skipping rocks

"Mom, can we go down to the lake one more time?"
       "Not now, Sophie. Wait until sunset.  It's too hot"
"Mom, now can we go down to the lake?
        "Not yet...just a minute. I've gotta do something first."
"Mom, can we go now?"
         "Quit bugging me! Not now!"
"Mom! You promised we would go to the lake at sunset, and that's right now!"
~~~~~sigh~~~~~breath~~~~~okay~~~~~~
"You're right Sophie. I did say that.  Let's go."

I heft 20 pound Beckam onto my hip for the 37th time that day and kiss his forehead.
"Pepper are you going to wear shoes?"
     "no.  I don't need any shoes, Mom."
Of course she doesn't.  Why do I even ask?  We have been camping at Pineview reservoir for 3 days, and her shoes always come off within 5 minutes.
My knees crunch and ache as I walk down the sand hill to the edge of the lake.
None of this is as easy as it used to be.
But I owe this to the memory of my own youth.  To let adventures happen.
Sophie will not let me forget who I have been, who I still am.
If I falter and get lazy, she says,
"Mom, you don't seem like yourself.  You seem like a real grown-up."
This is when I stand up and follow her lead.

We get to the edge of the water just as the sky is taking her biggest breath.
Her whole chest is flung wide and the clouds soar across her skin.
We almost missed this.
When I was first in recovery, I watched the sunrise everyday.
I remember thinking,
"This happens every morning, and most people miss it.  Yet she is always here, offering this."
I'd squat in the bristly astro-turf of our front porch and smoke.  I needed nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  I saw all the colors.

The beach is bubbling over with wide flat stones.  Perfect.
Sophie and I tiptoe over wet sand, filling our palms.
Sometimes we get it just right and cheer as the rock goes skidding its' magic over the water.
Only to groan as the next one kerplunks into a dud.
"Why is it sometimes I can do it, and then I find the perfect rock and it doesn't even skip once?"
     "I know!" I exclaim.  "It doesn't make any sense does it?"
I'm not humoring her anymore.  I am just as into it as she is.  I scour the sand with eyes of a child for the perfect gem.
I notice her hair is growing out and turning blond from the sun.  Her muscles are becoming defined by gymnastics.  They are her Dad's muscles and mine.  She gets it from both sides.  She is too strong for her youth, like a baby rattlesnake.  
Her fight for autonomy is so constant.  I forget there is a little girl in there still.  Sometimes I go all day without seeing her until we pray together at night, and she asks me to hand her Butterscotch.  He is the stuffed animal I used to sleep with, and now he is Sophie's.  I only gave him up 4 years ago when I got married.

Pepper hasn't gone in the lake once.  She stands on the beach and throws the biggest rocks she can lift into the water.  She jumps up and down pumping her fists after each splash.  Her victory dance is contagious.  Sophie and I join her, bouncing and laughing.  She talks to herself in a sing-song voice and walks lightly on her toes.

This is how I get to know my kids.  I get so carried away in the current of needs that I ignore their spirits, and my own.

On our drive home Sophie asked me,
"Mom, what was your favorite part of the family reunion?"
     "Hmm...I think it was when we went skipping rocks on the beach at sunset."
"Me too," she says, and smiles at me in the rear view mirror.

engorged

early morning Beckam

I woke up at 5 a.m. because my breasts were engorged with milk.
Soon I will be done nursing Beckam.
He is 7 months old.
This is my body's last duty as mother.
I am not having any more babies.
I catch my breath as I write this, as if I've jumped into frigid water.
It is shocking to realize and I could cry.
Surely when I stop nursing, I will cry.

I hold so tightly to Beckam.
When he is in my arms I relish the softness and weight of his little body.
I have never had this instinct.
I don't want him to grow up.  He is 20 pounds of innocence.  My last dose.
After this first year, he will become responsible for his own life.
He will walk on his own legs and go where he chooses.
The separation between us will grow in tiny increments.
I know this because it has happened with Sophie now almost 10 years old and Pepper who is 3.

My kids are not "my" kids.

Pepper talking to herself

I do them the service of caring for them and teaching them.
I have the privilege of singing them to sleep and holding them when they scrape a knee in the same place for the 4th time.
In return I am given eyes that look into mine and see someone amazing.
I am never more colorful, alive or important as I am to them.
We are in love for a brief time and soon I will become a whole person to them, not just their mother.
They will see my human side and realize I made mistakes.
Mistakes which caused them harm, and I hope they can forgive me.

For now I choose to do this one thing:  to be their mother.
When I first graduated from college, my head was propelled into the future by hot aspirations.
Now that this intellectual momentum has slowed, I am amazed at what I may have missed had I followed it out of my immediate life.

Old ladies in the grocery store always say, "They grow up so fast."
When I am exhausted by this "privilege" I want to kick these ladies in the teeth Karate kid style.
But right now, I can feel it.  I can feel just how temporary this duty is.  And it doesn't feel like a duty at all.  Because when it's over, I will have to find something else to do, and I'm afraid I won't get to play anymore.  I'm afraid I will forget how it feels to be a kid, and see magic.  Because they remind me everyday, if I pay attention.

Yesterday I climbed a rope all the way to the top at Sophie's gymnastics studio.
Then raked the skin off my middle finger on the way down in a glorious burn.
I want to keep getting these kid-injuries.
I want to try things just to see if I can do it.  Because it looks fun.

It is a symbiosis we have, these kids and I.
I keep them alive by feeding, housing, clothing, insuring, shuttling, entertaining, and teaching them.

Sophie 

They keep me alive by asking me to tell them a story, sing a song, build a fort, or say a prayer at night.


My waters are never still.  There is always inflow and outflow and ripples reflecting light.

The first time I was pregnant, I referred to the baby as a parasite.
I couldn't have been more wrong.
In a parasitic relationship, one organism thrives by taking from, and killing the other one.
Now I see there is no imbalance between us.
I get just as much as I give.
And if I give more of my time, my imagination, my energy and my hope it is returned to me.
I find it in their tiny actions.


I find it when Sophie cuddles up to read Pepper a book, and uses a soft, sing-song voice.
I find it when Pepper hugs her Dad first thing in the morning with scruffy hair and holds on so tight.
I find it in Beckam's lit up face as I walk into a room, as if he is seeing me for the first time.
I find it when Pepper talks to her toys.
I find it when Sophie prays at night and I get to listen because she wants me right there holding her hand.

Pepper

morning shower

Now it is the next morning.
My eyes are a little bit burning as if I've just cried.
I squint more often lately to help me see, and I am squinting now at the computer screen.
I imagine myself at 80.
I'll probably have really great slippers.
I'll probably fear very different things.

My purge is still on my mind.
I feel bad for leaving Beckam in the swing to go and do it.
I can still see his wide open smile.  I can still feel the tether between his eyes and mine.
His laugh was hearty and whole.  Not the unsure baby laugh which came out a few months ago.
Now it is certainly a laugh.  It is thick with joy.  And I left him there.  I couldn't stay.  I had to go.  I am still pushed and ruled by Lydia sometimes.  I couldn't sit with the food.  I wanted it out more than anything.  Only I didn't get the empty feeling of relief.  I felt defeat.  I just wanted the day to be over so I could sleep and hopefully find myself in the morning.

Now it is that morning.
I am sitting in my run-stink.
I don't want to wash it off.
I was slow to move and still a bit afraid.
I looked at my phone.
There was a text from Aunt Lucy that said, "I read your blog.  Trust your process.  I love you."
My Mom's text said, "I just read your blog-I am so sorry sweetie.  I love you so much."
Angels.
I woke up to angels.
They put tears in my eyes and helped me feel.

Now I am awake.
My eyes are whole circles and they see reasons for delight.

I am going to the park.
I ate breakfast.
And I don't need the armor of my run-stink.
I'm going to wash it off and join humanity.

Dali did it again

Dali

I just purged again.
It doesn't feel like such a triumph to tell the truth this time.
I could have believed it was a one time thing.
I could have forgiven myself just once.
Now this is actually the 3rd time.
I want to be able to cry - or be assured it won't happen again.
I want someone to tell me the nightmare is over and caress my forehead like my Mom used to.
It's not so much a nightmare though...just surreal and lonely...as if living in a Dali painting.
I feel drippy and mixed up and I swear someone is squeezing something out of my nipple against my will.
I have no eyes but instead a few stitches of thread.  My mouth is gaping open.  I am fighting against myself and I don't know where I am.

I tried to look into Beckam's baby eyes and have them save me.  As I pushed him in the swing through twilight I prayed.  Then I plotted:

 "Sophie will be back from picking apricots in about 2 minutes.  I can't justify leaving him out here swinging all alone...why not?  It will only take a minute or three to get it all out.   No.  I can't leave him swinging here."

Volkswagon ripping off Dali

  He is smiling at me.  Now laughing, and I love him so much.  I want it to be enough.  But it's not.  It's not fair.  It's not fair for me to put that burden on him.  Even though he wouldn't feel it.  Now I can cry.  Now after I already did it.  Why does it work this way?  Why can't I cry first, and not purge?
Why do I have to switch off and mindlessly fill my mouth with things I don't even really like?  Macaroni and cheeze?

I have nothing uplifting to tell myself.
I can only say that I am sorry.
I am sorry, Sarah.

Dali

I am sorry you cannot be perfect, and I'm sorry you are still scared.

I just barked at Sophie.
She wanted to build a tent with her friend.
"Just go away!" I said.
Now she is in the shower.
I get to go apologize to her too.
I get to live in my broken skin.
I am afraid for Andrew to come home and see it in my eyes.

Dali

bikinis

I cannot be trusted to care for a red-head.

Ironic.  Because I am a red-head.

As I was getting him ready for bed last night, there was no denying it.

Beckam's face looked like it had been dipped in pepto-bismol.

He had no idea what I had done to him.

He beamed up at his parents with wide mouth and wonderment.

"I guess the sun hat didn't quite cut it today..." I said.

We spent the whole day at the pool.

I was okay.

I don't even know what grade my body deserved.

I didn't check.

I just walked around in it.

Of course I did hold my stomach as tight as I could while I walked.

Do all women do that?

Do men?

I did evaluate other people though.

And I realize, I am not free yet.

Because I always wonder how people can be skinny and not have an eating disorder at the same time.

Really I'm just trying to figure out how to be "normal."

What do they do?  Are they "normal?  How do they do it?

This is a silly practice I have.

It's like an alcoholic watching people sip wine and wonder how they do it without eventually finishing the bottle.

I can never un-live the life I have lived.

Just like I can never truly paint like a child again, or be hypnotized by Christmas lights.

I cannot go back to the place of not knowing this eating disorder.

So instead I just put on my swimming suit and take my kids to the pool.

Don't think too much, just do.

Pepper's little ruffle-butt went all the way into the water for the first time this summer.

I lounged in shallow water and talked with my favorite Aunt Lucy.

She is my guru and among my greatest teachers.

She is 6 feet tall.  She has birthed 11 children.  She wears hundreds of precious stones around her neck and wrists.  She is imperfect and loud and quiet at the right times.  She cries easily.

She has taught me how to love.

I call her when I can't stand my husband, and she reminds me of the truth.

She says,

"In the end, the only thing we have on this God-forsaken planet is our relationships with other people."

She also says,

"You can always find a reason to disconnect from the people you love because it is too painful.  And you may be right.  But if you can be brave enough and strong enough, you can love them even when you're justified not to.  Don't be afraid Sarah, to be who you are.  Don't be afraid to forgive and to say you're sorry."

So much life happens in one day.

I drove home and Pepper passed out in her tiny bikini.

Now it is morning and she is still wearing it.

nonsensical sense

Last night I went for a walk with my sister at sunset.

My sister and rugby brother

It was the eating disorder that originally motivated me.
This happens often.  I am propelled into movement by fear.
I am afraid of sitting still too long.
I fear it will allow weight to congeal around my hips.
I fear my metabolism will kick her feet up on the couch and let shit pile up.

I hear people in recovery speak so often about fear.
They say things like,
"Faith and fear cannot exist in the same place."
"God take my fear and help me be what you want me to be."
And for a while...I held tightly to these one-liners.
I needed them.
Every area of my life was screaming, and I had to make sense out of chaos.
Now I live in the chaos, and fear is part of it.

I am a middle-aged woman who is afraid to gain weight.
I have had 3 children.  I am afraid my breasts will never look good again.
Not afraid.  In fact, I am certain of that one.
I am afraid of being absorbed into the crowd.
I am afraid of being someone who used to be full of life and is now dull.
I am afraid that all the good stuff has already passed, and now it is just work.
I am afraid one day Andrew will look at me and think,
"You used to be attractive.  You used to be enough, and now you are not.  Now you are boring."

So when I see young people posing for paparazzi pics on Facebook, I cringe.
I cringe because that used to be me.
I strutted from class to class on the U of U campus - unstoppable.
I rummaged racks at 2nd-hand stores and spent hours concocting fashion morsels - delicious.

summer of love, sun and wakeboarding 2006

I had sex every day, and never felt tired.  Not even when I went to bed at 2 a.m. and woke up for art class at 7.
I painted in a frenzy and knew I was alive.  I got paint all over my hands, my clothes.
In college I found permission to be reckless. My brain fired constantly.  It fired in my sleep.
And every weekend we went wakeboarding.  I hurled my body through the water and air.  I laid on the back of the boat in the sun with my tattooed boyfriend.
I couldn't imagine any other life.  I couldn't imagine the colors would fade.
But I knew it was all temporary, so I drank even deeper.
I didn't miss a thing.

Now other people are doing that.
Not me.
Now I live in the natural colors of home life.

"It all comes down to fear of death, " my professor would say.
Any action we take is an effort to stay alive.
All compulsions, quiet or loud, are a terrified act against my temporary nature.
Yet in the quiet, I know it all temporary.
And I am at peace with this.
It is only when I try to outrun myself that I start thinking I can actually become immortal.

So while I wish I could be motivated by the pure joy of living.
I must settle for finding it on the other side of action.
Action motivated by bizarre and far-fetched fears.
But as I walked with my sister into the orange sky, it didn't matter what got me there.
I was just glad to be with her, breathing deep and legs strolling.
I was glad she got up off the couch to walk with me.
Probably motivated by similar nonsense.
Yet we still got to enjoy each other for one evening.

Less than flattering light

There are 6 kids in my house right now.
I am the only adult.
No anecdote I would illustrate can make this appear picturesque..
I want to herd them out the door and lock myself in the house.
I want quiet.  I want space.
I didn't get enough sleep last night.
My eyes won't focus.
Nothing is clear, not my brain, not my eye-sight, not my empathy.
I need to reset.

Like when we'd play Nintendo as kids.
We'd get so furious with the game.
One of us would kick the console, and it would reset.
Then we'd have to start all over, but at least there was some release.
We didn't have to face the same dragon one more time.
I remember throwing the controller at the T.V. and screaming
"Why can't I beat this!"
It was understood.  This was necessary in order to deal with the stress of Super Mario Brothers.
No one could be faulted for such behavior.

I've had to modify these outbursts into the controlled form of exercise.
Because now I am 32 years old.  I can't just yell and break stuff anymore.
That's called child abuse, and rightfully so.
Right now, I just want to put on my running shoes and streak out into the rain.
This is day 3 between runs, and the pressure is.....tight.

Everyone wants to hit each other.

The only one I like is Beckam.
Because he is innocent.
Not for long though.
And I am having one of those moments where everything seems tragic.
I will forget him as my baby, very soon.
So I have to go now and cuddle him until sunset.
Look into his eyes and know purity.
When Andrew gets home, I will go and run and maybe cry after I'm done.

That's what I did on Monday.
I curled up on grass, head pounding with music.
I pulled my knees into my chest and cried to myself.
The small, silent cry of a mother.  The kind no one ever sees.
Because it is all too much, and I only get tiny moments of relief.
Then I have to plunge back in and find some way to be nice.