
Through gritted teeth I'd say "It's not so bad" or "I know it will get better", knowing the opposite.
I dreaded each day, but each morning arrived one of the first in the building.
I dreaded not being there, for fear of what would happen in my absence.
It was too much.
I dropped my head onto the desk, and wrapped my arms around. In this little cocoon, I hid my tears. It was only October. The thought of eight more months made me nauseous. How could I do this, I wondered?
I heard the knock on the open door.
Lifting my head, I saw Chris, a fantastic occupational therapist assigned to the majority of my students.
"Can I come in? I need to talk about a few programs." she asked.
Wiping the tears from my face, I faked a smile and shrugged an okay.
The next thirty minutes programs were never addressed, instead the flood gates opened and I confessed all my misgivings.
The fears and struggles I had been embarrassed to share, the frustrations, the irritations, the sadness. There she sat, listening as the tears returned.
Emotionally spent, I looked to her and she said what I needed to hear:
Validation,
Encouragement,
Friendship,
and
Levity.
As we walked out together that day, I realized I would be okay and maybe even happy in the class, eventually.


That was nearly nine years ago and I still consider Chris one of the finest unofficial mentors I have every had. She saved me, honestly, from changing fields.
Thank you Chris!

This week you were asked to write about a mentor, someone who guided or inspired you. How did your mentor impact your life?

Lesson Learned

Little red plastic cup. innocently stacked in a pile.
"Here" he says, "It's for you. I take care of my freshmen". Into each hand, he places a red cup.
"Enjoy" he continues, as he walks away, leaving us alone. A sea of unfamiliar faces look as we hover in the doorway.
I feel like I don't belong here.
I'm not this type of girl; not the partying type. Not the girl to be holding a cup at a fraternity party.
I'm a good girl,
But no one knows this.
We are virtual strangers, the girls and I. Barely do I know their names, their stories have yet to be revealed, as we have only met a few hours before. Since we are all collegiate athletes to be, we have been grouped together for Freshmen orientation class.
It is his idea, our peer mentor, an upper class man, to come out to this party this night. We later discover, that he is pledging this fraternity and so his actions may have ulterior motives.
In the doorway of the large white house we cling together, our shared naivete, our bond. As one unit, we walk to the kitchen, and discover a blue plastic tub filled with a purple punch.
"I guess I'll just try some" I say.
I'm a good girl, not the partying type.
It appears I am alone in my inexperience, as they quickly empty their glass.
Bottoms up, I suppose as I join them back at the rubber tub.
The little red plastic cup holds another glass of the purple punch, and then another. (and another?)
Our inhibitions begin to fade, as the liquor takes hold.
I'm a good girl, not the partying type.
I find a seat in the living room, and sit.
The room begins to spin as my stomach churns.
Purple liquid splashes onto the white carpet as I drop my little red plastic cup.
"Who's ready to head back to the dorm?" the familiar voice asks. I look up to spy my peer mentor.
I walk to the car, and crawl into the back seat. Two of my new friends, sit next me.
"Can you open the window a bit?" I ask, my stomach continues to churn, as I attempt to hide my intoxication.
"Of course" he responds, as the car takes off back to the university. I feel the cool air on my face as the window rolls down, then I hear the lighter click. He places the cigar between his lips, and immediately the smell overcomes me.
"Pull over! Pull over now!" I yell.

It was that early night in my college experience that I learned to be hesitant about those little red plastic cups.
Lesson Learned.

*Sorry mom & dad! I know you thought I was a good girl, and I was, most of the time! :)

Teach!
Learn!
Classroom!
Lesson!
What we finally landed on? Is this:
Write a post that either starts or ends with the words "Lesson learned." Word limit: 400 words

Happily Ever After...finally.

The Honeymoon- the usual culminating activity of the bridal process. In many great movies where weddings are a central theme, the guests and family wave and shout frantically as they send off the happy couple. Many times the bride changes from her wedding dress into a suit, obviously the most appropriate attire for travel, and off to start the rest of their lives they go. Annie and Brian from Father of the Bride, Shelby and Jackson from Steel Magnolias, Samantha's older sister and husband in Sixteen Candles, the list goes on... Happily ever after, as they drive into the sunset.
However reality isn't always so sequential, so scripted.

The wedding was stunning, everything I had always hoped and more.
A warm October evening,
Fantastic food, family and friends,
Dancing and drinking the night away.
Our subtle beach themed, fairly classic wedding.

Purse strings stretched tightly, we decided to postpone a honeymoon.
Responsibilities to maintain. 
Debts to pay.

In a few months, maybe over the holiday.
Responsibilities to maintain
Debts to pay.

No in the summer,
Definitely in the summer.
August would be perfect.

I'm sorry, it appears you have a blood clot in your lung.
What?
Health to maintain.
Debts to pay.

Maybe for the new year?
Responsibilities to maintain
Debts to Pay

"I'll take care of it," he said. "We deserve something big."
Responsibilities maintained
Debts Paid

Two weeks before, a positive pregnancy test.
Between tears, I managed to offer my apologies for ruining our much delayed and anticipated honeymoon.
Kisses and hugs and reassurance in only the most fitting of ways.
"It's okay, at least I can still drink!"

When we returned,
Major responsibilities to maintain
Debts to pay
'
But for seven days,
alternate reality.
Honeymoon turned baby moon,
our own little slice of heaven.

Breakfast set up daily

One of the semi-secluded beaches

Toes in the sand

Blissfully unaware of the perils of pending parenthood

Flicker of Inspiration Prompt #8: I Need a Vacation

Write about a trip either you or a character has taken. It doesn't need to be a literal trip but can be more of figurative journey. If you're writing memoir, what do you remember most about this trip? Do you remember what it's like to go somewhere you've never been? If you're writing fiction, describe your character's trip vividly. Make us feel what your character felt, see what they saw, experience what they experienced. Come back and take us on your journey by linking up next Sunday.

After attempting to write a new piece to address the prompt for the Red Dress Club,  I realized this piece was it. This week's prompt asked us to write about a time that rhythm, or a lack thereof, played a role in your life. And don’t use the word “rhythm.”

The Stage

It was a Sunday, and we had already watched our weekly episode of Kids Incorporated. The premise: a band of kids who performed family friendly versions of pop songs while they danced around.  Exactly the type of show made to appeal to the 6-12 yr old demographic. My sister and I were loyal followers. In the age before DVR, repeated viewings were rare, so we attempted, unsuccessfully, to make voice recordings using our tape recorder, in a meek attempt to have their songs to sing along.
On a cloud after each episode, we would take our makeshift microphones, mine an attachment to the vacuum, hers a yellow drumstick, and sing and dance around our family room. She as Stacy, the younger blond headed sister who could belt out with the best of them, me as Renee, the older auburn locked sister who was known for the longing glances she would give to the camera.
The show gave me my first exposure to Rocky Horror Picture Show's Time Warp and Springsteen's Thunder Road, of course with lyrics appropriate for the under 12 crowd.
Clicking on the television those Sunday afternoons, we were transported to this surreal world where parents and other adults were rarely seen. The kids had the run of the Place, with fashionable wardrobes of neon and denim and songbooks a mile long.
Kids Incorporated gave my sister and I inspiration.
"Do you want to see Great Grandmom today?" my mom asked.
I looked to my sister, and we nodded in unison. A trip to the nursing home to dutifully pay our respects to our maternal great grandmother, also gave us access to the stage.
In the great room of the building, wooden tables dot the floor, with bright orange plastic chairs surrounding them. Wheelchairs and walkers pulled up table side, a room which offered a sense of community to its elderly residents.
  After giving our great grandmother a peck on her cheek, and a quick hello, to the stage we would race. Our daydreams of being famous singers and dancers would come alive, as we did our best to mirror what we had seen earlier on the day. Twirling and singing, the time on that stage was magical. While a stray clap was our only acknowledgement, we continued. The majority of our visit spent on that stage.
By this time Great Grandmom was quite old, her body beginning to show the effects of a well lived life. I cannot remember any true acknowledgement of our talents, however my mom and grandmother both agree that she loved our visits, just as most of the other residents.
It was here we were stars.


TV is something that people either watch a lot of or have definite feelings about. This week, we want you to think about tv show from your past. Maybe you watched it, maybe you didn't and it was just something that everyone else talked about.

What feelings does the show evoke? What memories does it trigger?
Keep it to 600 words and come back to link up on Tuesday, July 5th.

Vamos a Espana

"Jac, do you hear that?" Ashley yelled over to me.
"huhh?" I mumbled, the covers wrapped around my neck.
"Jackie, Ashley, are you guys awake?" her voice muffled through the door as her hands continued to pound.
"Oh my God!" I yelled. "I can't believe we overslept on our first day in Spain!"
This set the tone for the trip:  hurried and frantic, attempting to get as much as we could in during the four days, three nights we spent in the Costa Del Sol, Spain.
When I think back, I still cannot believe fourteen families agreed to send their wide eyed high school juniors and seniors half way around the world with one chaperone. Dr. U, our eternally upbeat and hyper Spanish teacher had discovered this extended weekend away and opened it to those in Spanish three and four. Lucky for us, we had a chaperone with a doctorate in Spanish. It appears the three or four years of high school Spanish did little to prepare us for the actual conversational skills needed, as I found myself asking often "Habla ingles?".
Our iteneria swelled with train rides, strolls brisk walks through Valencia, dinners out, sightseeing, and shopping. We went to Plaza de Toros de Mijas, and watched a bullfight. Looking back, the actions of a bullfight had dance like qualities, and I remember being equally appalled and intrigued as I watched.
We were given two hours of free time the last day and our group remained intact as we headed to the beach.
The tiny smooth pebbles shifted underneath my feet as I walked to the water. I was a competitive swimmer, so I usually preferred the chlorinated water of a swimming pool to that of the ocean, but today was different. It was the Mediterranean Sea, and the panic of never knowing if I would ever be in the position to see it again made any hesitations about wading escape my mind. The voices around me debated the merits the air temperature compared to the water, but it fell on deaf ears. I would make it into the Sea. My feet met the freezing water as a rush of adrenaline filled my body. I could have stopped, but I was determined and into the water I walked further.
"Take my picture Ash. I can't believe I'm in the Mediterranean Sea." I hollered, holding back any shivers. That photo remains in my scrapbook.
That last night, after we had dinner and returned to our room for the night, Ashley and I debated sneaking out with some others to the beach. Apparently someone had procured pear brandy, and the plan was to share the one bottle on the beach. As usual, we were over cautious and remained in our room, frightened of the consequences our one chaperone had threatened. It was in that evening that we made our promise.
"We have to come back here someday" I said, "just you and me".
"When we're older, like in twenty years" she laughed.
Twenty years seemed so distance, so far into the future, especially at 17.

We have five years Ashley, so start practicing your Spanish!

School trips. We all go on them. What trip do you remember the most? Where did you go? Who was with you? How did you get there? Have you ever been back?
Write a memoir post about a memorable school trip. Word limit is 600.

In Charge

I used my hip to push the door ajar, while I balanced the bags in my hands. Almost walking into the large knee high table, I laid my bags down. I switched on the overhead lights, and suddenly the room came alive. The calendar on the wall read September, with the little numbered squares velcroed below, waiting for little hands.

Adjusting the waistband of my skirt nervously, I waltzed around the classroom. Looking at all I had accomplished in those few weeks. Yellow paper now covered old and tattered cork board. Signs and charts indicating days of the week, months of the year, colors and shapes danced happily on the walls. I looked up over the windows and laughed. I thought back to the adventure it had been placing twelve cardboard bears dressed in monthly appropriate attire above the ten foot high windows. A task MacGyver would have appreciated helped to make the room kid friendly.

My hands were sweating and I could feel my breakfast churning in my stomach.
I looked to the clock.
I still had thirty minutes until their arrival.
I walked to the makeshift library I had assembled. As I ran my finger over the familiar texts, I couldn't help but smile. My dad had suggested bringing the Cookie Monster and Big Bird chairs from my childhood. They sat empty now, waiting for eager emerging readers. The reading area was ready.
I looked to the space beside it. Dress up clothes, baby dolls, play kitchen, table, and chairs combined with a stack of menus I had accumulated from various restaurants indicated the pretend area. I imagined little bodies moving amongst the toys, their play actually serving as a part of their education.
From there I nervously rearranged a few wooden blocks in the block area. Soon, they would create high towers and ceremoniously knock them down, blocks crashing into the ground as shrieks of laughter would follow. Now, before they arrived, the blocks stood quiet, anticipating the months of stacking and crashing.
This room already felt like a second home, a place I was meant to be.
The blue carpet swirled around my feet, almost mimicking waves of the sea. Sitting, kneeling, jumping, dancing, hopping, skipping, the kids eventually would do this and more here. They would laugh and sing all under my tutelage. They would grow up before my eyes.
I looked up again at the clock.
It was time and I was ready.
"Welcome to Kindergarten".


This week we asked you to write a prompt inspired by this sentence:
The first time I ________-ed after _________-ing.
We have no idea where this took you. We're excited to find out!

Sleep Tight

"You are strong, you are smart, and you are beautiful." I say.
I brush her bangs away from her forehead as I lean in to give her a kiss.
"Another one Mama!" she begs, and I lean in and kiss both her cheeks. Her giggles are contagious. "Sing my good nap song please!"

Good Nap Moira, Good Nap Mo, Good Nap Mo-Mo, It's time to go to sleep!

I sing, my voice a little louder then a whisper.
Somehow this song evolved, with the kisses and hugs, she became ready for her nap. It wasn't always this fluid, this routine.
When she was first born, a small little helpless being crying out in the middle of the night, I would pull her into my chest. Her cheek pressed against my own. I sought to console her, to ease her cries. My mind would wander, victim of a sleepless fog. All to often the first phrase that would come into my mind, I would speak.
Many nights it was "Sleep, please, sleep!". Over and over the words would fall from my lips, almost that of a prayer or chant. Begging my newborn to sleep, so in turn I could.
As sleep became more consistent, my whispers changed. Good night softly into her ear, I would repeat as my body rocked side to side. Her breathing would begin to slow, her cries lessen, as her body relaxed off to sleep.
In those quiet moments, I would whisper into her newborn ear my wishes for her.
I would tell her that she was strong, and smart, and beautiful. She was promised that she could do anything she wanted with our unconditional support. My list would always conclude the same way. With a kiss on her cheek and the same closing admission, "I am so lucky to be your mommy." I confessed and into her crib she would sleep.
Gradually, verses were added to our song reminding her,

I love you Moira, I love you Mo, I love you Mo-Mo, It's time to go to sleep.

This song, a constant as things around us changed. Crib exchanged for bed, a little sister introduced, panties in place of diapers, as my baby became a little girl.

Close your eyes Moira, Close your eyes Mo, Close your eyes Mo-MO, It's time to go to sleep.

Cries at bedtime were replaced with pleas for more hugs, more kisses. Repeated readings of Snow White and Where the Wild Things Are are negotiated as Jessie lies under her arm.
"Kisses mama and finish my song, please!" she asks as her thumb returns to her mouth, an indicator that sleep is imminent.

Good Nap Moira, Good Nap Mo, Good Nap Mo-Mo, It's time to go to sleep.

I get up from the edge of her bed, and walk to the door. I look over. She has turned over to her side, the covers under her arms as her eyes fight sleep.
"I am so lucky to be your mommy!" I say, as I pull the door closed.


Affection.

Some of us show it easily, hugging relatives each time we meet. Wrapping our arms around friends.
Some of us are more reserved, rarely touching other people.
And then a few of us hang out somewhere in the middle. Hugging our children, but limiting our affection to handshakes with others.
This week we would like you to write about how the show of affection has played a part in your memory.
Choose a time when either the abundance or lack of affection (either by you or someone else) stands out, and show us. Bring us to that time. Help us feel what you felt.
Then come back and link up your post on Tuesday, June 14.
Let's keep it to 600 words this time (or fewer, of course).

Tables

"Four times ten is forty, Four times eleven is forty-four, Four times twelve is forty-seven?" my voice gradually decreasing in volume as I got to the dreaded twelves.
"Jacqueline Ann! Have you been studying your times tables?" my dad asked.
I knew I was in trouble when my first AND middle name was used.
It was second grade and Mrs. Di Bonaventure had made it explicitly clear that we were to know our times table. By know, she meant memorize. By memorize she meant that those times tables were to be part of us, inside, outside, upside down part of us. Me & multiplication should have been best friends forever, however I had some problem getting some of the facts into my long term memory.
It was Catholic school which meant a lot of the nifty things happening in education had failed to penetrate the walls of St. Ann's school. In my classroom, there was memorization, drill books, reading groups, seat work, and exams. Handmade flash cards from index cards was the most progressive thing I can remember doing. Of course, they were only in pencil or crayon, because pens and markers were not permitted until fourth grade.
With my large pile of flash cards in hand, I practiced those tables. My little fingers flipped those cards until they became dog eared and worn. I carried them every where I went and had every adult and older kid I knew quiz me.
I lived multiplication!
Okay, so maybe I exaggerated a bit here. I did not study nearly as much as I should, but in my defense, I was only seven! There were so many things more interesting then flash cards. There was music, and Nickelodeon, and playing outside with my sister and neighbors. Flash cards were a waste and I quietly resigned myself to a lifetime of never learning the twelves times tables (and some of the eight and nine too).
My dad, however had other plans.
He walked past carrying the tape recorder and a blank tape with a smug grin on his face.
"Hi dad". I said. "What are you doing?"
"Don't worry about that!" he said, as he walked away. "I'll have a surprise for you soon enough."
"Jacqueline Ann" he called, "I have something for you."
I ran into the living room expected a beautifully wrapped present. Seeing my dad sitting on the couch with his hand on the large sound system had me perplexed.
"Where is it daddy?" I asked.
"Sit down" he motioned to the couch as I sat next to him, my face still carrying a perplexing look.
"You always are able to learn those songs on the radio so quick, Jackie. I mean, it's like you hear it once and then you know it." he began. "Well, I figured that maybe if you heard your times tables on the radio like your music you'd be able to learn those too!". The look of pride gleamed on his face.
I was not buying it.
He pressed play and his voice began bellowing throughout our living room.
"One times one equals dramatic pause one, one times two equals dramatic pause two,..." and so it went.
Thinking back now I can remember the cadence of his voice. It wasn't my dad simply reciting the multiplication tables, it was reminiscent of spoken word poetry.It was something I know Mrs. Di Bonaventure would have frowned upon, but my dad knew me and in turn, knew how to help me. I listened to that tape a handful of times, and it did help me learn most of my times tables.
As an adult now, I will admit there are moments where I become stuck on a few of the twelves. I confess the voice that usually penetrates my brain as I think, isn't my own. It's my dad's! I hear him, in that syncopated rhythm reciting "nine times twelve is dramatic pause one hundred and eight, ten times twelve is dramatic pause one hundred twenty".
Now, twenty years later, I still remember.
Thanks dad!

RemembeRed: This week's memoir prompt asked you to dig deep to find what, from your childhood, you still know from heart.

I still remember all those rhymes you did while slapping hands with a friend, like Miss Mary Mack Mack Mack all dressed in black black black.

What do YOU remember?

Doctor G

"Are you sure we can park here?" I turn to Bry adjusting my dress in the car as we park. "The parking around here has so many rules." I add.
"Yes, we can. Don't worry, we have plenty of time" he responds.
I can already feel the butterflies in my stomach as the motor stops purring and he removes the keys from the ignition. He throws the keys into my lap.
"Put them in your purse, would ya?" he says as it slams the car door.
I climb out of the car onto the sidewalk and notice the throngs of people on the street. There is no need to ask for directions now as it appears many are on the same pilgrimage as us. It is hard not to mistake who is heading to graduation today. Families walk, pride across their face as they pass the regular workday commuters. It is hard not to scream from the rooftops of this accomplishment.
Thirteen years of primary schooling, then four years of undergraduate work, one year of post-baccalaureate, then four years of medical school and now here we are waiting for the stroll across the stage and the piece of paper. This final act changing the Miss to Doctor.
We reach the front of the Center, our destination and scan the crowd for familiar faces.
"Jac" I hear the disembodied familiar voice yell. "We're over here."
"I see your dad" Bry says, "follow me".
It is in these situations I am thankful for a husband the size of a NFL player. As he walks, the crowd seems to part and I easily walk behind as we meet my parents.
"Can you believe this crowd?" my mom says. "It's going to be hard to find seats."
"I'm not worried" I say, "We've got dad on our side!"
Everyone laughs and nods in agreement. Pleasantries are exchanged as we all nervously wait.
The doors finally open and the throng of people gravitate to the doors and stairways up to the balcony.
"Keep your dad in sight" my mom yells to me.
While my dad pushes through, the rest of us stick together and make it to the balcony together. As we enter the door, my father's voice echos.
"Over here! I've got enough seats for us all" he screams across the collection of rows.
We sit and it is the first time I see the program. My fingers trace the embossed logo. XXX University College of Medicine Commencement the program reads.
As I open it, tears fill my eyes a little bit. I search the list of names, my finger following along and then I see it, listed under those who secured the requirements for medical doctorate.
My little sister is a doctor.
The rest of the graduation is a blur. I'm thankful for the mints I have in my purse during the various speeches and honorary doctorates, and debate playing hangman with Bry at one part. After nearly two hours, there is a glimmer of hope to the ceremony as the announcement rings that hooding will begin.
I look to my mom and dad for a moment. My mom is dabbing her eyes with a tissue, the tears well up easily today. My dad is in a precarious position over the side of the balcony attempting to find the perfect place to shot a photo.
We find her in the sea of black robes, her curly hair tamed under the black cap. Her smile meets mine and we wave to each other.
"Jeanna Ane XXXX" they say as she walks across the stage and the green hood is placed over her shoulders.





It's that time of year...graduation.

For this week's prompt we are asking you to remember a graduation. It doesn't have to be yours and it doesn't have to be high school.

Played

"Staci's it!" they yell.
Quickly, I push my legs against the wall and glide away from the small crowd of kids. In my summer uniform: speedo swimsuit, hair in ponytail, I try to adjust my goggles underwater.
Not a good idea.
I come to the surface in the middle of the pool, random bodies swim around me.
I spy her to my left looking for prey.
"Crap" I think, "she just might catch me", as I dart behind an elderly lady in a flowered swim cap.
My heart starts beating faster.
I peek around the lady and watch as she dives to her right, going away from me.
I'm safe.
My goggles are securely covering my eyes now, as I weave through the crowd of bodies bobbing along.
I am desperate.
I have to find a ladder.
As I dive under the water again, pushing from the cement bottom, I kick my feet with all my might. I rise a few yards away from where I started.
I spy my sister in the shallow water. She's clinging to the ladder, yelling for me to swim over.
"You can make it!" she pleads, "Staci's on the other side of the pool!".
I analyze my path. A few waders and moms with infants stand in my way of safety.
I can do this, I think and decide to swim over. Just as I go to push off, another kid grabs the ladder.
The base is full.
Staying still too long is not wise. I swim around for a moment. I'm in the center of the pool again. The water is just deep enough that I have to tread. My legs move around in circles as I skim the water for options.
I turn my head to the deeper end, 20 yards away. There stands an empty ladder.
Can I make it?
"Where's Staci?" I whisper.
The pool is my battleground.
Instead of bombs being launched, I deal with cannonballs. Causalities are few, however injuries aplenty from the jab of a rogue elbow or a foot kicking as they swim away.
It's a dangerous endeavor, swimming from my location to deeper water, but what other option do I have?
"Where's Staci?" I whisper again to myself.
I feel my heart beating quickly again, as I see her. She's immediately to my right glancing around the pool looking for us.
Our eyes meet for a second.
I have no choice now.
I must make it to that ladder.
Breath is not an option, as I kick my feet and move my arms under the water with all my might.
Can I get there before she does?
She is fast so it will be close.
I kick and kick. The silver ladder is in my grasp.
I reach out my hand.
I'm so close that I can almost feel the metal.
One more hard kick and stroke, I can get there.
I feel the pull on my ankle.
She got me.
"Jackie's it!" she yells.

This week, we want you to recall the games you played when you were young.
Did you love Monopoly, Yahtzee, or Uno? Or did you prefer backgammon, Trouble, or Scrabble?
Write a piece that explores one of your memories.
Let's have a 600 word limit.

Smoke

This week's prompt was based on a picture of a burning cigarette in an ashtray.
We want to know what memories this sparked (ha! pun! yes!) in you. Your work must be first-person - and it must be about YOU. No fiction. That's what memoir is, folks!

A small pebble somehow got stuck between my sandal and my foot. In an effort to casually walk and still remove it, I shake my leg.
They begin to laugh and ask what I'm doing.
As I disclose my discomfort they break into a chorus of laughter.
I can't help but join in as the jeep drives by yet again playing "Lowrider" on its system. The bass is blasting, as is the norm in during the summer of 1996.
With each step, we walk more in unison, as we chat aimlessly about high school.
It is over now, our high school careers. Graduation was a few days before and by the end of the summer we will all part, starting new. Our small town life a memory.
In the moment, we are walking with a purpose. We all freshly showered, having washed the sand and sunscreen from our earlier beach day and in its place robed ourselves in tiny summer fare.
I wear a striped shirt that grazes my navel with my favorite pair of off white jean shorts.
Looking back now, I would kill for that stomach, but then, in the company of smaller and thinner girls, I wear that shirt with a layer of consciousness.
I look at my friends, equally tanned and blissful.
I interlock my arms with one as we turn down the street coming up to the gas station.
She runs ahead of us, taking her wallet out of her small purse. She turns around as she holds up her license.
The date matches the day on the calendar, except eighteen years later. She wanders into the mini mart attached to the gas station. We look in through the window.
I watch as her mouth begins to move.
"Marlboro Lights" she mouths, as the graying man reaches above his head for the cigarettes. He places the package of cigarettes on the counter.
She hands him the I.D. as a smile graces her face.
He mouths the price as he rings up her purchase.
She counts out the money, hands him it and spins around. The years as a ballerina are evident as she pirouettes out the store.
We meet her at the door way.
"Are you happy now?" I ask my tone obviously filled with condemnation.
"Yes" she squeals, as she jumps into another friends' arms.
"Happy Birthday to me!" She says.
Yes, happy birthday to you, I think as we walk back to the motel.

I still find this trip for cigarettes to be amusing fifteen years later, mainly because none of us smoked!

Sand

This week's RemembeRED memoir prompt asked us to write a memory of sand.
The trolley pulled up the edge of the beach. It wasn't one of the access points we had scoured a few weekends before, but the gray clouds hovering overhead gave us little option to be picky.
"We'll probably only be a few minutes" He said, as we filed out of the big red car.
Carefully, I watched as all my favorite people in my life took the steps down to the beach. My parents walked out first, my dad helping my mom down the stairs. My little cousins Cassie and Mark followed my parents. They were in first grade and needed that parental guidance my parents could give. My little brother, Joey who really wasn't that little any more walked out next. He was in college now, pursuing a degree in elementary education, just like me. Then my next door neighbor Tara. She was a few years younger, and growing up was like the littlest sister in our neighborhood, tagging along as we played. Next came my cousin, Cindy. She was the athlete I had always longed to be, there was no debating that. Bill walked out next. One of Bry and my closest friends and his roommate for four years of college. We considered him a real brother, as is Steve who had to duck as he descended the stairs. When Bry and he stood next me, it made me feel small, a feat in itself. Ashley was next. Who would have thought that the dark haired girl who sat two seats ahead of me in homeroom freshmen year of high school would end up being one of my dearest friends? Casey was next. Bry's little brother and now a friend. It took a while to get to that point, but alas, growing up had finally brought them to that relationship. Finally, my little sister Jeanna. No one else could be the one standing next to me but her.
"Do you need anything?" she asked.
I replied, "Nope!"
She flip flopped down the stairs, her curly hair piled up beautifully on the top of her head.
"You really do look beautiful" he said, as I stood up taking off my blue flowered heels. They had been an impulsive purchase online, but fit the day perfectly."I love that you look like you today!"
It was true, my hair wasn't styled that different from how I normally wear it. My make up was light and my jewelery sparse. I had gone to the tanning salon a few times, but for the most part my tan was a remnant from a few summer day trips to the beach.
I grabbed my terracotta flip flops, the same color as the girls dresses, and put them on my toes.
"I'm ready!" I said "Let's go!"
I slowly gathered my skirt into my hands as not to trip, he held the roses as we walked down the aisle of the car. He walked first down the staircase, and offered his hand, new ring on his third finger to me. I couldn't help but smile. The camera flash went off as I stepped off the trolley into the sand. My new husband held my hand as we walked along the sand. The rain drops starting falling lightly as he held the umbrella over my head.

Pride

I have a love hate relationship with my body. This is a feeling which I believe many women share. Often, I find myself criticizing the size of my thighs, or the current state of my breasts, as I look in the mirror. My clothes become camouflage for the pouch of a belly that lies underneath. In my thirty two years of life, my body has remained solid and strong. I truly love me, but think I could love me a little more if there was a little less of me!

It is almost comical to think that my battle scarred belly can be a place where I hold tremendous pride. However, underneath the stretch marks lies my story.

I was a newlywed, living my happily ever after when I became sick. Luckily a doctor fresh out of residency saw me on that fateful day I walked into the clinic. A more seasoned doctor likely would have taken my list of symptoms and simply diagnosed it a muscle spasm and sent me home with painkillers.

God knows what my fate would have been.

Instead, this doctor sent me to the emergency room as a precaution, and some six hours later, I was admitted and hooked up to an IV receiving blood thinners to prevent the clot that had formed in my lungs from passing into my heart. A scenario in which the clot could have killed me.

After a week in the hospital, vials upon vials of blood, and visits from countless specialists, I was released home, on blood thinners, with the instructions to take it easy. Later visits to hematologists, cardiologists, and primary care doctors, agreed that it was a pulmonary embolism caused most likely from birth control medication. It was unknown what my future would hold, and how this could potentially affect pregnancy in the future.

I was terrified and cursed my body.

I was young, healthy, and newly married. I believed that I should not have had to deal with this.

Almost 10 months after that fateful day, Bryan and I met with a maternal fetal medicine specialist to discuss pregnancy, more importantly pregnancy for me. Knowing my history, we met for twenty minutes and left the office with the green light to stop medication and try to have a baby.

I trusted that my body was strong and could handle it.

It was that easy, as I became pregnant almost immediately. From the moment I heard the heartbeat at seven weeks, I had a responsibility, and fear slowly crept into my head.

Would I miscarry?
Would I have another clot?
Would something worse happen?

I was back on blood thinners, this time intravenous one. Every night, I would take the needle out of the package and into my belly I would push. For thirty-two weeks, I did this as my belly became larger and the bruises became more pronounced.

With each week of my pregnancy, I began to trust my body.

It was strong.
It would keep my baby healthy.
It would keep me healthy.

I took pride in each shot, as it was another day I got to be pregnant, another day I was alive.

Moira was born perfect.

Weeks later, I looked at my deflated belly, stretched and sagging in the mirror. While it wasn't classically beautiful, I looked past the checkerboard and saw a place of power. My body had survived a blood clot and then sustained a life for nearly 39 weeks.

How can I not be proud of all that it accomplished in a short amount of time?

Now when I look in the mirror, I push those negative thoughts away as I remind myself of how truly miraculous and amazing my body is, stretchmarks and all.

Swim

The Topic: recall something in your life that seemed terrible at the time, but looking back, brought you something wonderful. A positive from a negative experience.

I look at the clock
5:40 am.
I don't have to let the alarm go off, because like always, I am up. My body knows the drill. Every Tuesday and Thursday morning, throw on a pair of sweats and the Smurf blue parka and walk across the empty quiet campus to the side door of the Natatorium.
The smell of chlorine hits like a punch in the face as I walk across the pool deck. The water lies still, a strangely eerie shade of blue in front of me. Down the dingy stairway into the locker room I walk. Stripping down into my practice suit, I grab my cap and trusty black goggles, and head back up the stairs. My teammates trickle in, following the same path as I and together we meet on deck. Some curl up on the floor, attempting to catch one last minute of sleep, while others like meet, just stare aimlessly into the blank pool.
6:00 on the dot, I dive in.
So goes four long years of college, spent in a cocoon of chlorinated water swimming lap after lap, hour after hour, going no where.
Why did I do this?
Why did I walk on to a Division one team?
Why did I stick with it?
At 16, I remember that moment.
I could feel my heart sink as they introduced Her as a member of the National team. She had always been just a little bit better then me and received the accolades and attention I so desired. I took my hands and starting wringing them into the folds of my blue striped skirt as I anticipated the car ride home, knowing the details on the pending conversation since my mom and I had had it before. I stabbed my pasta with the fork and tried to casually finish my dinner without making any eye contact with my mom. I could have been better, maybe even great, if I had been given the same amount of attention. Instead, I decided at that moment, I was done. Instead of putting any energy into getting their approval, I would wait and see what I could accomplish on my own.
Four years later, I stand on the block, and look to my left. She is there, no longer a teammate, but now an opponent. The 500 yard freestyle, an event I had swam hundreds of times before, but never with the urgency I feel now. My stomach is turning and my legs are jelly. I take a deep breath in, and step up onto the block making sure to glance over at Her one time.
I can do it.
I grab the block and as the buzzer goes off and I dive into the water. The next five plus minutes are a blurr, except for the last 15 yards. I look to my side and she is no where to be seen. My thighs are burning as I kick as hard as I can, gasping with each breath as I come closer to the final touch. I throw my head down, forgoing breath to make it to the end and slam my hand into the wall. Lifting my head I look to my left.
She is not there.
No, she is still swimming.
I beat her.
I beat her well.
It was worth it, all of it was worth it.