Thankful for the Pain of a Missing Mother on My Birthday

You always think of your mama on your birthday.

It's an assertion I never considered fully until this year. Without conscience thought, I assert that most everyone, if not everyone, thinks about their beginnings, particularly their mother, on their birthday. It makes sense, right?

On the day you were born, your mind flies through favorite birthdays, bad memories surrounding birthdays, and ultimately, to the woman who made that birthday possible. You rehash your birth story, wonder about the details. There is truly only one person on the planet who knows those intimate secrets and feelings about the day you were born -- your mother.

Sure, your dad may have been there, along with other family and friends, but he doesn't know the ins and outs and pains and thrills like the woman who pushed you to that first breath. There's something sacred and intimate about the connection mother and child create when the work and fruit of labor climax.

It's something you take for granted until she's gone. At least, that's my story.

With the onset of motherhood and its evolution through the years, I become increasingly more interested in the details of my own birth . . . how my mother handled the newborn years . . . how she recovered from birth . . . about her memories after she birthed her last baby. I didn't think to ask these questions, and I don't remember many of the stories she told because I was young and dumb and didn't understand what she was trying to tell me.

So today on the day of my birth, a tinge of loneliness fills my heart. The other main player in this day 36 years ago isn't here on this earth. I can't ask my questions. No one else knows the answers. It's a layer of grief you don't imagine until it's here.

Yet in one breath I inhale sorrow, today I also exhale gratitude. Thankful for the pain of a missing mother on my birthday -- the unanswered questions, the longing for her, the desire for a different story. Why? Because it makes me a better mother to my two darling girls.

No doubt the birthdays to come will bring more and more thoughts about their birthmothers. While my story and their stories are not identical -- and I will not pretend they are -- there is camaraderie in loss. When birthdays bear heaps of beauty and fun along with sadness and loneliness, I will, at least in some way, know what they mean, what they feel. I can empathize with the unanswered questions, the longing for her, the desire for a different story.

The three of us have all lost mothers. I am thankful God gave us each other.

To the Fake Emily Youree in Georgia

Dear Fake Emily Youree in Georgia:

You are on my mind today. Since I learned of your existence and actions this morning, I can't honestly stop thinking about you.

I know what you were doing yesterday, but I'm curious about what you are doing today.

Here is what I, the real Emily Youree, have been doing today:

The story actually started last night when we realized someone withdrew 72 percent of the funds from our checking account. My husband spent nearly an hour on the phone getting information, learning about our next steps. This morning, he was at our local bank branch before the doors opened, spending two hours there. I also visited the branch for about 30 minutes earlier this afternoon. We've closed accounts, filed reports, spoken with law enforcements, created credit monitoring, submitted formal complaints, grocery shopped, and made breakfast and lunch for our family.

But what about you? What do you do the day after you steal? Rob from someone you don't know?

My gut reaction is to be angry, very angry with you, at you. And I am mad. At you, the bank teller, and manager in Canton, Georgia who somehow thought it wasn't suspicious at all for a woman "from Fort Worth, Texas" to show up in Canton and ask to withdraw a few thousand dollars.

I digress.

While I am angry, I am mostly sad and hurt.

Sad because I know what bad feels like. No matter how much stuff you buy or pay off . . . no matter the thrill of the high that comes with outsmarting another . . . no matter how you can rationalize your choices and actions . . . bad still ultimately feels bad. What were your hopes and dreams? What choices led you to today? Is this what you envisioned when you were a little girl? Are you proud of yourself? How did your heart get to a point where it is okay with hurting other people? I'm sad you are living life with such a heavy burden to drag around.

I pray that you feel guilty today, that your purchases don't live up to your expectations. Why? Because the presence of guilt means soft spots still live in your heart.

I am hurt because you are a woman -- part of my tribe. It stings when another woman, maybe even another mother, deliberately wrongs you.

You have my bank account number, a fake driver's license that resembles my own, and a fake credit card with my name, but you are not me. You do not have the love of a man who oozes with humility, loyalty, integrity, and a stellar sense of humor. You do not have the privilege of raising two of the most precious people on this planet. You do not have my friends, my church family, my neighbors, my family. You do not have a business that challenges you, inspires you, and motivates you. You do not have a conscience at rest thanks to redemption.

You may have a new handbag or television or a basket full of goodies from Wal-Mart, but please let me be the one to tell you: The money you stole from me yesterday does not, did not determine my value. Money doesn't provide worth; things do not bring security; addictions don't save you; fraud only makes you fake.

So, to the fake Emily Youree in Georgia, you may wish to be me, but I certainly never want to be you. I've put the pretending and pain behind me; I hope you do the same.

On the Eve of Kindergarten

My mother spoke the best advice she ever gave me on the night before I started kindergarten. The room was dark; my covers were up. I can only assume I had been put to bed, and then called back to her. I was crying because I didn't want to go to kindergarten; I was scared.

She said, "Don't cry about tomorrow until it gets here. And if, when you get to class and realize your teacher is as mean as your mama, then you can cry." She was, of course, joking. But I have thought about that many times during my life. Don't cry about what might happen or if something will be scary . . . because, well, it may never actually happen. Yet, when the worst does come, it is okay to mourn it. Oh, and a little humor goes a long way.

Here I am again on the eve of kindergarten.

I may or may not be crying (that is code for "I'm crying"). I cannot, though, think of this new season without remembering my mother's words. So, while I am sad about the realities Anna will soon encounter, grieving the loss of those many days at home, and wondering how in the world we are going to adjust to this new routine, in a weird twist of fate, I miss my mom tonight.

If only she were here -- happy and healthy -- to celebrate this milestone in her namesake's life. Anna will own kindergarten, and love every social minute of it. I can't wait to cheer her along.

Mrs. Cook did not turn out to be as mean as my mother. She was a delight, filling my first year of school with many happy and fun memories. I know Anna Zane's teacher will do the same.

But what gives me comfort is knowing that tonight I want my mom, no matter how cool Mrs. Cook was. I know Anna will always find home in me, even if her teacher has a jar of lollipops on her desk.

Finally Five

It's been an eternity in the making -- if you ask Anna Zane. To me, it feels like only a flutter and here she is: Five years old.

She's fantasized about five for months, assuming it means ears pierced and pets welcomed. This morning she reported on her growth in height and strength . . . just over night.

We've visited kindergarten roundup. We've played with friends "alone" in the backyard. (Why am I saying "we"? Please. It is all her.) Gone to the restroom without an adult. Said adios to tonsils and adenoids in a braver, tougher fashion than I could ever muster. Learned to use the brakes on her bike. Planted vegetables. Trimmed bushes with real clippers. Stopped napping. And all of this while yet four. What will happen during year five??????

I'm proud of her. She is a free spirit, loves to create, has a knack for math, competes with the best of them, is a fiercely loyal friend, loves her family deeply, dreams of being big, and is certain she and her sister are twins. My life is more meaningful, more vibrant, just more because of her.

I've shared this poem before, but I couldn't stop thinking about it today. For my eldest daughter, with all my love:

17 Again

Three tiny stanzas to turn into three

Famous words. Your 10 fingers and toes

Take hold of my one heart.

Until 18, I have you. Until 99, I’ll miss 

You. Two eyes, two ears—we share it all.

Millions of curls to adore.

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love

You. My little sunshine, redeemed again.

Two. Seventeen. Eleven.

Far as the Curse Is Found

Confession: I like Once Upon a Time, the television show (well, except for that Peter Pan season). It's like a fairytale soap opera. The way the writers twist the stories of well-known characters always entertains me. Each season -- or every few episodes, I should say -- some sort of curse is enacted or a powerful spell cast that puts the heroes in peril. So campy at times, but so great for a break from my mothering, working, managing, cleaning, cooking life.

When I think about curses, I associate them with fantasy -- a fairytale, a witch's story, a voodoo religion. Or I think about humor and slang sayings: Curse it. Don't curse. I'm cursed for life.

However, because I am a Christian and believe the Bible to be a true story, I must then believe a curse, THE curse is real. We may not live in Storybrooke, but we do live with, live under a hefty curse.

I've never felt the weight of this curse -- God allowing sin to takes its full effect -- more than I have this year. I am suspicious that every January I will say the same. Each year that passes exposes me to more and more of its effects. The cumulative nature of the ire and ick makes life boggy and treacherous.

Unlike the curses of television, this curse is real and more horrible than imaginable. It doesn't go away with time or self-soothing or vacations. I can't escape the curse. You can't escape the curse.

Although I have already buried too many people at this point in my life, the death of my dear, dear friend last year rocked my world. I felt the loss in so many ways. Loss. Lost. Gone. A deep cavern without a bottom. The loss of Bethany feels like a nightmare. I feel the weight of the curse of death and all its ramifications.

This sin-stained curse is not a scary scene in a movie or an antagonist in a book. This is not the Evil Queen or Darth or Voldemort. It's death alive and well in our souls, minds, bodies. Death of the dying sort and death of corrupting sort and death of the molding variety. This curse is death both now and later.

It shows itself in a three young kids yearning for their mother for the rest of their lives.
Mothers burying children too soon.
Tumors in our brains, ovaries, breasts, and colons.
Viruses ravaging our body for 24 hours or 24 years.
Disease wrecking our nervous system.
Men addicted to pornogrophy.
Women beaten and bruised by lovers.
Hang nails and splinters.
Food allergies and noses that will never stop running.
Boys who shoot their fathers with a gun.
House fires that take lives and homes.
People who use words as weapons.
People who use religion as weapons.
Men who force sex upon women.
Wives and husbands who cheat.
Kids that disobey and tell lies.
Dry skin and oily hair and bad vision and varicose veins.
Kidnapped children.
People who kidnap children.
Girls who form cliques and gossip and exclude and isolate.
Single parents working two jobs.
Religious persecution.
Orphans who cannot find a forever family.
Stomach and bowels that refuse to function properly.
Diabetes that silently destroys a body.
Curved spines and aching joints
Walkers. canes. wheelchairs. knives. guns. alarm systems.
Drugs and alcohol worshipped as gods.

And these are just the people I know . . . er, a small sampling of the people I know.

The curse is found far and wide. Even if you don't believe in it, you can't escape it. But both like and so very unlike Once Upon a Time, there can be a happy ending. There can be some relief, some respite, some hope that this curse does not have the last laugh. This is not the end of the story. We have not reached "The End" quite yet.

I have sang with gumption this recent Christmas season: No more let sins and sorrows grow, nor thorns infest the ground; He comes to make His blessings flow far as the curse is found. We know the curse lives far and wide and deep, yet Jesus Christ "redeemed us from the curse of the law by becoming a curse for us" (Galatians 3:13). By enduring the full, complete brunt of the curse, Jesus can offer us hope in the midst of sorrow -- beauty for ashes. This hope points to a time when wrongs will be thoroughly right, death will play its last act, and redemption will be in full bloom. 

So, in my grief, my loneliness, my sadness, I know His living grace and love runs farther still, far as the curse is found . . . no matter what shape it takes. 

Anna Gets Surgery for Christmas

Before we discuss the big "s" word, let's talk about another one: survive. The mister and I survived the Christmas week, which was filled with a plague-like virus. If you follow me on Facebook, you've read my post after whiny post about the HORROR of this virus that leached on to Anna, Louisa, and myself. By the day after Christmas, the Yourees had experienced excessive amounts of snot, two rounds of antibiotics, more diarrhea than I even care to mention, and vomit. Please come quickly, new year.

Yet, we've got a different sort of medical issue to tackle on Monday. That spunky gal of mine, Anna Zane, is all set for surgery on Monday morning. Her tonsils and adenoids have got to go. Although, I will miss that look of shock each time a doctor looks down her throat -- almost jumping back in amazement. "Her tonsils are huge!"

Yes, we know. Now is the time to have them removed. To be honest, we are not totally sure what we are in for. We've heard from the doctor that the recovery can be intense and long. Bryan stocked the fridge and freezer with all sorts of hot and cold liquids. We've got new movies and crafts and books. Here's to hoping she handles it well! Here's to hoping I handle it well -- hahaha.

The surgery has already been bumped from 7:00 a.m. to 12:10 p.m. AGH! Tomorrow we will make it, but we'd love for you to pray for Anna in the afternoon and the following days. Adios, tonsils!

If Lou Had Been a Boy . . .

In a previous post, I discussed the baby names that did not make the cut. We also had a third girl's name. Louisa Bryn Caroline was almost Zella Ruth Caroline. Zella was my paternal grandmother; Ruth was Bryan's paternal grandmother's middle name. Ruth too was my maternal grandmother's middle name. It was a grandmotherly fit. But in the end, that sweet girl looked like a Louisa. We knew that was her name the moment we knew she was ours.

When we announced our pursuit of a second child, we fielded a few questions here and there about the gender. Would we go for a boy because we already had a girl? For whatever reason, most who asked were surprised when we said no. In fact, while we were open to welcoming a boy into our family, we really wanted a girl . . . for no explainable, logical reasons other than we just felt like girls were meant to be our kiddos.

A friend of mine and former Fort Worth Moms Blog contributor wrote an excellent piece about our culture's obsession with having balanced genders in a family, "one of each," and still a belief that a "father needs a son." Certainly, in the adoption world that sentiment is less true because the root issue of genetics is taken out of the equation. You should give the article a read; it's interesting and makes a good point.

But I digress.

If God had given the Yourees a boy, this would have been his name: Silas Baker Joseph Youree.

Silas: When we were dating, Bryan cited his paternal grandfather (Forest Eugene) and his maternal grandmother (Betty Zane) as the two greatest influences in his life. As you likely know, our eldest daughter is named Anna Zane. So, for a boy's name we chose Silas. You know how Matthew and Levi are the same name? Well, Forest and Silas are the same name. Silas would be in honor of Papa Youree as we like to call him.

Baker: Baker was my mother's maiden name, the surname of her father Paul Albert Baker. Because he passed before I was born, he's always been mysterious to me. I've noted that no one in my family really ever had anything negative of consequence to say about him. Actually, quite the opposite; apparently to know him was to love him. And I'm sorry I never did. So, for me, the name means being a man of integrity, of empathy, of strength. It means all the qualities I imagine Papaw Baker possessing, all the qualities I hope he possessed.

Joseph: This is a family name from Bryan's side. Rumor has it Bryan was almost named Joseph. Thus, adding Joseph to the mix honors his father's dreams and family heritage. Joseph is also a nod to my dad, who's middle name was Joe. His initials were B. J. This little boy's initials would have been S. B. J. The name Joseph was for our dads.

But it doesn't look like Silas Baker Joseph will join our family . . . yet. (Hahahaha. Just kidding there, Bryan. Please don't faint.) I suppose, though, never say never.