Tiny Bare Feet

Summer marches on, and July is barreling towards my family, ready or not. On July 1, 2012, my sister and her husband gave birth to a beautiful, full term little girl named Clara Edith Webb. Clara never made it home. Taken far too soon, little Clara was stillborn. I think we’ve all tried to rationalize why something so horrible could happen to someone so undeserving – the most innocent of all creatures. There is no rationalization to be made – a precious little life hung suspended above the heads of the Webb family for 43 weeks, as they planned and prepared and celebrated the beautiful baby about to bless their lives. When I think about Clara, I wish that I could just believe in the comforts of heaven – that this little one is being cradled up above, rocked in the arms of others in our lives that are gone but not forgotten. It is warm feeling to imagine my own Grandma Edith rocking her great granddaughter, singing songs she probably sang to my dad 60 years ago, and passing them on to Clara.

I know that I haven’t been the support that I could have been for Heather and David, as they’ve dealt with the trauma over the last nearly 12 months. My nieces, Lakin and Addah, have had to learn to balance not only with the stresses of being a tween today, but the recovery process of learning to wrap their own 10 and 11 year old minds around the loss of their baby sister. I don’t know that anyone really knows what to say to someone dealing with this type of loss, learning how to pick up the pieces, and move forward. If love is truly all we need, we’d have baby Clara here today, probably learning how to walk and say things like “Mama” and “Dada”, and we’d all be about to celebrate her 1st birthday. Clara is a beautiful flower, never given the chance to bloom. I think Winnie the Pooh was right – sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart. I think we’ll all be able to hear the pitter patter of Clara’s little footprints in our hearts, her beautiful voice silenced for reasons none of us know. We can’t count the breaths she took, but she’s left us all breathless in different ways, a reminder that life’s precious moments are far too special, sometimes fleeting much too fast.

Heather and David, I love you. I’m here for you. I always am. I’m sorry that I don’t know what to say, or how to react when you talk about Clara. But I am, and will always be, the shoulder of support whenever you need it. You are both so strong, and I’ve admired both of your courageousness over the last year, the realizations you both have made, and the incredible ways you have coped and picked up the pieces you never should have had to pick up.

Sweet Clara, you will always be remembered and loved. Happy Birthday, little one.

To ready Clara's birth story, visit Heather's blog, The Destiny Manifest, at this link.

Where Loyalties Lie.

I had a conversation this evening about friendships and loyalties and how the two are connected. I feel like I learn something new about myself every time I get into any kind of intellectual conversation with others. I still struggle with events that have gone down that affected me. I’m told that I am extremely loyal friend, and until today, I saw that as a very positive quality. Upon further thought and assessment, I’m not so sure. I feel like I give people way too leniency and forgive far too easily. I get nostalgic and cling to memories. A familiar song comes on or my eyes fixate on a date on the calendar, and I get all chummy remembering this or that or him or her. It’s a ridiculous quality of mine.

I have no idea how to process the things I feel about situations that have hurt me in the past. Is it worth my time and energy and friendship to continue to feed and fuel friendships that still surround with me painful heartache and a sick stomach? Although Jesse and I have ended our marriage every way but legally (yet), he continues to break my heart again and again. I guess that’s to be expected when little kids are in the mix and some sort of amicable ground is trying to be found, but damn it, it still stings and cuts like a knife. I know I need to reevaluate what I’ve stood for, apologies I’ve given, and where my loyalties lie, but I feel clueless in how to do that, and just when I think I’ve figured it out, those ridiculous memories come around making me feel all nostalgic again.

Attached.

I met a friend for late night appetizers and a beer tonight, just to hang out and catch up since it's been a little while since we'd been able to do that. Upon updating him of the last couple of weeks of my life and some shared stories between us, he proclaimed that I get too easily attached to people. Immediately, I began defending myself, and the subject quickly changed to something completely unrelated. But I keep thinking about what he said, and realizing how true that really is. I'm not sure why I find myself getting so close to people so quickly, but I think it's something I need to work on. As a result of my attachment, I end up taking things personally that I know shouldn't be, and getting my feelings hurt by people who shouldn't have that sort of power over me.

Since my separation from Jesse, I've gone on lots and lots of dates. Realistically, more than I could probably remember or count. Of all of those dates and people, I've only found myself having true feelings for one person that have stuck with me for several months now. I'm not confident that anything will ever come of that particular friendship, but it's nice to think and wonder about. Sure enough, I've felt little flutters from other dates I've been on, but they quickly dwindled or the chemistry was never there, yet somehow I still find myself getting attached, no matter what. How do you change that? How do you tell yourself to chill out and just let things happen as they happen? I feel like I need a guidebook on dating and relationships. Any suggestions? No seriously, I feel like I'm a confused girl in middle school getting flutters when any cute boy's eyes happen to cross me, and that's just not sensible for a grown woman.

I have much more to say, but it's got to be saved for another day. 11:25pm and my eyelids are feeling heavy and begging to close. Update soon, I promise.

Voices tell me I should carry on.

I've been writing this blog post in my head for weeks now, thinking of the things I need to say, things I need to get out. But when I sit down to do it, my head goes fuzzy and I can't manage to pull the thoughts to my fingertips. I guess a steady stream of conscious thought is the only way I'll ever be able to get out what I need to. I'm hoping this is therapeutic for me, since so much has gone on that I haven't been able to process yet.

I'm trying to figure out how my life is in the state that it's in now, and I'm no closer to figuring it out than when I started over a year ago. I'm nowhere where I thought I'd be when I was picturing my future, and I have no idea where I'm going. I've been separated for 8 months (as of today, actually). I thought I'd have started to move on by now, but I still cry for the family that will never be again. I've tried everything within my own power to make my husband fix mistakes that were made on his part, but it's not something he's willing to do or even feels capable of doing. Nothing I say is convincing enough, and I'm left wondering what I could have done to be so unwanted by my best friend in the whole world. I never asked to be cheated on, I never asked for this separation, and I certainly didn't ask not to see my children every single day. But yet, all of those things happened, and I'm struggling to cope with where I go next.

Eight years I've spent as one half of an imperfectly perfect love. Through struggles and triumphs and laughs and giggles and tears and cuddles, I grew from a child of 15 into a woman of 22 with my hero by my side, and two beautiful children that joined us for the ride. But now I'm 23, and I live in a lonely one bedroom apartment with echoes of my children's laughter and blank spaces where their toys should be scattered. The bed I sleep in at night is mine alone, not the shared home of a husband and wife. Meals are fixed for one and hugs and kisses to my children are passed via video chat. It is a truly lonely place.

I've been thrown a lot of curveballs in my fairly short life, but this one was one I really never saw coming. From spending the first 5 months of my marriage alone while my husband served his country in Korea, to nearly losing my beautiful boy to a miscarriage, I've learned and grown and become a strong woman. But I don't think there's strength out there for the pain you feel when you learn the devastating news that you just weren't enough for your husband. But in spite of the struggles we've faced, he still holds the other half of my heart. I dream about him every night, and I see his face in all of the little reminders I find in my day to day life. Every song on the radio is about him and me, and every place from Greenville to Fort Polk and across the ocean has some memory tied to the last 8 years. He tells me I'll move on, but I can't begin to fathom how to move on from the kind of love we had. How in the world do you put that on a shelf and open the next chapter? My beautiful children carry the face of their father, and in their eyes, I see his love. Everyday, my heart breaks at the thought of all that I've lost at the hands of another woman. My children will never know what it's like to have parents that love each other, parents that live in the same house. At nearly 2 and 4 years old, they will have no recollection of what it was like when their parents were so madly in love that the rest of the world was a blur. They will never experience Christmas mornings with Mama and Daddy, and they'll never get to go on family vacations. They've lost so much that they never even had a chance to desire, and my heart breaks for them. They've been condemned to one parent homes for the rest of their childhood, and every day, they will wake up missing one of their parents, whether they are streets, states, or countries away. Mistakes were made that they hold no responsibility to, but bear the brunt of the consequences for.

Someone has to tell me that one day, this will all just be long lost memories, that life goes on, and one day, sooner or later, I will move on from this. On my drive home from Louisiana today, the majority of my time was spent listening to this song on repeat, and it continues to loop in my mind as I write this.


Just Give Me a Reason by Pink featuring Nate Ruess



"Just give me a reason
Just a little bit's enough
Just a second, we're not broken, just bent
And we can learn to love again."

The darkness in spite of all the light.

It would be a lie if I tried convincing anyone, including myself, if a lot of days [read: most days] are not a constant struggle. They are, and most of the time, I have no idea how to handle it. It is no secret to me, or probably anyone around me, that the past 12 months have been the hardest of my life. Simply put, I have postpartum depression. In length, I have way more than just a diagnosis. Yes, my struggles come from depression and anxiety, two little friends that reared their heads for the first very real time this past year. I fight a constant battle which, fortunately (or perhaps, unfortunately), I’ve managed to keep from most everyone that knows me. Jesse is my rock though. He has helped me through the dark and into the light more times than I could ever begin to count. In fact, that number is still ticking upwards when I have a freak out moment like the ones that still come a little too often and a little too blindly. I’ve done everything in my power to not place my depression, anxiety, anger, or confusion on my children, and I think I’ve managed to do a pretty good job of that. So many days, I struggle. Have I said that yet? I’m working through it day by day by day. I feel like the good days outweigh the bad days now, which is certainly a new feeling than past months. I’m getting out of it, but I do think it will take some more time until it’s all behind me, if it ever is. My depression has prevented me from taking in every wonderful moment with my children, and that, for certain, has been the biggest downfall of the year. My beautiful children are growing every single day, and every single day that passes is one that I’ll never be able to relive. Their tiny toes, and tiny voices are only getting bigger, and I’ve failed in trying to remember each little detail. The events of the last few years have left me without a clue of who I am; a result of trying to grow up too fast, if you will. There’s a Hilary outside of being a little one’s mama, outside of being a wonderful man’s wife, and somehow I plan to find and embrace her.
 
I’ve become an entirely different person since my adult years began not so long ago, and I have a hard time figuring out who I am deep down inside. The early 20s in anyone’s life are about self-discovery, and I’m certainly not exempt from that. The things I am and have discovered thus far, though, have mostly come as surprises to me. I’ve dreamed of having children since I can remember lining my baby dolls along the side of my bunk bed and kissing each one good night and good morning. I can’t remember a time in my life when I wasn’t baby-obsessed, quite truthfully. So it was certainly a surprise to me when it dawned on me that I’m not really cut out to be stay at home mom. I don’t think I will ever be the mom that stays up late at night planning crafty little fun things to do the next day, and lesson-planning for homeschool teaching. My goodness, I try, and I’ll keep trying, but I have to wonder if I’ll ever be that mom. I’m sure a lot of that comes with my age, but I don’t know how much of it really. I’d like to think that most of the way that I feel is because of my postpartum depression and anxiety, and not truly because I’ll never be the mom I always dreamed of being. Too often, my mind gets crowded with the “what-ifs” when I think about the college scholarships I threw away, and my stellar GPA that means little to nothing anymore. As my favorite wizard once said though, “It does not to do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.” I have so much to live for right now, and that little reminder is what helps to get me through the hardest times.
 
Every single day I try to do a little better than the day before. I’m not always successful, but I’m trying. Good lord, I’m trying. To my sweet, wonderful husband, thank you. Without you, I have no idea where this year would have led me. I owe my life to you, indeed.

Update of sorts.

You know those times when you have so much rattling around in your head that you feel like any further information would literally just fall right out for lack of room? That’s kind of how I’m feeling right about now. I haven’t had the time to blog lately, and I’m definitely due for that sort of brain reset. It’s been an interesting year, no doubt, and 2012 has certainly given me a run for my money.

Avery is only 11 days away from his 1st birthday, and I feel disbelief, both from how fast the year has gone and how undeniably slow other parts have been. He learned how to stand without holding onto anything, and I’m sure he’ll be taking steps in a month or so. He’s got 12 (count ‘em, 12!) big teeth, and he’s already close to cutting quite a few more. He “talks” constantly, and even tries to sing and dance, which is just downright adorable coming from his chubby little face. He’s still my little nursling, as I’m sure he will be for at least several more months. We’re planning his 1st birthday which is just a week away, and he’ll be having it with older cousin, Abby, who is turning 2 just a few days before his birthday.

This past year since Avery was born has probably been my hardest, far exceeding time spent away from Jesse or when I went away to college, even my first year in Korea. I’ve had a hard time struggling with postpartum depression, which was compounded by medication I was on for about 4 months, a heavy school load, and a very high needs Avery which left me severely sleep and free time deprived. I had a lot of not-so-favorable moments this year, and even now, 12 months after his birthday, I have some really hard days where postpartum depression really gets the best of me. I’ve somehow managed to make it through the year without medication to control it, though there have been times when it may have been the better choice to go that route. Fortunately though, I feel like I’m on the uphill from that these days, and things seem to be getting better everyday.

I’ve learned a lot about myself this year, and I’ve taken a lot of big leaps in discovering what I’m really all about. I finally admitted to myself and others that being a stay at home mom is not what I’m really meant to do. I’m grateful, appreciative, and so thankful that I’ve had the opportunity to stay home with my kids for the last almost-three years, but I can also accept that this is not what I am supposed to do with my life forever. I miss working and I miss contributing outside of the home. I miss adult conversations and yes, I’ll admit, I would love to be able to miss my kids a little bit. Is that weird? The kids get so excited to see Jesse after he’s been gone for awhile, whereas up until last week, the longest I’d ever spent away from either of the kids was 2 hours. Even just last week, I topped out at 6 hours away, which in the grand scheme of time, isn’t much at all. I crave more adventure and the feeling of contribution. When the time comes where I can step outside of the SAHM box, I’m sure it will be a hard adjustment for everyone in the family, but I also know deep down that it will benefit us all in a variety of ways. I’ve already faced a lot of judgment from friends and family that cannot – or choose not – to understand why I would choose something over staying home with kids, and that’s okay, I guess. I don’t need anyone’s approval outside of Jesse’s, but it does get to me when I feel that those close to me don’t at least attempt to see things from my point of view.

Jesse and I recently went through some things that really rocked our foundation, and mine alone too. But I’m happy to say that we both came out on the other side together, not necessarily stronger, not necessarily better, at least not immediately, but together. We are constantly working to improve our relationship, in order to become a stronger couple, better people, and better parents every day. I’d like to think that our marriage will always be a work in progress, never stagnating, something we always want to improve. I guess that’s really the goal of every marriage though.

Anyway. It’s definitely been a year, both since Avery’s birth and since 2012 began. I still feel like there’s so much left that I could talk about, but I can delve a little deeper another day. I’m sure my little guy will be waking any moment anyway. Like I always say, hopefully it won’t be too long before the next post. Hopefully.

To Grandma's house, we go.

I remember when I was a little girl, I used to brag about my grandparents' house, describing it as a "big, red mansion", claiming it had to be "at least 5 stories high". In all reality, it is far from being a 5-story mansion, sitting at only 2 stories and a basement. But in my mind, it was a huge palace that everyone should have been jealous of. My grandparents, who have lived there for many decades, have recently moved out. As they prepare to sell it and move onto better things to suit their lives, I've been reflecting on all of the memories I hold for the big red house on Pendleton Street, and I find myself thinking of new ones I'd since forgotten.

When I think of my childhood, I remember most holidays, most family gatherings, most celebrations all being celebrated at Grandma and Grandpa's house. I think of all of the cousins I have, gathering together to play endless hours of games like Hide-and-Go Seek, Sardines, or our own made up game of Jeopardy inside, or heading out to the vast parking area to play Mother, May I?, or Red Light/Green Light. I think about how we used to all gather on the kind-of-red-kind-of-orange carpeted staircase and play Rock School, coming up with sometimes serious and sometimes silly questions to ask each other. I remember being so excited to hear that my big cousins from New Jersey would be coming down for the holiday. In my little girl mind, they were the coolest cousins of all, because they lived so far away. I knew that when those three cousins came, we would, undoubtedly, get to play "500", a game played with a football, which I, being probably only 5 or 6 years old, was horrible at. But still, I was a part of the group, which included the big cousins, the little cousins, and the in-between cousins. I remember my parents telling us at the end of a long holiday that it was time to go, and we'd all beg our parents for just a little more time. I think most get-togethers usually finished out with a game of Charades, which seemed to get sillier and sillier as the years went on. I remember playing "Stores" with my brother and my cousin, each designating ourselves as "grocery store owner" or "zookeeper", and we'd pass hours "shopping" at each others' stores in the playroom. There was a vent that connected the play room to the formal living room, and I remember sending each other out on covert missions to sneak into the living room, so that we could talk to each other through the vents. I remember dinner time at the kids' table, while the parents all sat at the adult table in the formal dining room. I remember the silly jokes passed across the table and how we were never without laughter during dinner. I remember special days when we'd somehow all end up at Grandma's for one reason or another, and we'd all be so excited to walk next door to Pete's restaurant and order hotdogs for everyone to eat at lunchtime. I remember little legs sticking to the green and blue vinyl couch that has decorated the living room since long before I was born. I remember the cozy little closet with the cozy little door that you almost had to duck to enter, filled with all kinds of treasures and trinkets from holiday decorations to beautiful glassware. I remember hiding out in the office upstairs, spying on neighbors or passersby with my cousins, dramatically jumping below the window sill the moment we thought we might have been spotted from the outside. I remember flashlight tag in the upstairs bedrooms and the rug burns we'd get on knees from chasing each other around. I remember family photos of all of my aunts and uncles, and my own mother, a glimpse into their lives before parenthood. I remember laying on the canopy bed in the guest room, thinking to myself that one day, when I was a big girl with my own house, I was going to have a bed just.like.that.

I think I could wander Grandma and Grandpa's house for hours and never really discover all of the neat little hiding spots that are surely hiding themselves. In all of the many hundreds of games of Hide-and-Go-Seek that have certainly been played within those walls, there are still probably places I could find today that were never discovered in all of those years of games.

While it is sad to think that when I drive past that house in the future, it won't be my family's anymore, I am truly excited for the new home that my Grandma and Grandpa have moved to. I feel so lucky that when I do drive past the "big, red mansion", I'll always have all of those little memories and more that I could go on for ages about, and that my childhood was influenced so much by a home with so much character inside.