This is NOT the Schroeder Toy I received. Apparently the soft doll is more rare!
Jean McCaffery gave me a stuffed Shroeder doll – you know,
the piano playing character from the Peanuts comic strip? - at one of my many
birthday parties. My mother always
required I invite all the girls in my class. This was cool: I liked all of
them, so it was a pleasure to schlep everyone – usually in the snow – up and
over the hill on Hawthorne Avenue, east of Linden Avenue School.
It must’ve been in third grade when I unwrapped this gift. I
usually wore two braids, but I am betting on this very special day I got to
wear my long brown hair down my back.
I don’t remember if I liked Shroeder before, but after that
day, I was truly enamored with the character and this doll which was actually
more like a pillow – perhaps a precursor to today’s Pillow-Pet toy.
I can clearly remember those dies resting on my belly,
looking down at the brown floral bedspread that matched my sisters and truly
did nothing for me. I can still feel my left cheek against the pillow. I had
one, only. It often had the book I was reading underneath it for easy access
once Mom thought I was asleep.
Every morning I would pull Shroeder from his resting place
and feel thankful for him.
I don’t know whatever became of him. Such a sad confession.
I know after I visited my family on the west coast when I
was in seventh grade, I started sharing my bed with a bedraggled Smokey Bear
who had a broken belt buckle and was passed from family member to family
member. I loved tradition. I longed for tradition. I suppose I still do.
Recently I arrived at the Smith College campus, completely warn out after a rather, well, lets just say less than stellar red-eye flight. It was late morning on a Monday. My daughter Katherine had classes - she was the entire point of me making this trip.
Kathie and Matilda
An aside - some one recently accused me of loving my children too much. I think this is impossible. Perhaps it is because I would have loved such attention when I was young that I make it such a high priority in my life.
Katherine had classes to attend so I rested on her dorm room bed. I couldn't help but grab her pillow pet, Matilda the cow, and hug her close to my heart. I fell asleep nearly instantly.
Later that afternoon Katherine came into her room and said, "It was so cute! When I came in here you were all cuddled up with Matilda!" I slept with her for the entire visit. Katherine says she can't sleep with her because she would throw her across the room.
My lovies - my stuffed toys, my children's stuffed toys - remain a comfort to me. I suppose it will be this way forever.
I don't mind one bit.
This post is a part of the May series for NaBloPoMo at BlogHer.com
Glitz, Glamor and Shopping Bags. Why does this repulse me?
I love a lot of girly things, but somewhere in my biology is
a distinct dislike of shopping.
I know women who love it. My daughters love it. My daughter,
Katherine, will shop for hours and not even have an inkling of desire to buy
for herself. She is perfectly content choosing outfits for her friends,
checking out colors and textures. To me pointless shopping is like going to the
dentist for pleasure.
I just can’t imagine it.
Today a faux pas met a fantastic opportunity. I made a
mistake and the prom dress I thought I had ordered for Emma was never ordered.
I was in a dilemma. Emma wanted a special dress and complained about last
year’s dress being like “an old lady” dress and too many of the stores in our
malls suited toward her age group looked too “skanky” or some other such word
she would be more likely to say.
“I know,” I said, in a moment of delirium, “Let’s go to the
Bettie Page store!” I thought there would certainly be one in Santa Clarita,
about an hour from our house in Bakersfield if I drive fast.
Maybe all this time Shopping IS an artform and I just didn't know it?
After further research there were only two stores in
road-trip distance. Santa Barbara and Hollywood. It was about ten o’clock at
night when I said to Emma, “It looks like we’re going to Hollywood!”
I love mini-roadtrips, so this part wasn’t a problem for me
and I knew Bettie Page carried some figure flattering retro-inspired fashion. I
figured we could waltz in, quickly grab a dress and be done with it. I put an
hours worth of quarters in a parking meter close to the store and as we walked
over the stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame for Burns and Allen – they rest
side by side in front of a very cool hot dog stand – I saw the looming vision
of the Bettie Page store.
We walked in and started looking and this adorable, petite
brunette young woman said, “May I help you find anything?” and Emma said no,
immediately, as I suppose I have taught her to do, but something came over me
and I said, “My daughter is looking for a dress for her prom, but it isn’t
super formal like proms used to be and….” With that our capable sales woman was
parading us in front of possible dresses and had Emma set up in a dressing room
in no time flat.
Shopping Miracle Part 1: 3 Shopping Bags from the Bettie Page store!
She brought shoes and a crinoline in for Emma to try under
her the dresses with circle skirts.
It was after I went into the store to find another size of
one dress and a different dress entirely that something strange came over me
and I was transformed into a normal shopping girly girl. Amanda said, “If you
need another size or anything, I can get it for you.” I was rehanging a dress
for Emma that didn’t fit and we went into the store together. I said something
like, “I love the clothes here. I can actually feel really pretty and feminine
and not like an unattractive big fat pig.”
We went into the store and next thing I know Amanda was
showing me an adorable bathing suit – in my size – and another dress for Emma.
I complimented a woman who not only looked smashing in a green pencil skirt
style dress, she was also a flight attendant who had her mother with her as
well.
She showed me a dress she really liked – a sailor style
dress again with a pencil skirt. She said, “I love this dress but how often
would I wear it?” I looked at her, wide eyed and offered, “Every day. You could
wear it any and every day.”
I walked on air through the store. I checked out the dresses
in the window and saw the dress Emma liked with a green crinoline.
My shopping self napped into higher gear. In that moment I
knew Emma needed a pink crinoline. “I’ll check on my credit line,” and when I
got the results I said, “We can get both the crinoline AND the shoes.”
Emma was giddy and a bit concerned that someone had taken
over the grouchy shopper Mom she was knew and (usually) loved.
We assembled everything and Amanda reminded us about the
need for a clutch to complete the ensemble.
I couldn’t believe the adorable clutches. We swooned over a
lavender, a pink and then a purple and pink possibility. We all agreed the
purple and pink was the best choice. “It is unique,” I said, “I like it the
best.”
As we were checking out I said to the clerks, “I love this
place so much, I want to move into the apartment upstairs. Is there one?”
The clerk said, “Rupaul owns it. Upstairs is his club. He
owns the whole building.”
I said, “Wait. You said Rupaul as in THE Rupaul?” I somehow think
this would make the Bettie Page who inspired the name of this fabulous store
very happy to be renting a space from Rupaul. The next thing I knew we were
walking out the door with three shopping bags in Emma’s hands.
We turned our car North to Bakersfield and managed to get
home before Samuel was
Emma, all put togerther and ready for Prom!
finished with school. The funny thing is I spent more
money than I ever have on a single outfit but I had so much fun doing it, I
want to do it again. It is closer to bathing suit season, after all, and I would
love some new Summer dresses, too.
My instagram photo we took of Emma and the three bags
outside of Rupaul’s club has become quite popular. Emma wrote on her facebook
page, “Perfect day. I've never had such a good time
shopping. My mom even liked it.”
Who knew success and sweet joy could
fit into three distinctive shopping bags?
* * * * *
This post is Number 18 of 30 and was inspired by the Ultimate Blog
Challenge. Throughout the
month I will be posting writing and creativity tips
especially to make your writing (and your writing experience!) better.
This post and all the laughter and fun it brought up in me (and perhaps in you as well) was inspired by my friends with the Scintilla Project, a fortnight of prompts so you will become a more talented storyteller while being involved in a phenomenal community of other storytellers. There is still time to join the creative souls with the Scintilla Project. Simply click here.
Does your memory do this, too?
A doorbell to your past rings and you are swept up in a long
ago moment you hadn’t remembered the day before or even the month or even years
before. That’s how it happened for me.
It was an early-ish morning, meaning the children were
tucked away in school and I was free to do my many theater chores. I was
producing Steel Magnolia’s at the time and for reasons my memory is
fuzzy on, I was at Hancock’s Fabric in its old location. It once lived in a
run-down shopping center that was, for the most part deserted. Now it is even
more deserted.
Roosevelt Stadium Circa 1977 when the Indians Played. Its condos now.
It strikes me now as how nebulous many of the details are: I
can’t remember precisely what car I was driving at the time, I can’t remember
my exact purpose for being at the fabric store, I just remember hearing
Fleetwood Mac’s “Don’t Stop Thinking About Tomorrow” because in that instant I
was transported from my car in the early part of this millennium to the Summer
of 1997 at Roosevelt Stadium in Jersey City. I was waiting for a Jersey City
Indians AA Minor League game to start with my friend, Madeleine at my side and
a quirky guy named Jimmy who was from Jersey City leaning over the bleachers
beside us.
He was singing along with Fleetwood Mac in his scratchy,
very New Jersey accent, “It’ll be here, better than before, yesterday’s gone,
yesterday’s gone…. Ohhhhhh, don’t you look back.”
This is Kris Yoder, the player I had a serious fifteen-year-old crush on. Ha ha ha. I never knew he made it to "The Show" with the Braves!
I have the kind of memory that does that: when I am not
expecting it I evaporate from the present and find myself plunked down at a
different place, in a different time, and the me now is living in the body of
the me of whatever date and time I have landed within. It is the wiser, older,
less cute and heavier me arriving inside the form I wore at fifteen-year-old
when I had an active crush on one of the players and was entertained by the
other people who wound up at Roosevelt Stadium along with me: friends and
strangers for the moment as well.
There was the cop, the requisite accent included, who asked “Where
do you lovely young ladies live?” and when we answered, “Glen Ridge.” He said, “Where?
I don’t know where that is but it must be God’s country.”
Do you recognize Tom Cruise here in the short oh so short cut off jeans? Pretty funny....
He would know who Tom Mapother was, but Tom moved to Glen
Ridge that summer and before high school had ended, he had become Tom Cruise
and appeared as in Brooke Shield’s Endless Love playing her brother, Billy. Ian Ziering of the
original 90210 was in the film, too, with a higher billing than Tom. Irony
lives and breathes in the credits of old movies. I believe Tom had started
filming Taps as well, but I could have the timing wrong because Tom and
I were like ships in the night. He moved into God’s country right when I moved
out.
Nonetheless, the cop made me smile and Jimmy made me smile
more. He was a skinny boy, a year younger than Madeleine and me and he was
always happy to see us. I never even thought of crushing on the fourteen-year-old peer of mine.His voice singing the then ubiquitous Fleetwood Mac
song was just icing on the cake. I can still hear it. I hear it now, the
smiling voice of Jimmy from Jersey City.
I was happy then. Life was simple. I knew every day I would
sit at a big table in the cafeteria with nine of my closest friends. As I write
this more than thirty-five years later, my daughter who now attends Smith
College in Massachusetts is on her way to spend Spring Break with one of those
nine girls who is now a lawyer living in Maine.
I don’t know how long I sat there, in my car, while actually
within the confines of Roosevelt Stadium in the Summer of 1977, but it brought
me a deep level of contentment. Even in
the rewriting of the moment those feelings return. My belly goes soft and my mouth
settles into a sigh-filled smile.
Kris and Jimmy, where are you now? I'm sitting in an almond orchard in Bakersfield, California.
This post was inspired by the folks at Scintilla13 - Here's what they have to tell us:
Somehow Emma got to be a fifteen-year-old young lady!
It was before six-thirty yet this morning when I received a
text from my friend, Michelle. “I saw you were out and about…” she wrote. If I
use foursquare, people will find me. My
secret early morning trips to the grocery store alert my friends I am open game
for communication.
The only problem was I was in a hurry to buy food for
fifteen-year-old Emma’s lunch. I find a
peculiar joy in making her especially tasty lunches but lately I’ve done mostly
peanut butter and jelly. This makes me more than slightly sad.
Yesterday I made her a past favorite, penne with pesto
sauce, but it came home only half eaten.
I figured today it would be a BLT minus the T on flatbread.
Naturally I started late and even texting about scheduling a
hiking adventure with Michelle didn’t get in my way. “I must make Emma a lunch
she will love, I must make Emma a lunch she will love, I must make Emma a lunch
she will love.”
My biggest fear in life is failing as a Mother. It is my
most important “job”. My children are the best artwork I ever created. I never,
ever want to let them down.
I flashed back to sunrise on August 20, 1997. I was in a
hospital room overlooking a tumbleweed filled field, watching the ground
squirrels play. Emma was less than a day
old and was resting on my shoulder. “I will never leave you, Emma. We are in
this together.”
Six weeks later I was back at work from eight-to-five and I
thought my then work-at-home husband was going to be her caretaker, but the day
I went back to work was the day he found a daycare provider for my tiny little
baby.
Right then, I felt I had lied to her when she was less than
a day old. The lie continued in a variety of ways and it hurt me enormously
every time I wasn’t “in it” together with this little one who looked more like
me than any of my other children.
She is also my quickest to both frustration and laughter.
She is a whirlwind typist, a gifted writer and has such an active social life
my head spins. This year alone we have hosted three parties, countless study
dates and two teen sleepovers in our home. Emma says her friends love me and
love being in our unconventional home.
Nonetheless, I still had the itchy residue from The Lie. It sat
there, alertly, waiting to catch me repeating myself. I needed to change the
rules. I wrote her a letter.
Dear Emma,
There is still a sorrow cloud that sometimes forms above my
head which rains on my shoulders when I think about the times I have let you
down, the times I have not been there for you like I wanted to be there so
badly. I felt horrible missing the night
time performance of “The Wizard of Oz”, but I did see two day performances and
I did see you on television. I know,
this isn’t the same as seeing the biggest performance of all. I hated missing
the first day of your first period because I was out of town. Mostly I miss the
times I spaced out, huddling under depression so I was just not checked in and
being the Mommy you needed me to be.
I get such joy seeing the young woman you continue to
become.
I cannot promise that I will be with you whenever there is a
big event or a surprise event in your life. What I can promise you is I will do
my best to support you to the very best of my abilities. Sometimes my best is
better than other times, as I am sure you understand now.
I love you so much. Your disappointment may fade, but it is
forever tattooed on my memory.
I hope you will forgive me for my failings. I hope I can
forgive me for my failings and the times I lied when I didn’t even know I was
lying. Perhaps these are the most heinous lines. “I didn’t mean to” doesn’t cut
it with me.
I love you,
Mommy.
Emma sent me a text me this morning during her Algebra class
which she shouldn’t do. “I forgot there is an assembly today. I need my choir
dress, tights and shoes before lunch.”
I may have told an unintended whopper of a lie when I broke
that long ago promise I made to the her as a newborn when together we looked at
the sunrise, but I strive not to break it anymore. Sometimes this even includes
something I abhor: making tedious repeat
trips in my car when I would rather be doing my other non-Mommy related life
work.
I will forgive the past and continue to do the very best I
can for her and with her.
My Emma.
= = =
This post was inspired by the folks at Scintilla13 - Here's what they have to tell us:
Reverb Prompt: Which
little detail — something you saw… a look… a touch… a fleeting moment — from
2012 would you like to remember in the years to come? The most difficult part of this prompt is remember where it greeted me... ohhh... there. Day 17 from Relish12.
For just a moment I was dizzy with unsteadyness. I looked up and spun around, attempting to figure out where my body was in relationship with the glorious vibe of San Francisco
From the San Francisco Financial District - Can you believe this man is casually texting while leaning on the Robert Frost Memorial? Ay!
Unbelievably for me, I was visiting San Francisco
with no destination in mind. I had several possibilities but nothing was in
stone. I have sort of learned my way around the City but for some reason I didn’t
want to bother with navigation and after a lovely greeting from native son
Robert Frost I noticed a cable car had appeared so without thinking, I jumped on
it.
A few moments later at the
intersection of California and Mason, I jumped off the cable car, feeling an
incredible urge. Even with that incredible urge I did the “should I shouldn’t I
shuffle” before I leaped from my six dollar seat of a rather short cable car
ride.
I scurried across the street
and my eyes caught the Fairmont Hotel.
If you take away the Christmas Decorations, the Fairmont looked exactly as it did on that July day in... 1988? I believe?
I actually gasped the forty
degree misty air straight into my gut.
This is where Mel and Tom got
married on a Saturday in July before I knew how challenging many of the
upcoming chapters of my life would be.
From that moment on, I went
where I was divinely directed. Every single destination I found had some
personal connection with me, as if my past was reaching out to massage my ever
tense shoulders, saying, “You are a survivor, you are one who loves a lot and
loves well. Continue your journey knowing that you are love incarnate.”
I will remember this “eye-to-eye”
glance from my past, present and future for a long time to come.
Now that I
have written it, I will more than likely remember it forever.
Today's prompt comes from Kel at The Monkey Heart Discourses who wonders about whether or not we are superstitious. The black cat image along with the girl in striped tights is precious and her post today lends itself to a lesson on the most popular superstitions but naturally, with this topic there was only one way to go.
I turned on Stevie Wonder to keep me company as I wrote of
Superstitions in today’s BlogFest2012. I am breaking all the rules. I mean, the
instrumentals are awesome but it can’t be a song without Stevie’s lyrics. You know the song I’m playing, don’t you?
Granted, it was popular when the ancient me was twelve but
even the opening gets my fingers moving on the keyboard. Rolling Stone ranked
it as #74/500 Top Songs ever.
Do I believe in superstitions?
That depends on the day of the week and the moment of the
day.
A black cat ran in front of my car day before yesterday and
my children squealed, “Don’t hit the cat!” and I said, “Especially THAT cat!”
Some things are just deep in the blood that we believe in them without knowing
we believe in them.
Stevie sings:
“Keep me in a daydream, keep me goin' strong,
You don't wanna save me, sad is my song.
When you believe in things that you don't understand,
Then you suffer,
Superstition ain't the way, yeh, yeh.”
Trumpet, bass, electric piano… shouts… bongos, rhythm guitar…..more
drums… freestyling….improv…
I like to believe I am rising in consciousness, but this
song makes me dance and I don’t understand that much either except I can’t help
but move to it.
This chair dancing I am doing would so embarrass my
children.
Julie Jordan Scott
has been a Life & Creativity Coach, Writer, Facilitator
and Teleclass Leader since 1999. She is also an award
winning Actor, Director, Artist and Mother
Extraordinaire. She was twice the StoryTelling Slam
champion in Bakersfield. She leads Writing Camp with JJS &
this Summer will be traveling throughout the US to bring this
unique, fun filled creative experience to the people wherever she
finds the passion & the interest.
Did you enjoyed this essay? Receive emails directly to your
inbox for Free from Julie Jordan Scott via the
Daily Passion Activator. One inspirational essay and
poem (almost) every week day. Subscribe here now -
It happened when I took a course at Bakersfield College: Introduction to Women
in American History, even though I have my degree. I took
it as what I call “my non-chemical anti-depressant.”
I needed to be sure I had to show up someplace beyond schlepping my
kids around and being home. I figured if I had paid for the class, bought the
book, and starting going to classes I would be compelled to continue. I knew on
Tuesdays and Thursdays at 9:30 I was expected to be in my seat, two rows from
the front in the middle.
I didn’t expect it to be so life changing. I only took this class
because Ethics of Living and Dying was full before I had the chance to
register.
I worked harder in that one class than many of the classes I took when
I was earning my B.A. thirty years ago. I was devoted. I talked about what I
was learning to my friends all the time. I was taught in the old school way. We
didn’t learn social history. We didn’t learn about women’s contributions to
anything important. We learned about wars and presidents, basically.
This was different.
I also identified myself as a feminist. When I started this class I had
been involved with the VDay Movement started by Eve Ensler to Stop Violence
Against Girls and Women, partially through using her script “The Vagina
Monologues” to raise money for local community groups.
I never gave thought for a moment about whether my fellow students of
women’s history defined themselves as feminists or not.
I can’t remember what the occasion was, but I was busily writing
something in my notebook when our professor, Ann Wiederrect, asked “How many
of you are feminists.” I raised my hand and kept scribbling.
My professor said, “Julie. I see.”
I put my hand down and my head up.
I was the sole person in the class who defined herself as a feminist. I
was dumbstruck at first. How could none of them call themselves feminists? Were
they still stuck in the stereotype that feminists were all man-hating,
camouflage wearing butch women who shook their fists at “the rest of the world”
and marched around occasionally spewing man hate into society?
For whatever reason, I had a photo of my daughter tucked into the back
of my notebook. It is one of my favorites and had been entered in an art show
in the past so it had a suitable name:
Feminist, Age 10.
When it was my turn to speak my words came out in flames. My words and
I were steadfast, slow-burning, hot but not scorching, passionate but not
condescending. “This is my ten-year-old daughter. She is a feminist. She wants
to be seen as equal with everyone regardless of gender” and other things which
got lost in my fervor.
I passed the photo around, said a few more words and sat down, still
mystified.
When the class was over, most participants – even the sole man in the
class – were newly identified as feminists.
Average, run-of-the-mill community college students who finally
understood just the tiniest spoonful of feminism and for some, were left
thirsty for more. Like I was and am and will continue to be.
For reference, feminism equals “movement to end sexism, sexual exploitation, and oppression”, including but
not limited to oppression based on race, sexual/gender identity, disability,
class, and age.
Julie Jordan Scott
has been a Life & Creativity Coach, Writer, Facilitator
and Teleclass Leader since 1999. She is also an
award winning Actor, Director, Artist and Mother
Extraordinaire. She was twice the StoryTelling
Slam champion in Bakersfield. She leads Writing Camp with JJS &
this Summer will be traveling throughout the US to
bring this unique, fun filled creative experience to the
people wherever she finds the passion & the
interest.
Did you enjoyed this essay? Receive emails directly to
your inbox for Free from Julie Jordan Scott via
the Daily Passion Activator. One
inspirational essay and poem (almost) every week
day. Subscribe here now -
I have been afraid of fireworks for my entire life.
When I was a little girl, we were only able to experience the community shows, none of the “set off a bunch of overpriced gizmos and gadgets in front of your house alongside all your neighbors doing the same thing!”
That’s how it goes here.
I don’t like that sort of thing, probably because I heard so many tales about people’s cousin’s neighbor getting their fingers blown off while playing with fireworks.
When I was thirty-five I did meet a woman who lost her vision in one eye from a rogue, do-it-yourself firework gone wild.
One thing this weird fear has brought me is the annual search for an old-timey fireworks show usually in one of the little towns that surround Bakersfield. It is a long held tradition now, stepping into Americana circa 1950.
Julie Jordan Scott has been a Life & Creativity Coach, Writer, Facilitator and Teleclass Leader since 1999. She is also an award winning Actor, Director, Artist and Mother Extraordinaire. She was twice the StoryTelling Slam champion in Bakersfield. She leads Writing Camp with JJS & this Summer will be traveling throughout the US to bring this unique, fun filled creative experience to the people wherever she finds the passion & the interest.
Did you enjoyed this essay? Receive emails directly to your inbox for Free from Julie Jordan Scott via the Daily Passion Activator. One inspirational essay and poem (almost) every week day. Subscribe here now -
As I sat to write today's Summer Blog Challenge, I realize I have never told this story this completely. Every time I tell it, write it, share it, I almost don't... for a number of reasons. Then I reminded myself. I am a storyteller. The stories I share are a gift to the world. I have no way to know who needs to read this exact story at this exact time and if I don't share it, they won't hear it. I am meant to share it. With that, here is my response to -
How did your child get her name?
I wonder if other people feel compelled to answer with paragraphs of back story in response to questions or do they have the ability to just spit out the answer?
My spit out answer goes like this: Katherine was named for a dear friend of mine who cared for me while I was pregnant with my long awaited baby. She went with me to ultrasounds, doctors appointments and took phone calls from me whenever I was scared or anxious.
Plus her Dad’s name starts with K so it felt like I was honoring him, too.
That’s the spit out answer.
The longer answer includes these bits of backstory:
I tried to have my first baby for three years. THREE YEARS seems so impossible now, two decades later. Being pregnant was a dream come true: it was a fantastic pregnancy. I had no morning sickness, I had a deliriously happy family. We had bought our first home, Ken passed the bar exam on the first try: it felt like I was living in an altered state of wonderfulness. I couldn’t be happier until that snowy day in February.
I think I knew it at 8:30 in the morning when I felt what reminded me of a menstrual cramp except it wrapped around me from back to front, from bottom to top.
“Braxton-Hicks,” I insisted. “It is only Braxton-Hicks.” I was six weeks early, after all, Braxton-Hicks contractions were normal.
Shortly after that I started to have very slight bleeding and the “Braxton-Hicks” continued. They weren’t painful, I was merely aware of them coming and going just like the blood would come and go. My doctor’s office reassured me, telling me to lie down on my left side and call if it got worse.
I called some people to not be lonely. People offered to come to me, I told them “No, no, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me, everything is fine!”
It wasn’t fine.
Ken got home from work at about 7:30 and the Braxton-Hicks no longer felt like Braxton-Hicks. He wanted to take me to the hospital. I refused. I wanted to take a shower. Totally irrational… sounds like a woman in labor, right? I got into the shower and only reported half of the contractions that came, not all of them. They were pretty consistent at about five minutes apart or less.
When I got out of the shower I added vomiting to my labor dance and Ken stopped listening to me.
“We’re going to the hospital!” he said. I don’t remember dressing. I didn’t take anything with me, I just silently agreed. I know I wore black maternity pants. I don’t remember the shirt, though I think it was a red Motherhood maternity top my friend had given me.
We started driving from our home in Pine Mountain Club, which is about an hour from the hospital in Bakersfield. I stared at the clock, timing the contractions without telling Ken what I was doing because I didn’t want to scare him.
Fifteen minutes into the drive they stopped. I started breathing. It seemed to be over.
I relaxed my shoulders.
It was on the freeway on-ramp my water literally sprayed from me, like a fountain, all over the dashboard of the car. I stayed silent. I don’t think either Ken or I said a word.
Now I knew I couldn’t deny it.
I put my feet on the dash so I was sort of rolled up into an upward facing fetal position, my bottom hanging half off the front seat. No more pain, only the compelling need to bear down. I felt my perineum heat up. I knew from my three years of reading what that meant. I had a flash of pride for my body being able to do this.
I bore down. My baby’s head was released from my body.
I screamed. With tears in my voice I said to Ken, “Can you call an ambulance?”
Ken countered, “There is no time!” We were in a rural area. There were no cell phones then. It was just the three of us in a black Friday night hurtling toward the hospital. I felt the need to bear down again. The rest of her little body was released from me.
She was somehow, thought I didn’t know how at the time, somehow not coming from the cradle I made with my lower body. I held her there as we continued.
“Our baby is dead,” I said, with no emotion.
Ken kept driving. When we got to the hospital he ran inside and a large group of people came running out with a wheelchair which somehow I got into. They got my clothes off without me doing anything and somehow without me having any awareness, I was lying on an exam table in the room where they usually take rape victims as well as, I guess now when I reflect on it, women with gynecological or obstetric emergencies.
One of my doctor’s partners came into the room. He took a moment and then said to me, whispering in my ear with great compassion, “You had a girl.”
I never held my daughter. She was whisked from the room in a tupperware like box that had blue liquid in it. I saw the outline of her body inside the nearly clear container. Still now, twenty three plus years later this sight makes me cry.
They took away the black maternity pants which were covered in blood and gave me scrubs to wear home. I threw them away, too. I got more cards then I could count. I hand wrote thank you notes to everyone who wrote to me, including my friend Katherine's grandma who said, "I have never gotten a thank you note like this before."
Twenty-two months later on Christmas Morning I gave birth to my Katherine. A three hour labor, again unmedicated, this time with a living baby born three weeks early as a reward.
My friend Katherine was going to be there at the birth but again, I was in denial until I was at the hospital “to get checked” that I was going to give birth. Who gives birth on Christmas morning?
My Mother told me she knew it was Marlena, my baby who died, and God, conspiring to give me an unforgettable Christmas gift.
Marlena’s sister, Katherine, is now waiting to go to University of Edinburgh in Scotland for the Fall Semester.
Her namesake, Katherine, died of breast cancer four years ago. She was only forty-six years old.
That is the backstory of how my eldest living child got her name.
Julie Jordan Scott has been a Life & Creativity Coach, Writer, Facilitator and Teleclass Leader since 1999. She is also an award winning Actor, Director, Artist and Mother Extraordinaire. She was twice the StoryTelling Slam champion in Bakersfield. She leads Writing Camp with JJS & this Summer will be traveling throughout the US to bring this unique, fun filled creative experience to the people wherever she finds the passion & the interest.
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The birth order books confused me when I read them as a young parent. I was the fourth child, the second daughter, I was supposed to be a jokester, charming, immature and more than slightly irresponsible.
I didn’t get it.
I wasn’t like that at all.
What the birth order books didn’t remember to tell me was when you are in a large family that has separate artificial components, your birth order will be dwarfed by your order within your subgroup. Clear as mud, right?
There are six children in my family. The first three were considered the big kids. The second three were the little kids. I was the oldest of the little kids which was a lot more of my identity than being the second daughter. My older sister was then the youngest of the big kids.
It felt topsy turvy at times, but it was as if my sister and I had switched roles: she was like the youngest in the family and I was like the oldest in the family. She was the one who was more of a jokester. She was the one who spoke out raucously.
I would never say anything I thought my upset someone or go against the rules. That might cause attention in my direction and there were few fates worse than that.
Consequently I heard more of My mother’s famous lectures than I had my mother’s lectures directed at me. She had an entire encyclopedia of speeches. There was one that started like this: “Respoooooooonsibility.” She was quite the orator, using different fluctuations in her voice for emphasis.
The one I remember my sister receiving the most was, “Think before you speak.” It was never enough to speak the proverb, Mom had to sing at least a couple verses of her lecture before Sue would be let off the hook and I would be able to come out from under the invisible rock I would climb under as Mom strode into the room, frustrated and tired herself.
I wonder what my children will tell their children when they receive the prompt, “Mom always used to say….”
Julie Jordan Scott has been a Life & Creativity Coach, Writer, Facilitator and Teleclass Leader since 1999. She is also an award winning Actor, Director, Artist and Mother Extraordinaire. She was twice the StoryTelling Slam champion in Bakersfield. She leads Writing Camp with JJS & this Summer will be traveling throughout the US to bring this unique, fun filled creative experience to the people wherever she finds the passion & the interest.
Did you enjoyed this essay? Receive emails directly to your inbox for Free from Julie Jordan Scott via the Daily Passion Activator. One inspirational essay and poem (almost) every week day. Subscribe here now -
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