My Scars - A Life Story

You see, life doesn't always work the way we picture it. A lot of life is about the bumps, scratches, and scars along the way to perfection. So why not give a little credit to the imperfections?My scars (every single one of them) has led me to this stage in my life, and two of them have given me the best gifts anyone could ask for. And at this particular life stage, I need to be honest with myself and all of you in how I came to be the person I am, to be the best person (and mother) I can with where my life has yet to go.

My first scar is right next to my left eye. I'm fairly certain my dad never planned on dropping me as a toddler while playing airplane.  It's small, maybe a few centimeters long, and no one notices it unless I point the thing out. Never once has it bothered me. Instead, it seems to be a funny anecdote that always leaves me with a smile, and the knowledge that I have a reminder that my dad loved playing with me (the scar, by the way,  happened because my face connected with the frame of their bed).

Toddler me with my parents, can't even see the scar

In high school I did some fairly stupid things, which is typical of most adolescents. I was lucky enough, though, to have some fantastic friends along the way who would do their best to straiten me out, or simply tell me how stupid I was being while still supporting me as a person. On my right hand, there is a scar from doing something stupid with a dear friend of mine who has now passed. Every time I look at my index finger I instantly hear his voice saying "no worries, that'll never leave a real mark" and see his smile. It's as though Daniel is permanently with me, forever reminding me to be who I am supposed to be and not cave to peer pressure. It is a mark I cherish, better than any tattoo could be, or long lost memory.

Daniel, he passed the day my son was born, 06/09/2008 

My right forearm has had a nasty mark on it for nearly 10 years, one that I don't necessarily hide, but definitely hate looking at. It has made me feel like a freak of nature, a person viewed as odd and depressed. You see, back ten years or so ago I did what I could to fit in, which included hanging out with non desirable people from time to time. One of those people decided to brand me (against my will) with a lighter leaving a third degree burn and infection. To this day, people give me side ways looks and off comments about it, suggesting it is something I did to myself. I have come to see it, though, as a reminder. A reminder that though I was weak in the past, and did not do anything to the person that hurt me, I am strong now. I am strong, and will be exactly who I need to be regardless of the pressures surrounding me.

Lastly, I have two scars on my stomach: One directly on top of the other. They are the scars from my cesarean sections I have had to birth my two children. When I had my daughter, it was quite the ordeal. A month and a half prior to her birth I began having real contractions and was dilated to a 2. After a few weeks of light duty, I was then put on bed-rest to try and slow things down. I awoke at 6:00am August 26th to my water breaking and went through a series of pitocin (hate that horrid stuff) to try and evict her from the birth canal. By 11:30 that evening the doctor decided an emergency c-section was needed, and my adorable little bundle arrived at 12:18am August 27th. From that day on I have felt guilt. Guilt that I could have had a vaginal birth if I had tried harder, if I hadn't been scared, if I had pushed harder. Maybe I could have walked the halls, tried going in the tub, sat on an exercise ball. Something. Anything. My birth story ends with a surgery (one that deserves a posting all of its own), and I cannot join in with the other mothers when they talk about their hours of pushing, and the feeling of their baby coming into the world. I cannot join them. And no mater what, it feels like it is my own fault, that I let myself down out of fear and sheer exhaustion. I see my scar, and how long and pink it is, and am forcibly reminded that I was not given an easy way out. The scar is my battle wound, my badge of honor forever reminding me of the fight I took to bring my daughter into this world.

My little angel, barely a month old

Not even two years later my son was born via c-section and my scar lengthened. I overheard about a conversation from one of my husband's friends thinking a scar from a baby lessened a woman's appeal (and no, this conversation was not directed at me). Instantly, I felt myself bend over as if to hide the scars that are visible to no one but myself and husband. Shame. The feelings of guilt were back, and with them was the fear that my husband felt these things to. My husband later told me "you have them, two of them, because your life is important and my daughter was big. It's pretty stupid to care about a scar I helped make."

Barely an hour after giving birth to my son

My body has more marks than this, but none are as important as these five. They are the connecting lines in my life story, the proof of lessons learned, or accidents done well. My scars are proof that I was so dedicated to having my babies, I was willing to let someone cut me in order to bring them into this world. I am who I am, marks and all.

School for Young Kids

Since the beginning of this school year I have eagerly been anticipating starting the enrollment process of my son in pres-school. It seemed like the natural step with his sister going to the same school, and both of them having many shared friends that will be in attendance, along with the (perceived) educational benefits. Over the past month, I have been experiencing many reservations, and have talked to my husband about not placing our son, Ken, in pre-school yet but simply enrolling him in sports and sending him for more church activities. Then, I read this today by the amazing Betsy Shaw that confirmed even more for me that school for young children may just not be the way to go.

My daughter (a very bright little thing if I do say so myself) has struggled this past year in school. It is hard for her to sit still for so long, not be able to joyfully socialize, and to be reprimanded for using her creative skills instead of the rigid ones provided at school. It has caused her to try and beg out of going to school constantly - and she used to be excited by it. Also, I would like to add that both my husband and myself are readily available to help my daughter and love doing so, as do her grandparents. The trouble she has had is in no way related to her abilities or issues in the home.

Please understand, I dearly love her teacher and think that the school curriculum is fantastic, but do 5 year olds really need to learn reading, writing, science, math, and history for a full 6 hours a day? In retrospect, I do not feel she was ready for such a transition. Maybe for half day kindergarten... Or maybe the home-schooled version (which I successfully did and graduated high school at a very early age) that allows flexibility with a decent dose of allowing kiddish happenings with a side of learning.

I know that this is not the answer for all kids - some could definitely use the structure that school provides at an early age; however, I do think it is worthwhile to consider the thoughts and studies that have been happening for years on the subject. When I was younger, my parents attended many seminars and classes, and I always remember my father telling me that no matter how early I learned to do something, I would be even with my peers (those without disabilities and had active parents) by about the third grade. The studies/thoughts have said that kids brains develop at different rates, but seem to even out by this age, and all kids (no matter what their learning process) seem to be neck in neck with their abilities.

Why, then, stress young children out with needing to know certain things faster than everyone else? Why put a bitter taste of education in their little mouths instead of gradually nurturing their expectations to make a fully positive experience? One that will hopefully lead to them making college choices early, and actually being involved with those choices for a better future.

Being Satisfied

In a moment of panic, the tooth-fairy at our home
had no change... Improvisation was a must!

As many mom's, I know that life is busy and crazy: One minute it is full of rainbows and sunshine, the next is doom and gloom. And no matter how prepared we are with schedules, planning, the whole nine yards, that moment will strike when things seem to just fall apart. And in that moment (which seems to last for an eternity) I will admit to letting myself internally wallow in self pity. It is one of my biggest faults, and one that I am determined to over come.

What I have decided is that, in those moments, it's good to remember to be satisfied. Life is precious, and those off the wall times can create the most precious memories. For example, the picture on the right happened a few weeks ago. I knew my daughter had a loose tooth, and knew that I needed to get change. In the panic that is life, I forgot and when the tooth came out, the tooth-fairy had nothing. Literally nothing. So my wonderful daughter decided to write the tooth-fairy and ask for something else (just in case the tooth-fairy atm was closed). Fortunately, when my hubby got home from work he had the awesome idea to ask the neighbors to borrow change till morning. So, though things worked well, I let myself feel like an idiot for a moment, but ended up seeing a different side to my daughter's creativity and thought process.

Mother's Day is another wonderful example. Instead of being showered with gifts and attention, I spent the day with my parents and kids and did laundry. Before anyone feels too badly for me, my husband had just worked his 9th day in a row and fell asleep without meaning to. Was my day special? No, but I am more than satisfied knowing that my husband works as hard as he can to provide for me and the kids and that sometimes I have to sacrifice a superficial day for that.

Speaking of my husband, it always rubs me the wrong way that he misses the little things (or in my mind, the big things. Such as picking up socks and putting them in the laundry hamper or going on the perfect date). The thing is, though, I need to accept that he is far from perfect and full of flaws - and I chose to say "I do" to those flaws and "till death do us part" includes handling irritatingly dirty socks placed in the wrong place at times. Also, the little fights and inconveniences (and no princely romance) mean nothing compared to knowing I have a partner in life who will always make me laugh.He has the most wonderful sense of humor, and can ALWAYS (well, almost always) make me laugh at myself. Plus, he works hard, plays hard with his kids, knows the value of pushing them towards a good education, and always listens when he truly knows I need it. Oh, and he randomly picks wildflowers for me on his way home from work. Who needs prince charming with all of that anyways?

My children are wonderful, and I am blessed to have them; however, it feels like they never listen and are constantly taunting and ignoring me. There are fights, peanut butter on the walls (don't ask), broken toys, broken baseboard (they did learn a valuable lesson from standing on that when they were supposed to be in bed) etc. As a mother to them, I feel like a failure for always yelling, being at the very end of my rope, and feeling I do not do enough with them (some days, I will admit to plunking them in front of the tv so I can just breathe). And that I do not look the way they want me to. What I have been choosing to see, though, is that they are both smart, beautiful, funny, and do actually try to do right by other people. And, when they can see mom most needs it, they'll jump in to do their version of housecleaning and cooking:Deep down, they are truly good and wonderful little people.

What I am trying to say is this: Life is full of choices, so why not choose to be satisfied in zany situations? The photo perfect moments are just around the corner, and though it's difficult to remember sometimes, why not choose to look through that mental album of good times when the worst are hitting.