I had been in labor for 37 hours when my mom entered the room and walked straight to my husband, with a breakfast sandwich, exclaiming, “You must be so tired.”
My husband was so confused.
She had not acknowledged me or the baby.
And I guess that’s what I want people to know.
Privilege comes in many forms.
Imagine sand.
Some of us build from a deeper hole.
And yet, we’re on the same team.
My daughter almost drowned today.
She’s a strong swimmer and had spent the past 7.5 hours in and out of the ocean.
It was the last ten minutes of our day on the beach, when she swam out to retrieve her sister.
Her daddy was walking towards the trash cans.
I was 100 yards away, in my chair, recognizing that she was no longer on the sand bar but being pulled by the current.
Only her head was visible when I started to run.
She climbed onto me as I swam parallel to the shore, out of the current and into safety.
Adrenaline coursed through my body as a lifeguard pulled up on his four wheeler.
“Nice rescue.” He offered.
Apparently, as he tossed our trash into the can, my husband heard the guards talking on the stand about a mom running to her child
He turned and saw Emma in my arms.
“My God.” He shook his head in disbelief.
“Thank God you were watching. I turned my back for just a second.”
And that’s how long it takes for someone to drown.
It’s only been a few hours, but I can tell my relationship with my third-born has changed.
She looks at me differently.
She has struggled with feeling overshadowed by her big sisters and replaced by her health-demanding youngest.
Today, she felt seen.
She’d been rescued.
And it was by me.
She didn’t want to walk with me.
She wanted to walk with her friends.
It was the last day we would ever walk to school together but she couldn’t possibly understand the magnitude of that.
I’ve read, listened and discussed it all. I’ve even lived these tween years but yet, here I am, still in shock that it’s actually happening.
My first born, off to middle school.
Such a small transition compared to when she crawled, walked and first went to preschool.
And yet, it hits different.
Can we have just one more day?
The teacher asked us to take notes.
I had no idea what she meant by that.
Pauli saw the panic.
She met me where I was.
She calmed me down and step-by-step, taught me how.
I will never, ever forget her kindness.
“Look for the helpers.” Mr. Rogers said.
I did.
And I still am.
In fact, I’ve become one.
“Just pick up fast food!”
My husband was out of town.
Gosh, if only it were that easy.
I feel like I’ve spent adulthood explaining this notion of “privilege” without realizing I’ve even done so.
Fast food?
That’s privilege, at least for my family.
We have a child with severe food allergies so “fast food” is not an option.
Instead, we have to plan painstakingly ahead.
“You were meant to be her mother.”
Was I, really?
What did I do in my past life to deserve this honor?
That’s what I would like to know.
It’s not her fault and it’s not mine either, or maybe it is- I don’t even know anymore.
What I DO know is that giving grace to any and everyone is the very best thing we can ever do.
Because, how otherwise, could we ever truly know their story?
We cannot.
So, we give grace.
Always, we give grace.
It’s been a lifetime of regret
For a crime I never committed.
I was born.
The illegitimate of a love affair.
Forever, a child, apologizing for my existence.
I’m so sorry.
And yet, Here I Am.
You’ve welcomed and accepted me,
Flaws, painful memories and all.
I’m so sorry.
I was born.
It’s been a lifetime.
But, here I am.
Here I am.
Don’t get me wrong.
I definitely have those pangs.
The weird desire to smell just inside the crevice of their neck, cheek-to-cheek.
*Inhale* their sweetness.
Feel their entire fist upon my finger . . .
But miss those days?
Count me out.
With four daughters, all I’ve heard is warnings of teenage days to come.
My oldest is only eleven and I’ve had to put my foot in my parental mouth more times than I care to count so I dare not assume I know better than my foremothers.
But, I admit. . .
I look forward to the future more than I look longingly backward to their baby days.
Perhaps it is because I had the opportunity to experience babyhood four separate times.
My friends with twins remind me that although they were awarded double the experience at the same time, they wished they’d had the opportunity over time.
Lord knows, I got that time- I was pregnant and/or nursing for nine years in a row.
Instead, I revel in witnessing my daughters grow into young women- their passions, insecurities and questions.
I walk alongside, offering assistance as needed and hopping in bed to cuddle when requested.
I have such faith that they will continue to shine
So, forget the mirror.
Hand me my shades.
Here come my suns.
She called it what it is:
Grief.
I had never associated that word with what I had been feeling but it all clicked into place.
Grief can be due to a loss of any kind: a loved one, job, marriage, friendship or a major life change.
What I had been feeling was grief!
I described how desperate I had been to make sense of it all and store it neatly in its box.
I’m a writer: I like a good ending.
And this . . . this just carried on.
I described it as spilled slime.
Here I was, frantically trying to return the contents to its original container and no matter how hard I tried, it lingered.
Grief has no blueprint, no timeline.
It’s messy and ugly and nonsensical.
It does not wield to your plans or box.
It takes its time and you are merely a companion to it.
Many try to escape its grasp- be it denial, alcohol or busyness.
Others drown in it.
And then there’s me- failing to recognize it for what it is.
Well, hello grief.
I relinquish my need to control.
I let you take your time.
I identify you.
I respect your process.
And I walk with you
Until you move along.
It is what it is.
Grief.
Camille Vaughan Photography
“Life is short. Get a divorce.”
I audibly chuckled when I saw this highway billboard on the way home from South Carolina today.
I mean, if only it were so simple.
Things get tough? Quit.
Life is short, after all.
As a child of divorce, I can honestly say that when my mom and step-dad “announced’ their separation, I was relieved.
No more pretending. No more arguing.
Maybe they could be happy, after all?
I didn’t realize that it would lead to him deserting me forever.
Or that I would find it impossible to spend another holiday with my step-siblings I had known since I was two.
We were now split three ways. Who could blame us?
Instead, I take a hard look at my own marriage and give grace and ask for the same in return.
We were madly in love.
And then we had four children.
And that is really hard.
But we are committed to remembering who we once were and who we are becoming.
No need to pretend.
No need to argue.
We can be happy.
Things get tough.
Nothing is simple.
Life is short, after all.
Camille Vaughan Photography
Let me tell you about this fragile relationship.
It’s called Sisterhood.
And in this house, it’s on Level 4.
Competition. Jealousy. Friendship. Equality.
The themes of this family.
When I say it’s all gravy one minute and WWIII the next, I mean it.
That’s how fast things can change, in a house full of sisters.
Tonight, a battle erupted over who gets to watch a show with mommy.
Let’s be clear, people:
I watch a total of 2- that is T-W-O- shows a week.
They are Survivor and The Amazing Race.
That is 100% completely it. My total list.
My husband sits down nightly and watches PTI on ESPN, a show about North Carolina fishing, Bob Ross painting, and bluegrass music without issue.
As soon as I attempt to sit down, however, whether on the couch or toilet, I apparently have invited my audience to request things of me (I am, shockingly, sitting down, after all).
So, I’ve given up! I just don’t even bother trying to watch television because it’s too disappointing to try and claim that time.
I’d rather hide in my bed and read or stay up way too late to write.
Pre-children, I watched these two shows alone but since our second daughter, Harper, has always been our night-owl, I started watching them with her a few years ago and, in addition to me reading Harry Potter aloud to her, it’s become “our thing”.
It’s never really been an issue because my eldest, Aurora, has always been an early-to-bed, early-to-rise child but she’s growing and changing into a tween and tonight, she wanted to stay and watch.
Cue WWIII.
Harper wanted Aurora to leave but Aurora, not causing an issue, had every right to be there.
I found myself in the midst of a mommy battle and quickly realized, this was a turning point.
I could defend Harper, my second daughter whom I’ve always protected- perpetually considering her feeling inferior to her big sister. They are only twenty months apart and her big sister is an awesome human. It’s tough shoes to fill!
Or I could stand by my eldest, who can’t help that she came first or that I chose to have three more children.
Ultimately, I stood my ground and my husband backed me up.
I am a mother of FOUR. Not one.
My time is shared as equally as possible (not equal at the same time, equal over time!).
Harper’s argument was that Survivor was “our thing”.
I explained that before her, it was “mine”.
But I chose to share it with her.
And now, I choose to share it with her sister, too.
At one point, Aurora apologized (for even trying) and attempted to give up.
No.
We do not apologize for existing.
As the illegitimate child of a love affair, this hits particularly hard for me.
We do not apologize for existing.
She had every right to be there as her little sister, whose feelings have always been considered.
All’s well that ends well.
And that’s how things wrapped up tonight.
Harper was put in her place.
Desperate as she is to claim her spot, she learned that she is part of a family and no more important than each piece of the puzzle.
Aurora learned that I would defend her. When she snuck a note under Harper’s door stating, ‘I’m sorry”, I returned it, explaining that:
We do not apologize for existing.
I hugged Harper, as I tucked her in, and reminded her that she is loved.
I hugged Aurora, as I tucked her in, and reminded her the same.
It’s called Sisterhood.
It’s a fragile relationship.
Camille Vaughan Photography
