Oh Dear, things were on the rise…

Dear Aqua Net, 
   I would like to start off this letter of extreme gratitude with a warm and sincere thank you… 
   Over this past weekend a dear friend, from high school, decided to post the image of a note I had written him, from back in the day. My poor grammar, {which was completely a rouse, I assure you, to hide my otherwise brilliant writing skills} and familiar signature stirred a long-since-put-to-bed nostalgia for me. Wanting to link my arms with my own versions of the scarecrow, tin man and cowardly lion- I retrieved boxes of memorabilia from the attic and set to digging… 
   Imagine my complete embarrassment and shame pride when I came upon my first discovery of the afternoon… 
   I am sure if my then friend would see this she would only feel complete remorse that her silky, smooth hair didn’t stand as high as mine. 
   As an average to high grade earning high school girl I managed to somehow have enough money to afford my Clearly Canadians, my skittles and my cans of Aqua Net with my meager $15.00 a month allowance. This is thanks to you, as well. Not only do I have my stunningly gorgeous hair to hold you inspiration for- 
BUT your affordability obviously made all of the difference in the world… 
  Thank you, Aqua Net, for making my high school experience so uniquely rewarding and for keeping my self esteem and pride on the higher end of things… 
   With gratitude, 
M
~~~~~
Dear Bandanna, 
   Oh, where to begin… 
   
Thanks… 
Wait. I’m not going to lie. I’m not really sure I’m all that grateful for how I used you then. Now though, when I’m cleaning my bathroom or aspiring to dress like a gang member- you rock. 
M
~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear gorgeous Idaho sunset, 
I am sorry I tainted you so. 
Forgive me? 
M
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the depths of despair…

Father’s day was one of those frustrating days that, for all intents and purposes should be wonderfully reflective but because life has a way of complicating things- it became less so. 
Significantly less, honestly… 
On Saturday Chw was short tempered and moody. We’d had a great Friday night, and he’d slept in that morning so, for the life of me, I couldn’t quite psychoanalize why he was being cantankerous. For the most part Gen and I ignored his mood, and Amanda went to work. As the day progressed, and we made our way to the Roller Derby bout- he seemed to even out and all was right with the world again. 
Enter Sunday morning. Homemade cinnamon rolls, warm and gooey… Cards, kisses, hugs, doting affection, new clothes and plans for taking him to his dream museum while we are on vacation- were passed out. Happiness flooded around us, or should have. 
Then I remember… For us, Father’s Day always sucked. 
How could I forget? 
There is the slap-in-your-face reminder that we had craptacular father experiences growing up- (aside from my foster dad, as I’ve mentioned, but the details only complicate this further- so moving on.) And then, when we were still but babies ourselves Father’s Day (and Mother’s Day) served as a blatant kick-in-the-teeth reminded of the babies we’d lost. 
Well into our 30’s, we don’t dwell on such things now. My husband is a truly great dad and we love our kids more than we can possibly sum up in words and phrases. I was one hundred percent eager to shower him with the adoration he deserves- but from the start the day seemed off. 
Then, during a quiet mid-morning moment he confessed to me why his mood had been off the day before. 
Because he feels like a fake dad. 
A fake dad… 
And I couldn’t hug him hard enough. Then Genny took him (and me) to see Kung Foo Panda 2 and it sort of made me want to crawl in bed and cry the day away. For my husband. For our kids. All he wanted today, honestly, was to spend the day with us. He wanted his life to feel real, validated and authentic. But for him, it’s already (by the nature of life) a sensitive day… And for our oldest daughter, it’s just an unexplainable complicated day. Instead it sort of took on this element of sadness… 
Sadness sucks. 
And then, when he went out of his way to do something nice, his family just sort of heaped on the hurt. Also with details far too complicated to delve into here- he came home emotionally beaten and trying to put on a brave face. He actually felt GUILTY for ruining our efforts, so he spent the rest of the day pretending. 
All in all, it’s far too much to bear for one man. I felt so helpless… 
The morals of this melancholy tale are- 
– infertility/miscarriage sucks ass everyday, but some days are far worse than others. (primarily Father’s Day, Mother’s Day, baby showers, etc…) 
– loving kids, as though they were your own, who have been hurt before you is hard. So hard. So sad because you love them and though some wounds heal, those scars will always be a part of who they are. Also, like an ugly monster, those scars will rise up and effect you on the biggest, most significant of occasions… and on holidays. Like Father’s Day and Mother’s Day. 
– Sometimes life is unfair and it sucks. 
– Being sad unexpectedly, or still hurting from something that was a long time ago isn’t self pity- it’s just the way it is sometimes. Losses, like those of babies, children, parents, innocence, childhood, etc are real life losses… they leave a part of you empty for the long haul. 
– Be sensitive to people who have lost babies or been abused. PLEASE don’t tell them to “get over it” because it was “a long time ago.” 
The end… 
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The Summer We Came to Life…

First off, I wanted to welcome you back for book two of our summer book club! I have been asked by several people if I would consider extending the club from August to September and I’ve decided to do that! 
I am REALLY Excited to read our June-July novel! 
You can read about the book by simply clicking either or both links above. I’m sure, if you participated in last month’s book, you’ll notice there are a few similar themes. I’m excited about that. I have read wonderful press on this book and think it’s a great fit for our little group! 
Make sure to send me a note or come back and leave a comment if you plan on joining us! 
Happy reading… 
New to the club, or need a reminder? 
Here’s how it works: 
– On the 3rd Monday of each summer month, {May, June, July, August} I will post that month’s summer title. 
– On the Friday BEFORE “announcement Monday” I will put a post up about the book, and we can discuss. {Of course, last summer many discussion happened, in many formats, between those dates- and that is absolutely fine.} 
That’s it… One book per month (easy commitment) with the benefit of connecting with other’s who are also reading it… Couldn’t ask for a better summer goal! 
So, what are you waiting for? Grab your favorite book mark, convince your sister or best friend to join us and head to your local library or book store and start reading today… {And then come back on July 15th…}

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The Wednesday Sisters…

I feel like there is so much to talk about when it comes to The Wednesday Sisters! I’ve been getting lots of feedback from readers. Some have really loved elements of the story line, or characters while others have found too much of the book to be outlandish and unrealistic. 
In a super quick nutshell, in true Wednesday Sisters fashion, I will start out by saying what I really appreciated about the book… 
– I absolutely adored these five women. I loved how they guardedly became more translucent with one another as their friendships deepened. I loved growing to know them through their completely human strengths and weaknesses. Though I’ve not read anything else by Meg Waite Clayton, I really loved her character development in this story. 
– The imagery painted of the era, (as well as the area) made the five year time frame as much of a character and a part of the Wednesday Sisters as the girls themselves… Not an easy task, I imagine. It seems like there is a fine line between coming across as an encyclopedia excerpt and a description full of cliche’ pop-culture hype. Instead of either one of those extremes I felt the time alive, as though I’d been there with my own recollections of the moments… (which I wasn’t, being born in 1976) 
– Even though I knew that the story line with Danny was headed somewhere huge and relevant to today, I deeply loved unwrapping it through the story. Being someone who is bored to tears at the mere mentioned of Silicon Valley, where we are visiting next month (plans set in motion long before I’d even heard of this book), I’m not really interested. Chw will be thrilled as he gets wrapped up in the history of all that technological stuff… 
– I saw myself in each of them. I related to each main character in one way or another. 
– I was completely immersed in the way the era, for women, paralleled their lives, self discoveries and the evolution of their friendship. 
– One of my favorite scenes, if you will, was the one leading up to the moment when Frankie crowned Danny Mr. America. LOVED it. i loved the moment when, beyond her own lonliness, hurts and rejection she allowed herself to see her husband for the man he truly was- and embrace him. So often we do that- we place our spouses (and others) in these one dimensional little boxes. I equally loved how his eventual (and natural) reaction to this was stepping up in support of her passions and taking pride in her. SO true to marriage..
– I was moved, beyond words at times, by gestures made between them. By the raw reality of their situations. The section of the book where Jeff reacted to Linda’s lump- heart wrenching. There wasn’t anything plastic or “story book perfect” about it. He reacted as any human could, be they a husband or a doctor. Later, with her secrecy. The reasons why she kept things to herself. How she dealt with the loss of her mother, even so many years later. Gripping. The same with Kath’s marriage. What a horrible position to be put in NOW, but then? With the societal standards the way they were- not to mention the familial pressures. Impossible positions. Jim and Ally… Being one who has carried that infertility burden, as I know many of you also have, my heart just throbbed for her. The loss of pregnancy along with that stripped feeling of failure and the loss of femininity and purpose is beyond hell. When you throw in the issues with Jim’s race, mixing it with an era barely progressed from the Civil Right’s movement and everything just seems so much heavier. I truly could go on and on about these things, these beautifully woven and written things with honestly did make me deeply love The Wednesday Sisters– both the characters and the book… 
To be brutally honest though, {And because they were with one another, I kind of feel like I have to be…} i struggled with a few of the elements of the story which felt plastic. Specifically four of them… 
One would be the ending. Or at least the beginning of the ending. Namely the Johnny Carson moment, on. While larger than life things do happen, and dreams really do come true like that, once in a blue moon (is that enough cliche’ references for ya’ll?) I felt like the pages of this book seemed to be awfully full of them. (to clarify, I do not mean full of Cliches, i mean full of unrealistic things.) Meg paints such a vivid and evolving canvas for us, complete with intricately crafted historical tie ins. She does this so BRILLIANTLY that the majority of the novel felt, to me, so real and homey… But then you have these great big “fix alls” that make it all seem, well, familiar and synthetic. The ending, for me, was like that. 
Second would be Hope. I’m sure there were readers thrilled with the Hope storyline, but I wasn’t. I am sure, at my confession of this, a few people would say it’s because my own miscarriage and fertility story never resulted in the birth of a baby. That’s not my problem with the storyline though. My problem with it is that, almost always, the story ends this way. The broken and desperate girl loses baby after baby, dying a little more inside each time and then her happily ever ending comes neatly wrapped in a bundle of baby goodness. Statistically when you take women who have multiple miscarriages, like this, less than 2% of them can carry a baby long enough to sustain it’s life without loads of money and the assistance of some major medical technology. Developping the character in such a tragically honest way and then plucking a baby (or two, actually) in her arms is like cutting a blooming rose off at the stems tip, just beneath the blossom. Depth is gone. Root- gone. Plastic. And, the 98% of the statistic, who read this book and never get that happy ending- where is their character to relate to? Where is their little kernel of life to embrace here? 
Third is Kath’s job. Not that it couldn’t happen. Again, I just felt like there were too many “amazing developments” taking away from the “reality and relatable” aspects of an otherwise great book. 
Fourth was the running. I never understood why, out of the blue, Linda had become a runner. Then, after she’s sick she mentions her mom being so weak before she died. She talks about how she is so much stronger than her mother. It made sense then, that she’d been a runner. I saw that, then, in her character. The drive. The passion for it… The belief that by running she could control something bigger than she dare speak of. So it just annoyed me a little bit that she hadn’t always been a runner. 
So, enough of my tangents and praises… I want to hear from you! Thoughts??? What did you love about it??? What didn’t you love about it??? 
A few other questions: 
– did you find yourself wishing you could have a Wednesday Sister type group? 
– which character did you find you related more with? 
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On Fatherhood…

My first “life” lesson was probably on that of fathers. Mostly because mine was absolutely nowhere to be found, in a very small town where a chunk of his family still remained. While those remnants of family members worked hard to slander my girlhood name- my father never managed to come rescue me as I wished he would. 
 Lesson learned: I’m worth nothing if even my own father refuses to love (or even meet) me.
The funny thing about life lessons though, is they keep evolving.
I dreamed of him saving me from my step father and his lust for me. 
Lesson learned: If I am worth anything at all, the only worth is in sexual things
When life intervened and I ended up in a group home, I imagined my father riding in {looking quite a lot like Joe Penny, circa mid’80’s}and dadding me in the way that a dad should dad his daughter. {yep, I did just make a verb. It’s allowed.} When i was fifteen, however, my birth mom grew weary of me placing my complete-stranger of a father upon a pedestal and she sent him a letter. He replied, to me, with pages and pages of beautifully penned words of love. 
Pedestal earned. My daddy loved me. My daddy wanted me. 
Two years passed before I would meet him- an event which no one bothered to emotionally prepare me for. I completely shut down/withdrew during the few hours we had together. Honestly I remember none of it. Later, though, when word got back to me that he was disappointed in me and wished he hadn’t met me- I completely lost my compass.
Lesson learned: I was a disgusting, repulsive girl. I would never amount to anything. 
Roughly six years later, I was a twenty three year old divorced girl who had just had a complete hysterectomy. I was a little overwhelmed and making some fairly self destructive choices. One night, on a long car ride back to Boise from my foster parents mountain home, my foster dad (whom I just call dad.) Told me of his love for me. He touched on disappointments in choices I had made, expressed deep seeded concerns he had and recounted how he had been the one (as in, one and only) to sit, wringing his hands, in the waiting room while I’d had tumors removed. (The hysterectomy had not been scheduled. Cancer had been the giant fear that day.) He talked about shared holidays and the eleven years he’d spent daddying me and how blessed he felt by the trust I had given but that he wished I’d really give in and trust him more. 
Lesson learned: I was a blind fool. I had a dad. An amazing dad. Blood was irrelevant. 
Three years post that car ride conversation, my father made it known (via his wife) that he wanted another go at things. He felt crippled in his insecurity but wanted to really make things work with me. Except they didn’t work. Around my husband’s very crazy work schedule (he traveled, a lot) and my youngest’s school and special needs routine- both Chw and i felt like we were moving mountains to treck the 6 hours south to spend quality time getting to know them. Though I had grown up a lot, I had enough self respect to know that I’d take time with opening up and very openly communicated that, to which both he & she had claimed complete sensitivity and understanding. 
But they were not sensitive. 
And they were not understanding. 
They kept score of my multitude of imperfections and each trip down there, which led me to opening up more and more of my brokenness and love, became some catwalk for their secret judging and score keeping to commence. 
On my 29th birthday, via a string of hateful emails my father’s wife spoke for both of them as she attempted to insult me to my core and shatter me. Though the shards of her hatred did hurt, I was (thankfully) able to see her words for what they were. She’d never taken the time or made the effort to truly know me. To truly know us. The only person their words deeply wounded was my attachment disorder daughter who loved them and still, six years later, wishes they knew and loved her. It was her their rejection hurt. A tiny child who’d already been hurt so much by the time she made it to our family… 
Lesson learned: Their loss is indeed the most significant. My father hole was no longer a gaping canyon. 
{sidenote: we spent the entire next day riding roller coasters and playing in the ocean. I thought, not one little time, about them. There was no heaviness… second sidenote: For years, following, I did include them in our Christmas card list. This was always for Genny. She still, though I don’t understand it, loves them. In the grand scheme of her life with us- they hold but a blip. Because she’d never had “grandparents” before them, though- that blip made a pretty big impact. I regret giving them that power over her. They didn’t deserve the gift of her love…}
After another six years, I look at my husband. I look at this man who hasn’t blinked an eye over my inability to birth a little us. He adores our kids and I know him, I know his heart. He physically could not love them more. I look at my dad, (from a distance, as he lives in Kansas and I haven’t seen him for over a year) and I know the man he is. Such a good man… An amazing man. I look at our friends, and the men we know. Men who love and work for their children. Men who know basic things like their children’s favorite colors and bigger things like their fears and secrets. 
Lesson learned: Fatherhood is as much a verb as it is a season. Without the action, canyons are made. Real men were born to be real dads… Every guy’s got a sperm count, but it’s the heart to care about following through with that- which matters. 
EVERY child deserves to have a loving, attentive and selfless father. (even me). 
EVERY man does NOT deserve to be a dad... 
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