Barren Lands, Installment One

Melika walks down the empty street, weary from the long ride and not enough sleep on the inn’s hard bed. Her skirts rustle around her in a wide arc; an annoyance, but they’re good for hiding things. Her cap sits tight to her head: one of those with goggle attachments, which she, deployed over her eyes while outside. The transparent glass works to shield her sight from dust blowing everywhere. Despite the tightness of the cap, her hair still escapes. Just an hour ago, she had managed to wind the long mass onto her head in a tight braid. Now a nuisance, wispy tendrils of fire leak out. She shivers, glad to be out in the sun, but she wills herself not to turn her head towards its warmth, because you never know who might be peering out from the darkened windows. She steps under the shade of the eave, taking off her goggles so she can see in the dimmer light of the bar, about to push open the swinging doors with her shoulder, when two men come barrelling out, one on top of the other, curses spitting out like desert rats.
“Gods be damned, Kace, not again,” she whispers, her voice scratchy from disuse. She watches them for a minute, contemplating what to do; the other man is large, large enough that she doesn’t want to get involved. But also large enough that he might give Kace some trouble, and they really don’t need more lawmen after them. She sighs, walks toward them.
“Alright, boys, break it up,” she says, staying about ten feet away, using a hint of command. Hopefully not enough that anyone will pick up on it, but enough that they both obey her. They pause and turn their black-and-blue faces to her.
“Hey, Little Sis,” Kace calls. “We’re just playin’.”
“Don’t sound like play, Big Bro, and those bruises ‘round your eyes are gonna smart tomorrow,” she calls back, in the same playful jeer, her arms across her chest. He knows she doesn’t like being called ‘Little Sis’ but at least he remembered not to use her real name. She cocks her hip, just enough to be seductive, and then nods to the big man. “Who’s your friend, then?”
He shoots up, wipes his hands off on his already dusty pants, shrugs, and then looks sheepishly at her. “Hi, there, Miss, it was just a friendly brawl, that’s all. Didn’t mean to get your brother in no trouble.”
“Oh, well, that’s alright, then.” She puts her hand on her hip; the rough fabric of her petticoats help to center her, but she also knows the effect on men. “Well, I’m damn parched being out in this hot sun. You can buy me a beer if you want.”
“Oh, yes, please, Miss, I’d be much obliged if you’d let me.” He rushes over to hold open the door, while she turns her head slightly to glare at Kace. Her eyes do all the talking. Let’s make this quick. He nods, barely, so she knows he understood.


At the bar, she finds a beer and the large man waiting for her, a big smile plastered on his face. The bartender stands at the opposite end, filling up two steins for a couple of old men. All three of them watch her. She stifles her groan, not wanting to play this game again. Grandma May would have told her a pretty face can deflect a fight, though, so she curls her lips up at the corners and straddles the bar stool. She sips slowly, having to consciously not use her tongue to drink. The slow sips have the added benefit of holding men’s attention better, anyway.
“So, your brother said you all crossed the barren lands?” The man squints his eyes in question, a mixture of fear and disbelief. She notices the bartender creep closer and the bar is unusually quiet.
Gods be damned, Kace, can’t keep his blasted mouth shut. No matter, she’ll use that disbelief, then.
“Oh, gosh,” she says, waving her hand and using a hint of persuasion. The bartender has moved closer, not even trying to pretend like he’s not listening. “He’s a right damn show-off. We barely skipped over a corner. We walked max five minutes on the barren lands.”
He sighs. “Oh, good. I thought… Well, no matter what I thought, I’m just glad we don’t need to call in for reinforcements. He didn’t mention he had such a pretty sister, that seems like a far better thing to brag about.”
“Oh, I’m nothing worth bragging about…” She smiles up at him through her lashes. “You, though… Well, not many men can take down my brother like that.”
The bartender walks over, fills both their steins. It’s good beer, for a small town on the edge of the barren lands. Her metabolism works quickly, so she lets herself enjoy the taste.
He puffs up his chest. “Well, he’d mentioned the barren lands, you know, seemed so positive that y’all had spent days walking through it. I needed to protect my town, you know.”
More like years. Memories of growing up flicker behind her eyes. She hopes it doesn’t reflect. “Oh, I know, I know. And I really admire your bravery, if he had been telling the truth… No hard feelings, by the way, my brother… Well, he likes people to think he’s a bigger man than he is, so he brags about everything.”
“What about you? I didn’t get your name, yet.”
Gods damn, she hates lying. One would think it’d get easier and it never has. “Jersey,” she says, remembering a word Grandma May had used once, talking about the before times. One day she and Kace will plan better; they never can use the same name more than once, seeing as they’re always discovered. Maybe now will be different.
“Jersey? Sounds familiar.”
She coughs. “It’s a family name.” She tries her best at looking embarrassed. “I always hated it, but can’t turn away from family, right? What about you, what can I call you?”
“Oh, I’m Jeremiah, the town sheriff. If you need anything I’m your guy.”
Of course he’s the sheriff. Only Kace would pick a fight with the one man we don’t need the attention of. “Wow, the sheriff? Do you go out and fight the… you know… the barren demons?” She whispers the last phrase, her voice timid; but she thinks of Fluffy. If only these people knew what was really out there.
He finishes another beer. “Not yet. I just took the job a few days ago, after the last sheriff…” He looks around, then leans in conspiratorially. “Well, he didn’t come back one night. We haven’t seen him for months.”
Kace saunters in and walks over, towering above them. He’s tall, she’s short, and it certainly doesn’t help that she’s sitting down. “Hey, Mel, we’re all good.” His voice is serious, and she knows that means they need to leave sap.
“Mel?” The sheriff scrunches his face. She hopes the news hasn’t traveled this far already, so he won’t make the connection, or that their pictures aren’t clear enough to make an id.
She shrugs. “Childhood nickname. Silly, really, but a long story. Maybe I can tell you sometime, over another beer?” She raises her eyebrows, eyes wide, lips parted slightly.
“Yeah, maybe…” He looks thoughtful and turns to Kace. “What’d you say your name was?”
An even worse liar than she is, Kace stands there, mouth open, eyes staring. “Uh…. Job?” He says, finally, his voice lilting at the end in question.
“Your name’s Job? You sure ‘bout that?”
“Yup!” He beams, and Melika wishes they were back out in the barren lands, fearing what’s coming. Perhaps they can leave quickly enough, before anyone else gets hurt.
She stands, squeezing his arm and saying to Jeremiah, “It was nice talking with you, Sheriff, but we have a prior appointment to make. I hope we can do this again sometime.” She knows that’s unlikely; even if this day doesn’t end in blood, they can’t stay here any longer.
The sheriff also stands. “I think maybe we should step down to my office and chat some more.” His voice is friendly, but the hand creeping to his gun is not.
Melika shakes her head. “No, I think it’d be better if you rest for now.” On the word ‘rest,’ she looks pointedly at Kace.
He picks up on the cue. She hears the click in the back of his throat and can see the glands at the base of his jaw flicker, opening to let out the sleeping gas his body concocts; she can’t smell the gas coming out, but since she’s immune she can only hope he gets the right combo this time. She shudders remembering the time the gas didn’t wear off for two days, by which time three people had died from dehydration. On the opposite end, there’d been the time that it had only lasted for five minutes, not long enough for them to leave town. The death count that time had been even higher, because then she’d had to deal with it, good intentions useless.
The gas releases quickly, dispersing concentrically from them, so the sheriff is hit first. Realization dawns in his eyes, and he puts up a hand to his nose.
It won’t help, she thinks, but doesn’t stay to watch. She grabs Kace and together they flee, a little burst of speed to help them. She can’t sustain it for long, but it’ll get them out of range of the sheriff’s gun.
“Where are the horses?” She shouts as they burst through the bar doors, the speed of the wind rushing by them making it hard to hear.
“The post out of town.” He shouts back.
“Everything loaded?” She hopes, turning off the speed when they hit the sunlight.
He scoffs. “Course.”
She nods, breathes out deeply. Maybe they’ll make it, this time. “Let’s go, then. But don’t draw attention.” She tilts her head in the direction of the bar. “You got the combo right this time?”
“I think so. Should be down for only an hour, long enough for us to get away but not long enough to do any harm.”
She twines her fingers through his, the feel of his hand comforting, a reminder of being children, running through the daisies together. “Thank you, Kace.” She unconsciously relaxes her shoulders when they reach the horses. “Did you get enough supplies to last us?”
“Should have. Two months if we’re frugal, one month if we’re not.”
“That’ll do.” She strokes her horse, Peri, then sets up the sun shade, mounting it on Peri’s shoulders so it will cover both her and the horse. She is about to pull herself up, when an impending sense of danger washes over her. She knows this feeling. “Cover.” She says. With lizard reflexes, Kace leaps behind a large rock, crouching, watching her as she turns to face what’s coming.
“You won’t get away this time.” A man shouts from the shadows.
“Shit.” She whispers, the voice familiar but it can’t be. She pulls her goggles back on, activating the low light sensors. It is. “Hi again, Sheriff. Feeling rested?”
He shoots. The bullet would have hit her if she hadn’t leapt onto the post seconds prior. “We know about that trick of yours, after the last time. You won’t be able to pull that one again.”
She shakes her head, the last of her red hair flying out of the attempted braid. Their one way of doing a non-lethal take-down, and now that’s a bust. Probably some kind of implant, they’ve been getting better with that. “We don’t want to hurt no one, Sheriff.” She indicates their saddlebags. “We needed food.”
“What about Talpaca? And Tenoch? Sissery, Teka, and all the others?”
She shakes her head. She spits out, through clenched teeth, “Accidents.” She leaps to avoid another shot, landing on the second story of the building he hides under. “We didn’t mean to hurt anyone. We didn’t start the fights.”
“But you sure do finish them.” They’re at an impasse, now, with her above him and he still in the shadows. He’d have to emerge from the shadows to get line of sight on her.
“This doesn’t have to end in blood, Sheriff.” She says, creeping to the edge of the roof so she doesn’t have to shout.
“It won’t be my blood. Reinforcements are on the way.”
Feeling exposed on the roof, she darts to a window. Her goggles enhance her vision, letting her see through the darkened glass. No one. It’s unlocked, and she climbs inside. She crouches, hands hanging down between her legs, then wills her skin to change. Her light brown skin becomes mottled, gray, to match the walls and furniture; her carmine hair shifts to almost black. She lacks control over her clothes, but that’s why she wears dull colors. She uses the snaps on her skirt to convert them to pants. Once camouflaged, she moves into the next room. No one. Stairs are on her left. She peers over the balcony and doesn’t sense anyone; she leaps down to save time then quickly walks to the side of the house Jeremiah was on. It’s only been ten seconds since he last spoke.
“It doesn’t have to be anyone’s blood.” She says when she senses him.
He startles. “How…?”
“It doesn’t matter. My brother and I just want to go home. Please.”
“I can’t. I’m the law. I need to uphold it.”
“What have we done? We paid for our food and supplies with money. We paid for our room at the inn. What crime have we committed?” She activates persuasion. It can’t change a person’s mind, but if they’re already open to something it can encourage them.
“You’ve killed people. You have to pay for that.”
“Only in self defense.” That’s enough; too much will do the reverse. “Please let us go home. There are children waiting for the food we have.”
“Children?” He hesitates. “Lizardfolk?”
“Yes. Please.”
He’s about to let her, she knows it, but then she hears Kace. “Melika!” His voice is wrong. Scared. He’s in trouble.
She bursts out of the house, back to his side. Or to where he was when she last saw him. He’s being dragged, now, four men, all wearing stars. Must be the reinforcements.
Kace screams as they wrench his arm. She runs, leaping, her talons already extending out of her forearms and heels, testosterone flooding her body, and she knows there will be no stopping her until it’s run its course. The first man’s neck is slit before he sees her coming. The second reaches for his gun and she rips his arm off like it was made of paper. The third one has his gun out, finger on the trigger, so she pounces on him and twists his arm to shoot the fourth in the head. Finally, she stabs the third man in the eye with her right talon. As he falls, she falls too. Kace catches her.
“I’ve got you, Mel.”
“The sheriff…” She whispers, not sure what he’ll do now that she’s killed again. Knowing there’s nothing else for her to do, as she’s exhausted all her resources. She draws her talons back in, the blood sliding off. It drips onto the already saturated ground. More lives taken.
“He’s not here. Let’s go.”
“What have I done, Kace?”
“You saved me. That’s all.” He points at the post they brought. The ropes. The hammer and nails. She chokes on the sob, remembering, and buries her face in Kace’s chest. His arms are strong around her, like the first time they met.

Through the Fire

My husband insisted I write tonight. He tells me I need it. He's probably right, I keep melting down and losing patience. Surprisingly with my daughter more than my son; lately she has been 'all mommy, all the time.' If I'm around, I have to do everything for her. She will not accept a towel from my husband, she will not let him get her food, she will not let him help her get dressed. It is increasingly hard for me to manage 'demands.' People demanding things. Even if it's not seeming to be a demand, lately just by being around me, I feel you wanting things from me. Wanting me to be a certain way, do a certain thing, sit in a particular spot (ok, that one's my daughter, and she definitely vocalizes that demand, as well as the demand to nurse, to play with her, etc etc etc). I honestly would love a veg out day, where we watch stuff or play games or whatever and eat whatever we want but do all this with a minimum of screaming and fighting... but neither of my children seem capable of doing that. With the death of D'Argo, with the results of a particular diagnosis, with, just, everything, I am feeling this overwhelming pressure bearing down on my head and heart.

Anyway. That opening paragraph is just to say, I have no idea what to write, but obviously need to. I keep having this image of fire in my head. My children are the fire, I think, burning away... Something of me. I hope they're burning away the bad, the parts of me that are not respectful, the parts of me that aren't the parts I want. I don't know. It definitely feels right now like I'm not the parent I want to be, or the wife I feel I should be, or the pet owner I wish I could be, or a friend at all to anyone. I constantly second guess myself, constantly wonder what other people think of me, whether they think I'm as big of a mess as I feel and if that's why they never reach out. So maybe it's just that I want to be scorched, to be cleansed, so that I can feel 'good enough.' Good enough for who, or for what, I don't know. In self-help mentalities, it'd be good enough for myself. I should be the one that I am trying to please. But there's that damn word, should. All these fucking should's in life are... toxic. You should eat healthy, you should exercise, you should get enough sleep, you should have sex regularly, you should should should should just fuck it all.

So, yeah, you can obviously see the mood I'm in. I can't keep to a budget, and I feel so inadequate that I can't give my children all the things they want, all the food they love, that I can't afford another cat after losing one that I couldn't afford to pay for the surgery to fix his tiny urethra. I can't keep up with laundry and dishes and cleaning and still be a mother - though aren't all those partnered with being a mother? how can one be a mother and not be able to keep up with the laundry and the dishes and the cleaning? I can't keep my patience with my daughter screaming in agony about EVERYTHING, and I do literally mean everything, she screamed because the only towel available to hold her red otter pop was white, not red. And yes, she needs a towel to hold her otter pop in, because it's too cold for her hand otherwise. Not that it's a bad thing to be opinionated or to have strong emotions. It is, for me, however, always been hard for me to be around strong emotions. It overwhelms me, overloads me. My mother was always strongly emotional, and I couldn't handle it then, and now both of my children are strongly emotional and it is hard for me to handle now. Though, to be honest, I'm also strongly emotional, so I suppose it just runs in the family. I know, for me, I feel everyone's emotions so strongly it's like... It's like I'm immersed in their agony, or their joy, or whatever. With joy, it's not that bad, joy is generally a great feeling to be immersed in. But the agony... The constant, never-ending agony that is life for my 3-year old is wearing me down to a raw, messy blob. So, obviously, that's why I'm here, writing it for all the world to see. Makes perfect sense.

I have always had this desire to write something that resonates with people so much it becomes... well, I guess, a classic. And for much of that, when my emotions get strong, I bare my soul for the world to read. It's never been hard for me, to bare my soul. Once I bare it, then I have all kinds of doubt and anxiety and fear, but the actual act is easy for me. Almost necessary. I will probably let this blog post sit on my website, unmentioned, quiet, half hoping no one reads it and half hoping everyone does. I think it may partially be because I can't talk about my emotions, but I can write them. So when I feel strongly about something, I want to write it, and since I feel strongly, I want everyone to read it.

Autism has been a current subject of interest (someone in my family has been recently diagnosed. I choose not to share who, because, well, that's their story to share, not mine, but it is not out of any shame over the diagnosis). Anyway, there's a Facebook group I've been frequenting that's composed of autistic people and people who care for autistic people, and the latter come to get advice from the former, and the former come to vent or get advice on how to handle things or just get support. It's actually super awesome, for the most part (and the part that's not, well, nothing is perfect). One of the things I see come up a lot is anger at 'autism parents,' especially 'autism moms,' who appear to be characterized by a fair amount of anger towards autism as well as frustration with their child and a general 'woe is me' for having to live with/care for someone who is autistic. This type of parent is a trigger for the autistic people in the group, and it does seem rightfully so in a lot of ways, primarily because the stereotypical 'autism mom' isn't actually autistic herself, she tends to take ownership of her child's autism, she tends to speak for her child, she tends to harbor ill will towards anyone who is autistic but doesn't agree with her about what's best for autistic people. I saw one post recently angry at autism moms who lament that they don't get to do all the things they wanted to with their child. I see the anger - but look at all that you can do! Look at who your child is, not who you wanted her to be! But I also see the mom's perspective, because parenting has not been anything like what I thought it would be.

I can only speak to my own children. They are wonderful, and I adore them, and they are exhausting (see = the constant agony noted above), and this whole parenting thing has been a constant cycle of reevaluating what I want, what I believe, what I feel, and how to be. And it is so incredibly hard to shift an entire worldview, an entire way of being, an entire super-structure of what you enjoy doing. An example - sitting down in the evening and watching a movie with my family is, to me, an ideal picture of relaxation. For my children, it is a picture of stress and overstimulation and will lead to running, jumping, screeching, hitting, etc. What I envision is never what happens, and it has taken us a long time to figure that out, to adjust to that, to accept that TVs are dangerous, dangerous devices (and somehow we have three of them, all boxed up in the garage). Tablets and phones are fine, but there's something about the large screen, especially in the evening, that always leads to a meltdown. It's a simple thing, and what we get instead is also nice, but it has taken a shift in my thinking and a shift in my instinctive desires and still, after a long day out and about, I want to come home and watch a movie on the TV. But, through the fire, right? My children have burnt the TV watching out of me, at least for now (there has been talk of bringing one inside the house again. It's hard to say if this will happen). In a similar vein, movies at the movie theater are a fond memory for me. With how hard the TV is, I can only imagine a giant screen would be even worse - but still, I remember going with friends, with family, on dates, and it's something that I want to share with my child. I want to recreate the sense of  bonding I got when I went, and even though I *know* that I won't get the bonding in that place or in the way I want it, I still crave it sometimes. I know, now, that going out hunting for bugs and lizards and other critters is better bonding. I *know* that playing a game is better bonding. I know all this, and it doesn't change my memories and what I envisioned parenting would be.

I am constantly finding new ways that I unknowingly try to control my children, and having to figure out how to stop doing it, because any level of control leads to a meltdown. I am constantly finding new ways to speak, to be, and still, I fail daily (right now, as mentioned, my own meltdowns are coming when too many people want things from me and they are too vocal about their needs). I wish I could be constantly patient, constantly loving, constantly kind. I haven't been, and every unkindness eats at me. I feel sick, that I couldn't hug my daughter when she desperately needed one, because I was too overwhelmed with the needs - my daughter's, to be comforted when sick; my own, to have some alone time; my husband's, to focus on my son; my son's, to play a particular game. Everyone had their needs, and most of them were not congruent with mine, and if I'd accepted that, I wouldn't have melted down, my daughter wouldn't have been upset, my husband wouldn't have had to stop playing with my son. It was my failure to accept things as they were that led to a stressful evening, my desire for rejuvenation that led to a complete lack of rest. So often, I find this to be the case - If I could just accept that this is what things are, then things would be easier. I wouldn't have to swim against the current. But I get so set on what I want - what's up river - that I don't see what's down river, what's with the current. 

Power Plays

I recently found a post (below, in italics) that I'd written for a parenting/unschooling group about two years back, when I was still pregnant with my daughter. I am using it as a spawn point for something far more rambly than is probably good, but this seems to be the style of writing my brain wants to do. I am not organized or coherent in my writing, which is probably a reflection of how scattered and disparate I feel my life to be these days.


Two separate, unrelated events occurred yesterday, which resulted in me having an epiphany at 3:30 in the morning when I can't sleep (there's a baby doing a jig in my uterus).

Event 1: My son (18 mo) and I went to a park yesterday in the hopes of meeting up with a like-minded parenting group. No one else showed up, but we were at a park, it was a mostly lovely day, so why not play... Shortly after two other moms left (both of whom were very authoritative, controlling, etc and I am sorry to say I was pleased they left), another mom with her 3.5 yo daughter came to play as well. At first, she seemed a bit closer to my parenting, so I was glad to have some company.

However, at several points during their visit, the mom would say something that rubbed me the wrong way. Things like, "you should run around more to get your energy out" or "why don't you go do [xyz]" or "you're not playing the way I wanted you to."

These bugged me for a variety of reasons. I didn't say anything unless I felt it would diffuse the tension (ie, at one point I did offer the use of a towel when it was clear the little girl wanted to play in some water but the mom didn't want her to get wet), but it did exhaust me to hear/be around it.

Event 2: At night, my husband is home. He starts trying to engage in a particular type of play that I don't usually enjoy. I told him I didn't want to play, but he kept trying. And trying. And trying. We finally had a bit of a tiff about it, after my son fell asleep and we were laying in bed reading/talking, and he said that sometimes it feels like I won't play purely on principle. I didn't respond for a little while, except to say I don't know what to say yet. I went back to reading, but continued to process what he said.

I came back to it, and said I'm sorry I don't always want to play. I feel like there are situations where I can't say No to the play, or I'll be faced with continued attempts, guilting, etc, to get me to play. So yes, I do say No somewhat on a principle, but the principle is that if it's not *truly* free, then it's *not play*. I say No because I feel like I *can't* say no.

3 am Epiphany: That's how I can imagine it feels for a young child to be in the position I observed today (this is not to assume the young girl *did* feel this way, because we didn't have a heart-to-heart, just that I can imagine it could feel such).

That saying No to play is not an option. To be told - subtly or explicitly - that the way you are playing is not "right". That there is a goal to the play (In the girl's case, that she would get tired out for her nap). That your play does not meet the expectations of a loved one. That you have *failed* at playing.

A child is not often in the position to assert him/herself in the same way I was able to - either because the parent won't listen or because the child is developmentally too young to articulate - and so their only recourse is to lash out in other ways (they themselves may not even know why), by "throwing a tantrum," calling names, generally resisting, etc.

I will admit - I often take my son to the park because I make a reasonable hypothesis that yes, he'll run around like a maniac (he is 18 mo, after all), and afterward, he'll be totally ready for a nap. But if he doesn't run around like a maniac, whatever he does do, is still him playing. It's still him doing what he needs to do, and that's awesome. And if when we get home, he doesn't want to nap, then we'll find something else to do. There is no goal to his play, though there are reasonable hypotheses based on past experience.

But there is so often a goal to the play of young children. That they'll get tired out and nap easier, that they'll learn xyz, that whatever. And the issue I have is, when there's a goal to play, it's no longer play. It's work, which usually means receiving compensation of some kind. But the only compensation I see in their future is not getting yelled at, shamed, guilted, punished, etc for *not playing right*.

And wow... apparently I'm quite loquacious at 3/4 am. To make a long story short (hah... not sure if that's possible here...), this is one of the reasons I'm so glad I found WLU (and other respectful parenting models). That I can break out of the box and not just do what the other parents do because "that's what you do" but actually give my child power and freedom in his life. I take a lot of pride in the fact that my son isn't forced to play in any particular way. And I have a lot of respect for everyone here for trying to do similar, because I know it's hard. It's hard to see everyone around you doing the opposite, to hear from people you love and/or respect that you shouldn't do it the way you do. To face resistance to your parenting in so many tiny ways. It feels sometimes like an uphill battle with bees.

Looking back, now, 2.5 years or more later, and I still see this. The level of control, of manipulation, from parents and caregivers. The denial of freedom to just be. Constantly. And it wears me down. I don't mean to judge, I really try hard not to, but the constant manipulation and control literally exhausts me. I feel the pressure, and I'm not even the child. Anymore, at least.

Perhaps the reason it is so hard for is that growing up, I felt very little control over my life. I was sick, often, so didn't have control of my own body; I know I often had battles with my mom over what I could control. What I could wear, what I could do, etc. I don't honestly remember much of them, but I've heard references frequently throughout my life. References to the time when I was two and picked the table in the restaurant, and the waiter told my mom, "Well, I know who runs the show in this family," and how that was indicative of how manipulative and controlling I was. And maybe I was, I don't know. I don't remember why I wanted that table over the one initially offered to us. I do know that I felt so powerless by the time I was 8 years old that I literally stopped eating, in an attempt to control *something.* I felt so powerless by the time I was 10 that I swallowed an earring to see if it would tear my insides apart. I felt so powerless by the time that I was 12 that I swallowed half a bottle of Excedrin, just so I wouldn't have to go on a week-long school field trip with an army bag as my suitcase but no one heard me when I told them how horrified I was, so my only option seemed to be death. When I realized the Excedrin wouldn't kill me, only make me puke for about one day in gut-wrenching spasms, I continued doing it in an attempt to control my weight. I'd tell myself I'd never do it again, only to break my promise. Again, I felt so powerless in my life, that I turned to controlling my weight. Again and again, I turned to self harm, in an attempt to have power. If I was going to be in pain, then at least I could be the one that caused it; if I didn't have power over my own life, then I could have power over my death. I drove nails through my arm, I ripped my legs to shreds with screws, I cut my arm open like a piece of paper with a pair of scissors. I never meant to manipulate anyone. I never meant to hurt anyone, aside from myself. I know I did hurt a lot of people. My sister. My parents. My best friend. I never meant to, I was in so much pain that I couldn't stop the spread. I couldn't keep it inside, so I painted my body in cuts, to show the world how much I hurt.

So, yes. My personal history might be why I feel so strongly, when I see the controlling nature of most parents and guardians I observe. Little daggers through my heart, every time I hear something like, "No, that's not how you're supposed to play." The daycare worker that insists, "You have to get on the swing now, it's time to swing," to the young boy engrossed in the box elder beetles my son is showing him instead of the prescribed play he *should* be engaging in. The little boy who is yelled at for jumping on the sidewalk, instead of the grass, because he might fall and scrape a knee. The young girl who is told, "there's only my way, there's no high way, there's no plea bargaining," when she asks to go to a different side of the park.  I remember all these, and I remember the times that I do it to my children, too. I am no saint. I am far from perfect. I refused to let my son use his scooter on our walk home from the park because I was too lazy to put his helmet on, when it was a 60 second walk over. When he sat down in the middle of the parking lot and refused to walk, I yelled at him, asked him why he's putting himself in danger. I should have known better. I have done the same. I forgot. Now that I remember, it hurts. What I did and said to him hurts me now, and it probably hurt him. Possibly more than I can fathom, though I do think I have a high ability to imagine what others feel. It might be why he wouldn't cuddle with me tonight, on his path to sleep; why he was so disregulated (that also might be because I personally was disregulated all day, hurt from things said to me. My pain again spread out, in ways I didn't want, until I hurt the people that matter most to me. I wish I could find a way to stop spreading my pain; even if I don't mean to, I am hurting people still).

I think that might be the point I want to make, though; because there should probably be a point somewhere in all this rambling. All of the control we exert over other people is, in my opinion, usually an extension of how much pain we are in. The more control you exert, the more pain you are in. At least, it is true for me. I exert more control over my children and my life when I am hurting, but I often don't know that I'm hurting. I can't tell, whether it's physical or emotional, I don't usually know I'm hurting until I've already hurt someone else. Usually my son, because he is my wild one. The one that won't be controlled, that won't listen to reason if it goes against what he wants or believes, the one that will refuse candy if you tell him he has to eat it. He's also the one that usually picks up on my hurt, sometimes even before I do, and before I have a chance to do much he spreads it further. The spread of pain happens so quickly, so easily, from my perspective, and it overwhelms me to the point that I want to hole up, hide away, so I don't have to see the tendrils of pain spreading out from everyone, including me. 

Quilts of Pain

I can't sleep. Again. This is a fairly common occurrence these days, where I end up laying awake for hours, my mind wandering down alleyways and avenues and boulevards. Sometimes I get stuck in philosophy, sometimes I get stuck thinking about my own life, sometimes a dream keeps me awake or a nightmare, and oftentimes, all of these in one night. It’s amazing to me, how I can lay awake for so long, doing nothing but thinking, sometimes enjoying the feel of one or both of my children cuddled up next to me, other times feeling trapped by it. It can feel like quicksand, trying to get out of bed when two children are using you as a pillow. It is further frustrating that, even on getting up, when I’ve finally given up on the idea of sleep and decide to do something, I am fairly often dragged back or otherwise detained. This article, for example, has so far been interrupted twice and I’m fully expecting more - once when my husband realized I was awake, and pushed for sex, and second when my son woke up and pushed for more cuddles. It’s now the day after I started it initially, and I’m sitting here waiting for my daughter to finish pooping - so that I can once again be interrupted. It seems to be this frequent pattern, that I get started on something - making myself tea, writing an article, reading a chapter in a book, making food for some meal or other - and in the process of trying to do this, my husband, then one kid, then the other kid, will need me for something, and eventually, maybe, that initial activity I attempted might get done. My husband frequently says how multi-tasking is evil and shouldn’t be done and really, truly focusing on your activity is preferential, but I honestly haven’t figured out how to be a mom and NOT multi-task. It seems that to be a mom, I must. The only way I’m doing only two things right now - writing and watching my daughter for signs of being done pooping so I can quickly swoop in before any further messes are made - is that my husband and son are off on their own. And again, as soon as I wrote that, I realized my daughter had fallen asleep on the potty, and I had to help her get to bed. Which means that I stopped writing and it’s now been almost a month since I started. What with moving, unpacking, getting used to living in a new home, a new neighborhood, and a newish city, I can’t seem to find the time to sit down and write.


The initial thing I’d wanted to write about was pain. Interesting that, after all this time - over a month - I can still remember. Despite all the other tasks I’ve done, and not done; all the times I’ve forgotten to close a cabinet or flush the toilet or gotten sidetracked from doing laundry, putting away dishes, etc… I can still remember what I wanted to write about here. Pain. Specifically, the concept of spreading one’s pain. It’s something I’ve thought about a lot. Perhaps because I’m almost constantly in pain - I’d guess about 75% of the time, I’m in pain. And even when I’m not consciously in pain, I find that often, if I quiet my brain and focus on my body, I am actually in pain I’d just shut it out. I’ve gotten good at shutting out pain, I suppose that’s necessary when it’s so constant. But anyway, back to the idea of spreading it. There are people out there who have been through so much shit. Like, their whole lives have just been pain after pain after pain. Either physical or emotional or both. But despite that, despite all that pain,these people don’t spread it. They face the world with a smile, or at least not a frown, they show kindness and love and joy. But then there are other people who do spread it, like warm butter on toast; they wrap themselves in their pain like a soft, cozy quilt - and in a lot of ways, a quilt of pain seems to offer comfort to these types of people. They seem comfortable in their pain, it's secure; but because it's so prevalent, so predominant, they also pass that quilt around, laying it on others. I don’t think they necessarily intend to spread it, if they do I think that’d qualify them as evil or close to it, but it still gets spread. I do it, I know that. An example, that’s relatively mundane in many ways: my child draws on the walls with a permanent marker. I now must clean the walls, or re-paint them, or pay someone to do either for me; that ‘pain’ I envision experiencing (either from painting, or from scrubbing, or from paying someone to do it - that’s pain, in a very small way but still pain) now leads me to yell at my child. I’ve taken something that hurts me and I’ve spread it, causing pain to my child. Some people might argue I’m justified in getting upset; I don’t know. Am I? My child didn’t do it to piss me off, or to hurt me, or for any malevolent or malicious reason; he simply wanted to color on the walls. It was fun, for him. The fact that it hurts me - do I really have to make it hurt for him, too? I’m not advocating that I should necessarily just clean it up, without any discussion with my child, but I do question my *right* to be angry. It’s understandable, sure, but is it a right? If I ever question my husband on his right he gets even angrier. ‘Don’t deny me my anger’ seems to be a common sentiment. ‘I have a right to my feelings.’ I think there’s a line there, somewhere; yes, you have a right to feel, and I in no way want to squash or oppress feelings. But don’t other people also have the right to not be angered at, for doing something they didn’t know would cause upset? It is a common occurrence for my son to do things that upset other people; he hits, he spits, he screams; but all of these things are done under duress. He cannot control them, or stop himself; so getting angry at him, for doing something he cannot control, seems… counter-intuitive. I would not get angry at a wolf for eating a chicken (ok, I would probably be sad, if it was one of my chickens. Not that I have chickens, I’ve just always wanted chickens, and if I ever get them and a wolf eats one, I’ll be sad. But being angry at a wolf for eating when it’s hungry is pointless. And, in the same vein, getting angry at a child for acting like a child is pointless, or getting angry at a child for having a panic attack and lashing out as a result is pointless…).




Anyway, I am continually getting sidetracked on my thesis here. People spread pain. Why? Why do some people spread it and others don’t? I don’t mean just smiles versus frowns, either. It’s in the language, too, simple things that you don’t think will cause pain but do, judgments in your wording, and they’re said because you’re in pain. My husband constantly tells me how I leave the cupboards open. I don’t realize I’m doing it; I just forget. I have no mechanism in my brain to make me remember. He hits his head on one of those cupboards and gets angry at me. I can’t control it, at least I can’t seem to. I do it more when I’m stressed; I think it is representative of the fact that there’s too much going on in my brain for me to remember a simple thing like closing a cupboard. So, I don’t close them often enough, and then my husband gets hurt, and then he reprimands me. He’d say he doesn’t yell, and I suppose in principle that is accurate; but, in my head, anger and upsetness are felt as a yell. It hurts me the same as a yell. I

know he doesn’t mean to hurt me, just like I don’t mean to hurt him by leaving the cupboards open (half the time that act also hurts me; the number of times I’ve smashed my head into the corner of a cupboard are too many to count). Anyway, that simple reprimand, for me, is enough to hurt me, and now because I’m hurt, I will be more likely to respond with anger when my kids do something like draw on the walls or hit each other or break something or whatever other kid thing they think sounds fun, and my kids get yelled at for a simple kid-thing because *I* left a cupboard open. It’s a cycle and I’m intrigued by it, by why it happens and how we stop it. How *I* stop it, because I firmly believe I am the only one I can control (and even that is questionable, as per the cupboards).




It’s not always simple things, either, like leaving a cupboard open. Sometimes it’s multi-generational. My grandma said/did things to my mom and my mom now has that pain and she said/did things to me as a result of that pain and I now say/do things as a result of my pain and my kids will also, probably, do things as a result of the pain that my grandma inflicted on my mom (and it probably goes back even farther than that, but I have no evidence one way or another). My other grandma was scared of birds, and my dad is scared of birds, and my sister is scared of birds (as far as I know it has not - yet - spread to my kids) and we have this multi-generational (kind of weird) phobia that’s spread downward. Pain begets more pain. I

think, in a similar vein, that joy begets more joy. But for whatever reason, we don’t have a whole lot of joy going around; there’s too much pain being spread, and it seems sometimes that pain is stronger than joy. We start the day on the wrong side of the bed, for whatever reason, and our whole day is ruined. And probably everyone else we come into contact with has a harder day, too, not just in their interaction with us but every second afterward BECAUSE of their interaction with us. No one ever really notices when someone starts the day off full of joy - maybe because most people don’t? Or have we been enculturated NOT to feel joy, or at least not to show it? Is it that there’s too many horrible things to feel/show joy? But there’s also so many wonderful things, like caterpillars turning into butterflies and the way the wind moves through ivy (my son showed me that one) and a simple smile on a two-year-old’s face. Why is it that the pain in the world (the tragedies, the shootings, the car crashes) - why do they always trump the good (the babies being born, the kittens and puppies, the people who got miraculously saved by their dog or their horse or whatever pet is nearby)?




I don’t have any answers, just a whole lot of questions, and I guess I’m just going to leave this article open-ended. Maybe I’ll come back later and finish it; right now my own personal physical pain is making it so I can’t concentrate anymore and I figure I must go to sleep, lest I spread my pain more tomorrow.

All Shit Stinks

Life's throwing me some lemons right now. Like, lemon after lemon until I feel like I'll be drowning in lemonade once I get them all juiced. And in response to me bitching and whining about it, I've been told to suck it up. That other people have it worse than me. That I can get through this, that I've gotten through worse, that shit's not that bad. And maybe that's true. But, I've been working on this idea for awhile now, even before my current abundance of lemons, and it's this: If something is hard for person A, it doesn't matter how hard that thing would be for person B or C or D. It's hard for person A, end of story.

I do it, too. Someone recently shared with me that their bike got stolen, and she followed it up with, "Life sucks for me right now." My first, instinctive response was to say, "At least you're not losing your home." But what good would that do her? Life does suck for her - maybe there's more going wrong than just the bike, she didn't share, but even if it is just a stolen bike, that still sucks. If shitty situations can be quantified, then yes, losing one's house would be worse than losing one's bike, all else being equal, and I 'd have more right to complain. At the same time, me losing my house is nothing compared to someone losing their life. IF shit can be quantified. I don't think it can.

Sometimes people share some nugget like, God will only give you what you can handle. I'm sorry, I don't mean to rain on God (or Gods, Goddesses, etc), but no. People get way more than they can handle ALL THE FUCKING TIME. That's why there's so many people killing themselves, killing each other, stealing from each other, and so on and so forth. Because they got broken and couldn't take what was handed to them. (Disclaimer: I've attempted suicide more times than I can count, though all that was about 20 years ago; that being said, it probably does point to me having a higher propensity to complain about my life, so bear with me). I know what it feels like to not be able to handle what's been given (or, at least, to not feel like I can; obviously, somehow or other, I have actually handled my shit and gotten to my current predicament). I've been there over and over and over. Even after all my various suicide attempts, I still get overwhelmed by it all, this heavy weight of unbearableness sitting on my chest like a fucking elephant and making it so I can barely move. Luckily, I now have two absolutely amazing and particularly stubborn children who convince me that moving is worthwhile (or, it's at least better than them continuously screaming at me to play with them or make them food or take them to the park) and I keep going because doing otherwise would pass that weight onto them. 

Anyway, back to the concept that all shit stinks. One person's pile might be bigger than the next; and if we were to compare side-by-side, maybe there's this one person who just has it the absolute worst of everyone. Let's call him Bob. Bob's life is complete shit, no one has it worse than Bob. So if we can quantify, then the only person who gets to complain is Bob, because his shit pile is the biggest, until Bob dies. When Bob dies, now Jerry gets to complain because his pile is now the biggest. If anyone else tries to complain, we'll remind them that Jerry's life is the worst and so only Jerry can complain. This sounds pretty ridiculous, right? Because even if Jerry has the biggest, stinkiest pile of shit in his life, other people also have shit and that shit still stinks. We can't compare our shit piles because all of our circumstances are different. Lucy over there might have a perfect job, perfect husband, perfect children, a wonderful house, and then her mom dies and most people would feel empathy toward her because shit, losing your mom sucks (or, at least, I can imagine that it does, because I am unbelievably lucky to still have my amazing and supportive mom). Mary might also have just lost her mom, but she's also divorced and her kids hate her. Yes, Mary's life is quite possibly harder than Lucy's, IF we can quantify the two.

Another commonly shared nugget is to focus on what's good in your life and somehow that will get you through. At this stage of my life, that does actually get me through the shit. My kids, my husband, my cats, my parents, my husband's job, friends - all this is stuff going right. Yay for me. But at other times of my life, I couldn't see the good. Specifically all those times 20+ years ago. All the good in my life wasn't enough - I had an amazing best friend, I had supportive, loving parents, I had cats, I had a stable home, easy access to food and a place to play and tons of books to read. But still, all the bad overwhelmed me and I repeatedly tried to make it all go away. There was one time - the worst time - where I chose to cut open my wrist with scissors rather than be separated from my cats again. That sounds pretty fucking ridiculous, right? I mean, if I'd succeeded, I'd never see them again. But the overwhelming fear of being separated from them was too much to bear. Obviously, plenty of people had it worse. No food, no home, no love. I had all that so what right did I have to complain? I don't know if I had the right then, or if I have the right now, or if I'll ever have the right. I don't even know what that means, to be honest. Is it a human right to be able to complain? I don't know. It does seem to be a remarkably human condition, to bemoan our quantity of lemons (and a cat thing. Cats definitely have the art of complaining down. Possibly even better than us). And yes, it's great to be able to see those positives, to turn the lemons to lemonade. I think it's also fairly important to recognize that lemons are still sour, and no amount of juicing them will make them sweet if you don't have sugar. Or in simpler terms, shit still stinks no matter how big the pile.

Sour Puss and Grey Fur Meet Bob

Note: This is a continuation of a previous story, found here, though my intention is that they can stand alone. I am writing this series as both a tribute to my favorite children's story, The Owl and the Pussycat by Jan Brett and in the manner of telling it to my son - who's four at the time of writing this. 

After escaping from the castle and her very irate family, Sour Puss and Grey Fur take to the road.
"So, what's in the purse?" Grey Fur asks, unable to contain his curiosity.
"Some money, and some honey. It was my mother's."
He nods solemnly. "Your mother is a wise kitty. Honey and money always travel well together."
Just then, a scrawny cat wearing boots that are far too large for him and a wide-rimmed hat bursts from the bushes, pointing a sword at Sour Puss. "Did someone say... honey?"
Grey Fur moves to protect Sour Puss, but she moves even quicker, going down on all fours for extra speed and pouncing on this intruder. "No one threatens my honey." She hisses.
Grey Fur whistles (quite a feat when you have such large canines). "Whoa, milady, I did not expect such a fierce attack from someone who can't even catch a mouse!"
"You can't catch a mouse?" The scrawny cat croaks, considering laughing, but then remembers that Sour Puss is on top of him and has her claws out.
"I may have gotten a little carried away. But I do mean it, this honey is mine." She stands up, then, smoothing down her dress and playing with her hair. She points to Grey Fur. "You can take over, now."
"Right." He puts his paws on his hips, one foot on Bob's chest. "Who are you?" He draws his own sword.
"I am... Puss... IN BOOTS!" The scrawny cat announces entirely too dramatically.
"Oh, no." Grey Fur mutters.
"Oh, yes! So you'd better let me go, or I'll tear you from limb to limb!"
"Oh, I didn't mean it that way. I meant, oh no you are not!" Grey Fur's grey fur is standing up, prickly as a porcupine. "Though those boots might be his, you are not he. I knew Puss in Boots. He was a good friend, a mentor. We sailed the seas together. He would NEVER attack a lady for her honey." His shoulders relax ever so slightly. "He would ask her kindly for it, and rogue that he was, they would share it with some tea and biscuits." He tenses his shoulders again, his voice stern. "So I will ask one more time. Who are you?"
The cat puts his paws up, finally dropping his sword. "Ok, ok, I'm not! I'm Bob. But he WAS my grandfather, and these ARE his boots... Wait, if he was my grandpa, and you sailed the seas together, that would make you super old!"
Grey Fur folds his arms across his chest. "I am NOT super old, I am only- Well, that's not your business. You must be super young, if he was your grandpa."
Bob whines, " I happen to be 6 months old, I'll have you know. I'm almost an adult."
"Oh, dear you are just a baby." Grey Fur picks up Bob's sword, inspects it for damage, then takes his foot off Bob's chest and stands back.
Bob stands up, brushing off unseen dirt from his fur. "I am not!" He pouts. "Did you really know Grandpa Puss?"
"I really did. He was a brave and noble cat, excellent with a sword but even more impressive at bocce ball. He really knew how to throw."
"You really DID know him. Only his true friends knew how much he loved that game."
"And you really must be his grandson. Well met, Bob in Boots. Now, why did you accost my friend for her honey?"
Bob nervously cleans his paw. "Well, um... I... I wanted to find adventure, yeah. And, you know, um, live up to my grandfather's name. But I have no money, or food, and, um... I heard your friend say honey, and well, I ... I need it! I need that honey!"
Sour Pus steps forward. "Then you should have learnt better from your grandfather, and asked me kindly for it. But I will forgive it this time. Come, it's getting dark, why don't you two make camp and I'll, um, you know, watch?"
Grey Fur nods. "Yes, yes, excellent plan. Come, Bob in Boots, let us make a fire. I imagine we may even be able to rustle up some forest mice for dinner, and then for dessert, I have some biscuits that would go splendidly with that honey."

Over a dinner of roasted forest mice, our three young newly-made friends try to get to know each other better - though, it would seem from an outside observer's point of view that only two of them are actually interested in that, and maybe too interested, as it does cause them to miss valuable clues.
"Hmmm. " Grey Fur purrs. "This is delicious, Sour Puss. What made you think to wrap the mice in the bong tree leaves before roasting them? They have come out so tender, so juicy, but just the right amount of crispy!"
If cats could blush, Sour Puss would be bright red. But everyone knows cats don't blush - not only because of their fur, it's just so... undignified. "Well, um, there was this chef in the castle when I was a little kitten, and she'd always roast fish and mice and birds wrapped up in leaves. Bong tree leaves are the best, luckily, but when she couldn't get a hold of those, a few others worked almost as well... I just remembered, you know, nothing special..."
"Well, I would never have thought... And what is that flavor? There's something extra..."
She shrugs. "Just a few herbs I found while you two made camp. I used to help her, before... Well, before. You know."
"Well, it's amazing, thank you." Grey Fur licks his paws clean, then finally turns to Bob - who has been rather lost in his own world, sad, morose even; and maybe a bit jumpy, too. But Grey Fur and Sour Puss have been too caught up in each other to notice - and still are, Grey Fur's eyes on Sour Puss even while talking to Bob. "Don't you think so, Bob in Boots?"
"Hm? Yes, yes, it's delicious..." And again, if only our two heroes had been able to notice anything but each other, they would notice that for someone so reportedly hungry as to attempt robbery, young Bob barely touched his mice and so would have no idea their level of deliciousness.
"So, Bob, tell us about your family. Is your mother ok with you adventuring?" Sour Puss asks, her eyes on Grey Fur.
"My mother?" Bob sounds scared at the mention of her, which should leave anyone to question if there's something else going on, if only they were listening. "Oh, um, yes, yes, she's fine with it, of course she is, why wouldn't she be fine? She's totally fine..."
"That's wonderful, Bob, must be nice to have a mother who supports you, not one that would rather stay behind with your brothers and father who fight all the time, but one that really wants to be involved in your life, right? That must be wonderful."
"Um, sure?" Bob is broken out of his reverie by her rambling outburst. "So, um, Grey Fur... what about you? Do you have family?" But instead of looking at Grey Fur, he goes back to staring at the firelight, again caught in his own world.
"Oh, well, they're all wonderful. We all love to be on the water, just like my great-great-great grandparents. Well, except for Leroy, he prefers to be flying off on his own, rarely ever lands. Which is for the better, you know, we've tried involving him in our adventures and he always flies in too soon and botches things."
Sour Puss puts her paw on top of Grey Fur's. "That sounds tough, like you miss him."
He nods. "Well, yes, I suppose I do. He is my big brother, you know, he took me under his wing for awhile when we were kittens. But then..."
"What?"
"Oh, nothing. I think I'm going to turn in, getting a bit tired, and if we want to make it to my ship tomorrow we really should get some rest."
"Yes, that sounds good, I think I'll join you... Good night, Bob, nice getting to know you..." And together, Sour Puss and Grey Fur wander off together, to the beds that Bob and Grey Fur made. If things had stayed quiet, anyone observing them would not be surprised if they woke up cuddled together. But things don't stay quiet for long...

The moon is high, it's filtered light shining brightly through the forest canopy,  the only sounds the screeching of owls as they catch mice, crickets chirping, rustling leaves as something larger stalks something small... Then, an ear-splitting yowl, followed by a whimper, and another yowl, then some rustling as cats wake up.
"What's going on?" Grey Fur whispers.
Sour Puss is already sitting up, her right ear cocked forward to hear better. "I think someone is not who they say they are..."
"What do you mean?"
"We might as well go confirm..." She crawls on all fours, sneaking quietly back to the fireside, back to where her belongings were stored. To her purse with the honey they forgot to eat. Grey Fur follows suit, the two cats creeping like their wild counterparts, their large paws padding through the thick leafy carpet.
They find Bob curled up  next to their belongings, whimpering and pawing at the purse stuck to his right paw.  Sour Puss crouches down next to him.
"You didn't want the honey because you were hungry, did you?"
He growls low and shakes his head, his eyes pleading with her to remove the purse.
"It's a simple trap, really, but very effective. It was my mother's purse, and she always put this trap on all her purses, to keep my father out. He never did have self control... After the first couple of times, he stopped trying to get to her honey without asking. I forgot about it, honestly, until I heard you yowl."  As she talks, she pushes on various buttons, in random order, each push seeming to relieve the pressure on Bob's paw. "There's a needle, and it injects just a tiny bit of poison, to incapacitate the robber in case the pain isn't enough. It'll wear off in about an hour." The purse falls off and she picks it up, closing it, then attaching it to her hip belt.
"So, Bob in Boots, you are a liar."
Bob nods, continuing to whimper.
"Why?"
"My mother..."
Sour Puss, still sitting next to him, gets angry. "Don't make this about her! You chose to lie, and to try to steal - twice! So why?"
He shakes his head, pawing again at his injury. "She's been catnapped. A bear... A bear named Noir. He catnapped her, and is holding her ransom..."
"Why would he do that?" Grey Fur demands.
"You don't remember why Grandpa Puss left the rogue business, do you?"
"Um... Oh! Bees!"
Bob nods. "Yes. He took over a beekeeping business... Nunya's  Beeswax."
"I didn't truly understand why... He said being a rogue no longer held the thrill of danger anymore, that it became too easy. He wanted something that could truly challenge him... I guess working with bees was it."
Bob shrugs. "It can be intimidating, walking in for the first time, the bees swarming around you, trying to protect their honey... Anyway, the Bear Noir catnapped my Uncle Pete and sent us a ransom note for two gallons of honey."
Sour Puss scratches her head. "Ok, but if your family runs The Puss's Honey, why would you need to steal mine?"
"Because we're all out of honey. The bees have all flown away, it's been months. We ran out of honey just last week, we didn't want to tell anyone... And then Pete got taken, and I have no way to fulfill the ransom..."
"Why didn't you just tell us?" Sour Puss starts massaging Bob's paw, trying to work the poison through faster.
"Because the note said not to! If I told anyone, Noir said I'd never see him again... He's my only family. I couldn't risk that..."
"Right. Well, Bob, how long do we have?"
"One week now. He gave me ten days, it's been three. But I don't know what to do..." Bob sits up, seeming to feel better. "Wait, you said we?"
"Of course. Grey Fur and I will help you anyway we can. Won't we?" She turns back to look at Grey Fur.
"Oh, of course, of course... But if you're lying again... Well, Bob in Boots, it won't be pleasant."
"I'm not! I'm not! I'm really telling the truth this time. Please..." He cries.
"Chill out, Grey Fur. It was my honey he tried to steal, not yours."
"I know, but, well, you're... You're my... I mean, we had...?"
"We'll deal with that later. Right now, we need to save Bob's uncle. Any ideas on where the bees went?"
Bob shakes his head. "I mean, maybe? There was a cockerel who came by a month ago, wanting to buy our business. Uncle Pete said no, business has been great lately so why would we want to sell?"
"What was the cockerel's name?" Grey Fur asks, his voice thoughtful.
"Kevin."
"Hm... Well, I think I have an idea... We need to go see the turkey on the hill."
"I thought... I thought that was just a legend."
"Oh, he is very real, but only comes out for the right people... I am the right people. Come, we don't have much time."

They pack up and leave within an hour, no one able to sleep with the recent outpouring of knowledge.
"Where to, then?" Sour Puss asks.
"The nearest hill."
"Any hill? He'll come to any hill?" Bob asks, doubtful.
"Yes, that's why he's known only as the Turkey on the Hill. There's no hill specified because he'll come to any. If you know the right way to call him... But, we might need a ring."
"A ring? Why?" Sour Puss sounds concerned.
"It is part of the ritual..." He looks thoughtfully at her. "We may need to figure out 'us' sooner than you'd like..."
Bob chimes in. "Look, I may still be... a kitten, but it's clear you two have something special. And if you two getting married helps me save my uncle, then that's what you need to do. You can always get it annulled later. But right now, I need your help. Please, SP."
"SP?" Sour Puss questions.
Bob shrugs. "Well, you don't seem very sour to me. So I'm not sure what to call you..."
Grey Fur nods. "You do seem to have lost your sourness..."
"Hmph." She huffs. "I can still hold my own, if needed. I took you down, twice, I'll have you know."
"Yes, but not because you were sour..."
She tosses her hair back. "Well, my name will be a discussion for later. For now, just call me Sour Puss. If it will save your uncle, I shall marry Grey Fur." She turns to him. "But we'll still need to talk about 'us' later. Now, I do know a good jeweler... He's in town, in the market district."
Grey Fur gets down on one knee.
"Oh Sour Puss, Sour Puss,
 I am truly falling for you
You used to be a sour puss
But now you're truly sweet
I promise I'll be true.
It may be to save Uncle Pete
But I'll hold onto you like an octopus."
Bob paws at his ear. "I'm not sure about the octopus part, but it's something."
Sour Puss nods. "Yes, it might need some work... Um, you go ahead and think about that while we find a ring..."
"Adventure, then." Grey Fur smiles, and the three cats walk through the woods toward the market, two paws trying to touch and not touch at the same time.

How Sour Puss and Grey Fur Meet

Note: I wrote this with my son in mind - I wrote it as though I was telling it to him. It's intended to be read to, and I hope enjoyed by, children. I don't know the age that's appropriate - my son is 4 and I think he'd love it. It's meant to be somewhat morphic, so feel free to change little details to fit your child better. I did write it as a homage to one of my favorite children's stories growing up, The Owl and the Pussycat. I've read that so many times to my son that I still have it mostly memorized. 

This story starts in a castle; one that is large and full of rooms and winding staircases, but one that is also full of silence, its only inhabitants a particularly sour kitty and her servants. Well, at least, those are the only ones we know about for now.

This sour kitty is known by all as Princess Sour Puss, and she is a real... Well, sour puss. She might be pretty - her fur is soft and orange, her eyes golden, her dresses are always beautiful and full of twirl. Yes, I did say she wears dresses. She is a cat that wears dresses, she's anthropomorphic; she looks somewhat like a human, like you and me; she walks on two legs and uses her front paws like hands, and she has hair on her head in addition to the normal fur... No, there are no humans in this world, it's filled with other anthropomorphic animals like Sour Puss. Yes, there are regular animals, too, they are known as 'civilized' and 'wild' animals. She wears very pretty clothes all the time, frilly dresses with skirts made of tulle, in all variety of colors, and she ties ribbons in her hair and bows... And she changes her clothes constantly, they're never good enough. She always seems to be on a quest to find the perfect outfit. I'm not sure what she'd do if she found it... Anyway, about every five minutes she orders her mouse servants to prepare a new outfit for her. Yes, she does take breaks to eat on occasion, but even then, it's never right. The mice bring her dry food when she asked for wet, or a bird when she asked for a fish. And oh, boy, when she gets angry, it's a sight to behold. Her fur puffs up, her ears flatten, and then what she says... Well, she usually threatens to eat her servants. She never does, partially because it's frowned upon to eat another talking creature and even a princess can get in some serious trouble for that, and partially because she's not a very good huntress, as her food has always been handed to her already killed. She's never even caught herself a wild mouse, and they run rampant throughout the castle. Not that she'd want to, they tend to be rather stringy and not very good. Yes, I suppose one could cover them in ketchup, that does tend to make many things taste better, but why bother when she can just make one of her servants catch her a tasty fish?

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, Princess Sour Puss. Well, eventually she scared off all her servants - wouldn't you be scared, if someone about six times your size and thousands of times your weight threatened to eat you? So, they all left, and she couldn't find anyone else willing to serve her, so she woke up on the day that our story starts with no one to help her get dressed. She spent hours dressing, and only stopped because she got hungry. Of course, all the food was gone - during the night, the wild mice came and took it away, leaving them all plump and happy. With them being so full of food you'd think that even a lazy cat like Sour Puss could catch one, but they were still too fast for her. Kept scuttling out of her reach. She tried for quite some time before giving up; she curled into a ball and mewed pitifully. The mice would have laughed if they could. Wait. Someone IS laughing. She raises her head, looks around. She mews louder, more pitifully; someone is laughing at her and she doesn't know who! Poor Sour Puss!

A voice calls out from above her, singing in a jolly tone,
"Sour Puss, Sour Puss
What a nasty kitty you are
You may be pretty with your soft orange fur
but over everything, you make such a fuss
Inside you must be rotten to the core."

Sour Puss looks up to find a handsome cat perched on her chandelier - how dare he! - and he's laughing.
"Oh, you inconsiderate cat,
How dare you stand on my chandelier
You may be handsome but you are no gentlecat
I'll call my guards and they'll drag you out of here!"

He swings himself down by his tail - a rather impressive feat, most cats don't have prehensile tails. "What guards?" As he swoops, he grabs two of the plumpest, juiciest of the wild mice, and pops one in his mouth then, landing next to her, gives Sour Puss the other.
"Those are my mice!" She shouts as she eats the one given to her. "Go catch me another."
"Ah, but Princess, I've come to catnap you." He grabs a hold of her waist and leaps onto the windowsill. "And now that I've stolen you, all that's yours is mine, and you have to follow MY orders!" He grins, showing off his pointy teeth.
"No one catnaps me!" She struggles to get out of his paws; he lets go and she starts to fall out the window. She quickly grabs at his leg. "Help me!" She screams.
He lifts her up. "Now, then, can we agree I've catnapped you?"
She sniffs. "A catnap is something I take in the afternoon, after tea and biscuits. NO ONE catnaps ME." She puts her nose in the air. "I will give you all these mice in exchange for your taking me away from this dreadful castle. I was starting to hate it here, anyway, it's far too drafty."
He laughs. "Well, ok, Princess, where do you want to go?"
"Well, you're a pirate, aren't you?" She wrinkles her nose. "You certainly smell like one."
"Oh, Princess, I am THE Captain Grey Fur, owner of the beautiful Green Legume, and that smell you refer to is the wonderful smell of freedom and adventure."
"Well, freedom and adventure stink. But no matter, let's get going."
"As you wish." He then swings himself out the window, onto the exterior castle wall, and proceeds to climb down.
"We COULD have just used the front door, like civilized cats."
"Ah, but where's the adventure? The danger? It's not worth it if there's no thrill!"
"I don't think getting eaten by those wild crocodiles down there would be much fun."
"Do not worry, little Sour Puss, I have my faithful saber." He pats the sword on his hip. "I would cut open the belly of any crocodile that dared to eat you, my golden Princess."
"Hmph."
He continues to crawl down the wall until he gets about halfway down, then he whispers in her ear, "Now hold tight!" He barely gives her time to respond before he launches himself off the wall, literally flying across the crocodile-infested moat below them, landing on the other side gracefully and tucking his wings back under his thick fur. Yes, I did say wings!
"What are those? Do you have wings? I've never met a Chimera before. To be honest, I've never really met anyone before, that wasn't my family or my servants..."
"Yes, my great-great-grandfather was an owl. Wings have been in my family ever since."
Sour Puss scratches her head. "So, um, how did that work out, between... I mean... Um... Well... ANATOMY!" She finally screams.
He shakes his head. "You don't want to know. But no matter... Let's have a picnic then be on our way, shall we?"
She perks up. "You have food?"
"Yes, of course." He pulls a pouch out from his fur - she can't help but wonder what else he has in there, and he opens it up to reveal slices of a green fruit that looks like an apple and little pies. "Quince and mince pies, milady."
She takes a bite of a pie. "Well, I suppose it'll do..." Then she finishes the pie and licks her fingers and the plate, and looks around for more.
"So, tell me, Princess, why are you always so grumpy?"
"I'm not always grumpy!" She pounces on an unsuspecting quince and eats it up.
"You scared off all your servants and guards... I didn't actually come to catnap you, I came to find out why hundreds of civilized mice were looking for work in the pirate bars. They all told me about you."
"Well, I... Hmph." She folds her arms and looks forlornly at the castle.
"Where is your family?"
She points at the castle. "In the dungeons."
"WHAT? Why is your family in the dungeons?"
"Well, you see, it started with my oldest brother, Tom. He was next in line for the throne, but he didn't want to wait for my father to give it to him, so he orchestrated a coup and sent my father and mother down to the dungeons. He only lasted a few months before the mice helped my next oldest brother, Alley, to overthrow him... Next came Garfield, then Simon, then Cheshire, and finally me. I'm the youngest of six and the only girl..."
"Did you overthrow someone, too, then?"
"Well, not really. I mean, Cheshire was always disappearing at random times. So it was easy to take the throne, then when he tried to come back, the guards locked him up. But someone had to tell the mice what to do or they'd run rampant!"
"And what, you couldn't think of anything better to tell them than to constantly fit you into new outfits?"
"No, OK? I couldn't..." Sour Puss starts to cry. "I just wanted my family to be happy but they were always fighting. I thought... Well, I thought that if I looked pretty enough, they'd be nicer and we could be happy again..."
"That didn't happen?"
She shakes her head. "No, nothing worked. I'd go visit them, late at night, when the mice were asleep, and they were still so mean, all of them except my mother. Always fighting through the bars. I stopped going after a while, it was too sad..." She curls herself up and mews sadly.
Grey Fur started to sing, "Oh, dear Sour Puss.
No wonder you are so sour
You have surely had some hard hours
I have a wonderful solution
We'll set them free to choose their own actions,
then together we'll sail the sea on a world tour."
She lifts her head up and looks at him. "Really? You'd help me do that? Why?" She sounds very suspicious. I'd imagine you would, too, if you had such a nasty family as she.
He stands up, one paw in the air, the other on his hip, and shouts, "Adventure!"
"Oh, bother."
"Besides, I couldn't leave them there, even if they are as rotten as you've described. They'd starve with no food!"
"There are wild mice down there..."

Together they walk back to the castle - yes, this time they went through the front door, I suppose Grey Fur had enough adventure coming his way already.
"Which way to the dungeons?"
"Well, behind the throne, of course."
"Of course, of course..."
She leads him to the throne - which was really just a large cardboard box with a pillow and catnip toy inside - and then paws aside the tapestry behind it, revealing a winding, dark, drafty staircase, the only light from flickering candles on the walls, and an infinite chasm to the left. "It's easier if you crawl," she whispers.
"Why are you whispering?" He whispers back.
"Well... There might be ghosts?"
"Ghosts don't scare me!" He announces rather too loudly, and a strong gust blows through, several candles losing their flames, and an eerie noise comes up from the chasm.
Sour Puss glares at him. "Now look what you've done..."
He drops his voice. "Ok, maybe they do a little bit. But just a little. Just enough that I'll whisper from now on..."
"Good. Now follow close behind, with the lights out I don't want you to trip -"
And of course he didn't follow, he wanted to lead, so he rushed ahead and landed on a trap, and the stair opened up to reveal the chasm beneath. Luckily he was able to grab a hold of the stair in front of him, and Sour Puss was able to pull him up.
"I told you to follow me... There are traps and I know where they are... Now we have to cross that!"
"It's just one step, milady. Easily done. Here, I'll hold your paw while you cross, then I'll cross next. And I'll let you lead from now on, I promise." He puts one paw over his heart in promise.

It takes them an hour to make it down another ten steps. Yes, an hour! Grey Fur grumbles the whole way about it taking so long, he really does hate to go slow.
Sour Puss sings,
"Oh, poor pirate captain,
now, who's the grumpy one?
Just take the steps like this,
Jump here and then there without a hiss
And soon enough we'll be done."
Finally, they do make it, just when Grey Fur is about to give up. They can see a long hallway ahead of them, with locked doors on either side and meowing come from them all.
"Is that them?" Whispers Grey Fur.
"Yes, that's them... What now?"
"Well, how do we open the doors?"
"The key, of course. But once we open the doors, what's to stop them from imprisoning me?"
"Hm... That's a trick... What's your father's name?"
"Felix. And my mother is Fluffy."
"Ok." He clears his throat. "Which one of you is Felix and Fluffy?"
"We're in here!" A male voice calls out from the farthest door. "Please let us out, we are so hungry and tired of eating wild mice!"
Grey Fur walks to their door and starts singing.
"Now listen up, you two,
You have a litter of truly mean felines
You need to work out something to do
before we will let you out,
Something to keep your children in line,
To bring them in sync and not in rout."
"Yes, yes, of course, we will," Felix responded. "But please, can't you let us out first? It's so hard to think in here."
"I will, but I will warn you that I have a saber, and I'm quite good with it, should you want to try anything tricky."
"Of course, of course!"
Grey Fur looks to Sour Puss, who nods reluctantly, and he unlocks the door, one hand on his saber. Felix bounds out, a bright orange ball of fluff, almost instantly attacking. "Hah! Thought you could fool me, huh?" He shouts.
While Grey Fur easily parries the attack, Felix's fur weighing him down, Fluffy and Sour Puss hug.
"Oh Mother, I've missed you. I'm sorry I didn't let you out, I just didn't want to end up down here, too!"
"I understand, dear, your father and brothers are rather aggressive. I actually enjoyed it down here, I knitted some mittens with your father's shed fur - you know how much he sheds." She holds up a basket full of orange mittens. "It was nice not having the fighting like before..."
"If only Tom hadn't locked you both up together, I would have let you out... I was up there all alone, I didn't know what to do!"
Fluffy pats Sour Puss on the back then scratches behind her ears. Sour Puss purrs. "I know, honey. Now, who's this dashing young cat you have with you?"
"Well, um, that's the pirate captain Grey Fur. After we let you all out, we were going to go on an adventure together, I'm tired of being a princess."
"Oh, that sounds lovely. You know, I almost ran away with a pirate, too, once..."
"What happened?"
"Well, I met your father, and he was rather dashing in his youth... He swept me off my feet. Anyway, I have a plan... If we let your brothers out, your father will be so busy dealing with them that you and your pirate captain can run away together. I have a pouch hidden in my dresser, it has some honey in it and a whole stack of five-pound notes, that should help you out..."
"What about you, Mother?"
"Oh, don't worry about me, I know more than one way to use these." She holds up her knitting needles. "I can handle myself. But I think our time down here may have been good for them all, even though it doesn't seem like it now."
"Ok, then, if you think so... Here's the key." Sour Puss kisses her mother on the cheek, then turns to Grey Fur and Felix, still both in a battle of swords. "Why did Father even have a saber down here?"
Fluffy starts opening doors. "Oh, that's not a saber, dear, it's about twenty mouse femurs knitted together. Any minute now it'll fall apart..." And as if on cue, the pieces clatter to the floor.
"Hah!" Shouts Grey Fur. "No one can best me!"
Sour Puss rushes over. "Quick, time to go!" And as more cats leave their dungeons, she and Grey Fur run to the stairs together. They look back to see fur flying and cats yowling and claws shining in what little light is left.
"Do we have to worry about traps on the way back up?" Grey Fur asks.
"Well, unless you want to fall to your doom..."
"No, I'd rather not... But I have a better idea." He grabs onto Sour Puss, unfolds his wings, and together they fly back to the throne room.

A day's labor

I'm sitting in a coffee shop, a cup of tea on my left, music through my ears, people all around me, but I'm alone. No one is asking anything of me. No one is wanting water or food, or to nurse; no one wants to sit on my lap, or to build train tracks or a marble run, or to sit down and watch a video. No one is telling me a story. It's my turn, my time. I don't deny that I adore my children, and would do anything for them. But day in, day out, being on call for their every whim and desire gets exhausting. I get to the point of being done, needing some quiet time where I can sit and watch the rain drop into puddles outside, the ripples expanding outward until they disappear. And yet, I feel guilty for this, for enjoying this time. For not always wanting to be climbed on and hugged and hit (yes, one of my children often shows affection through hitting me. We're working on that one.).

I remember bringing both of them into this world. Not clearly, a lot of things blend together; but I remember it. I remember the pain, and the excitement of who is this person going to be, the fear - especially with my daughter. Giving birth to my daughter ranks as one of the most traumatic experiences of my life, and one that I've been wanting to record for some time; perhaps the act of writing it out will help me cleanse it from my system, and not need to constantly be reliving it.

I'd been awake for a while, in and out of sleep, as the contractions got more intense. Finally, around 8 am, we called my doula to let her know this was finally happening. There'd been some false starts, but this was really it. We called my parents at some point, though I don't remember exactly when. At some point during the day, they would show up and take my almost 2-year-old son off on adventures, and they would keep him until about 4 am the next morning, when he would crawl into my hospital bed, filling the void where my daughter should have been.

When we got to the hospital, they wanted to check my cervix - I was already about 7 inches if I recall correctly. All of this story hinges on me remembering correctly, as memories are known to be fallible and constantly morphing; my husband's story would be far different from mine, I imagine. We remember so differently from everyone else. I remember that I threw up, which is highly unusual for me; my doula told me that was a sign I was going through the 'transition' phase of labor. It didn't happen with the birthing of my son (though my husband claims I didn't birth my son, he was surgically extracted from me. I honestly find that sentiment hurtful; I went through almost 24 hours of labor with him, and I pushed for three, and despite all that effort - all that labor - he still was declared 'stuck' and I had to be cut open. So yes, he was surgically extracted, but I also gave birth. There.). Either way, labor with my daughter was almost instantly different. Perhaps because I'd already been through it - my doula said that the nerve endings were more sensitive and that's why it hurt more. I don't know. I do know it hurt, more and more as labor progressed. In the beginning, it was more intensely uncomfortable.

At some point, they declared that I was needing help. They said they wanted to do an IV drip. My doula said it seemed like a good idea because I wasn't getting enough water and food to keep me going; it might give me strength. I don't know if they gave me the IV before or after they broke my water - again, another difference from my son, where my water broke and then labor started. Either way, I was given an IV drip, and they manually broke my water, thinking that the force of the water breaking might help push my daughter out (I will insert here that we didn't know she was a girl yet; I wouldn't find that out until much later, when my husband called her name in fear, his voice thick with emotion).

I got in and out of the shower, the heat helping. Again, different from my son, where the shower is what seemed to stall the labor; I think, though, rather than the shower, it was the doubt and pressure coming off the nurses and doctors. The nurses present for my daughter's birth were significantly more supportive and respectful. I wonder often, if I'd had the same birthing team, would I have been successful in giving birth to my son? Or would he have almost died, like my daughter? Or worse? I'll never know that, and it haunts me sometimes, that my desire for a natural birth could have killed my children.

I don't remember how long I pushed. Time blended into one; I tried a variety of pain relief options, though not an epidural; I did try nitrous oxide, and didn't like it - I felt like I couldn't get enough air; I tried a TENS unit and didn't like it - I felt like it added to the pain and discomfort. I remember at many times wondering if I should just get an epidural, but the knowledge that it would slow everything down always stopped me. I did ask, during the pushing phase, for them to just pull her out with forceps. I couldn't make the muscles work right. I couldn't push like they wanted me to push. I tried, but my body just didn't know what to do. They had me laying down on the bed, my legs up, and there was a mirror so I could see her head trying to come out - full head of dark brown hair, one of the few things the same as her brother. They kept telling me I could do it; I just didn't know how. My husband told me later that he knew things were going downhill when my doula stepped back, and the nurses got quiet. They knew, I didn't see any of that; I just wanted to get her out. She did come out, eventually, and I think the only way it happened was the midwife literally ripped me open to do it. She had her hands inside of me and she just pulled, tearing me open. I'd find out later it was only a third-degree tear. 11:30 pm and my daughter was born, about 15 hours after labor 'officially' started, only two days after her 'due date,' and she came out blue and not crying. A code blue was even called on her, which I actually don't remember hearing but someone told me about later (in a weird episode of synchronicity, a mom I didn't know at the time but that ended up moving to PA and was living there at the same time that I was, and we met through an online group shared with me that she'd always wondered what happened to the baby that got the code called on her while she was giving birth).

Anyway, tangent aside... I remember them handing my daughter to me. My husband says that didn't happen. I don't know who's right. I remember them handing her to me and then almost instantly taking her away, my dreams of a natural birth with a natural post birth, baby and mom cuddled up, baby learning to nurse, instant bonding and happy little hearts floating up around us as we cuddled, totally destroyed; my heart ached, my soul literally cried out 'bring me my baby' and I just couldn't understand why they were taking her away. It sounds melodramatic when I write that; but it's the best way to say it. My soul cried, and my stomach dropped; I could hear my husband talking to her. 'Come on, Zemyna, breathe, Zemyna, you can do it'. I couldn't see what was happening. They were on the other side of the room, he was with her, or as close as they'd let him, talking to her, trying not to cry. I don't remember who was with me. Eventually, they got her to breathe; it took far longer than it should have. Eventually, the nurse told me that I hadn't birthed the placenta yet, and I was losing blood from the tear so they were going to need to pull it out manually and then sew me up. They took me away; my husband stayed with my daughter while they tried to thread an IV through her belly button, after stabilizing her; in the Intermediate Care Unit.

While they sewed me up, one of the nurses had brought my Sheela - a little statue modeled after the ancient Irish sheela-na-gigs I'd had made by a friend, to hold and help support me through the process; I held onto her the whole time. I still have her, on our family altar, and intend to give her to my daughter when she gets pregnant, or perhaps when she gets her menstrual cycle, or maybe when she gets married... I'll give it to her when the time seems right. I held onto my Sheela, and one of the nurses came in with pictures of my daughter. I don't know what happened to those pictures; I don't think I ever got them. But at the time, they meant everything; she was alive, breathing, moving, looking healthy now. My unexpectedly huge baby, alive and breathing. She had to go to the NICU (Intermedia Care Unity, technically), instead of with me. After they sewed me up, they brought me in to see her. I remember being exhausted, completely worn out, and all I wanted was to hold her but all I could do was let her hold my finger. She had tubes running through her, and she was in one of those little baby beds with the high sides, and I couldn't hold her. I look back on that moment and I wish I'd stayed with her. Even though I couldn't hold her, even though I couldn't nurse her or do anything, I wish with all of my being that I hadn't left her alone, without any family, without anyone who loved her, barely even a nurse nearby. I don't know if they would have let me - but I still wish I'd tried. My husband tells me I shouldn't blame myself; that I needed rest. That it's ok. And that's what I would tell any other mother. Any other mother. But it's not what I tell myself. It will always be one of my hugest regrets, that my just-born daughter spent too much time alone in the NICU.

At some point, my husband called my parents, so that shortly after getting to my room, my son came back to us. He crawled into my bed, and we cuddled. At least I had him. I could hold him, even if I couldn't hold my daughter, at least not yet.

She ended up being in NICU for about three days. She was low in some nutrients, and she had an infection in her lung, so they kept her. I couldn't nurse her for the first few days because the nurses told me they needed to monitor how much she was getting. I learned later that they could have weighed her diapers and that should have sufficed, but I didn't know that at the time. I wish someone had told me. Luckily, my son was still nursing, and he was in boob heaven. All through pregnancy I'd had limited supply, which is normal, so he'd gotten used to there not being much. He might even have weaned if that had continued. But it didn't, and thanks to him my milk came in just fine so that when my daughter was ready, it was available. Eventually, they let me pump and they'd give her that. She didn't have much formula, she did get breast milk, just not straight from the breast.

As I write this, I am notified of new photos from my husband - my little ten-pound baby girl is now over 25 pounds, almost 2.5 years old, dancing on a piano. All that drama and fear and sorrow at the beginning and I am so grateful that she made it. It is a constant weight on my heart that it could easily not have turned out so well, that I could easily not have my daughter. My little healer, my helper, my earth goddess who takes care of all of us. Life, my world, my heart, would be so much less without her. I've shared this story verbally often, talked about with my husband; and each time, there's an ache in my heart, knowing how lucky I am to have her in my life. I wouldn't know what I was missing, I suppose, but the knowledge of its possibility is huge, a heavy rock that gets stuck in my throat, or drops into my stomach and makes me fall whenever I think about it.

A new behavior of hers is, at night, when she's nursing to sleep and just about to fall asleep, I'll ask her if we can switch to cuddling (because the latch she gets when she's falling asleep is less lips and more teeth, less suck and more munch), and she'll unlatch then reach her arms up, wrapping them around my neck, and bring my face in to hers, so we are cheek to cheek or sometimes chin to forehead; she'll hold on, and it is the most wonderful feeling, how much she adores me, how completely I am her world.