A babysitter, twice a week, throughout the summer.Although it required pivoting on a dime in order to respond to being unceremoniously dumped by the first sitter, and still more finagling when the second sitter returned to her full time job in mid-August, it has still made all the difference in the world.

Last year at this time? You could have put me in a straight-jacket. This year? I’m a little sad to see it coming to an end.

I took the road with the babysitter, and it has made all the difference.

I’ve always been captivated by tattoos. Mom and apple pie, a sweetheart, or a favorite animal — these things don’t capture me. I’m captivated by the idea of marking your body — on the outside — to reflect something on the inside. But, I’ve never felt a personal need to do so.Until recently.I’ve been doing a lot of work, chez Kristy, of late. There’s more to come on that front, and so much more to say, but, at its simplest, there’s been a little remodeling going on. Tearing down some walls, opening up some windows, letting the light shine in — that kind of work. Lots of sweat and still more tears. But the result? Coming along nicely, I must admit. Coming along nicely.

It dawned on me over the last few months that a tattoo makes sense for me now. I wanted — needed — to mark my body in a way that reflected what I’ve been doing, what I am doing, what I will have done. I wanted to take back a part of my body that had been taken from me. I wanted to celebrate. I wanted to smile. And so, a dogwood, for spring, natural beauty, and so much more, and characters meaning to heal, have been placed upon my body.

Ink. Permanent. Indelible. Mine.

All afternoon and into early evening. A nap. A stroll around the block. Dinner preparations. On an ordinary day, this might be how those hours of the day pass, slipping by almost unnoticed in their conventionality. But it was not an ordinary day. It was a birthday.For this woman, those hours were spent in a time warp. The beginning, the end — really, there was no difference. For hours, the only clock that mattered was the rhythmic ebb and flow of the forces pushing her baby down, down, down.

It was a remarkable sight. Watching her work — so very, very hard — was awe inspiring. She was near delirium with exhaustion, having spent every ounce of her energy hours and hours before. And now she was being asked — required, really — to exert her muscles and her mind in ways that she’d never known she was capable of. What, for many people, is the welcome relief, the end in sight, was, for this mom, the steepest part of the hill. Asked to give more when she had nothing left, I saw her tap into something I only hope I have in myself.

She continued on, hour after hour, her facial expression a combination of present and gone, and her words having long ago left her. She had no hope and no expectations, no direction, no proof. And, on this shaky, uncertain ground, she stepped forward, again and again. With an inspired combination of letting go, surrendering to the forces at work within her, and holding tight to her own power and determination, I watched as mom was transformed by all her toil. Her uncertainty turned into commitment. Her anxiety dissolved into resolve. During the hours when so many others were napping, this woman was unfolding. When others were strolling, this woman was bending and breaking. And while others made dinner, this woman became a mom.

This will not be the hardest thing she will ever do for her baby. This will not be the most difficult task, the most exhausting moment. But when those times do come upon her, I hope she will remember this day, and confidently know what she has inside her. She should. That is the real miracle of those afternoon hours.

Riddle me this.My daughter is in the process of dropping her nap. Yes, she’s almost five. Anyway. On the days she doesn’t nap? She’s hyper, manic, and all sorts of crazy. No fussiness. No grumpiness. No meltdowns. Just a whole lot of peelin’ her off the ceiling. I’m the one who ends up exhausted.

Do you care to explain that one?

Hmmm.

I have sunk to a new low. I am currently — as in, concurrent to my writing this post — viewing via web cast last night’s performances from Rock Star Supernova. People, this is bad. Worse? That my dejection upon learning that I’d actually missed last night’s episode was entirely turned around upon the revelation that I could see all that I missed online. Rock Star Supernova — without commercials — and my blog. I love me the Internets. Every day.

And, on an completely unrelated note, am I the only one who finds the words warrior and rural entirely impossible to pronounce? And the words recommend and vacuum — am I the only one who has to look them up every time? Me and Merriam-Webster, we’re likethis.

I have thrown away exactly six meals, out of a total of six that I’ve personally been responsible for serving to my children this week. Everything that they’ve actually consumed this week? The product of someone else’s kitchen. Worthy of a hmmm, huh?

Tim’s out of town, the nights are long, and showers are particularly scarce around here. On an up note, I have an appointment for some serious body modification later in the week. I’ll leave the details to your imagination.

unhappenstanceMain Entry: un·hap·pen·stance
Pronunciation: &n-’ha-p&n-”stan(t)s
Function: noun
: the circumstance due to the simultaneous, but chance, occurrence of a spouse leaving town for the week, becoming entirely unavailable for small household errands, and the sudden appearance of an empty pantry, empty refrigerator, empty freezer, empty dog-food bin, and an empty laundry detergent container.

bearrand

Main Entry: bear·rand
Pronunciation: ‘ber-&nd, ‘be-r&nd
Function: noun
: a presumably-short-but-ever-so-long trip taken to attend to the business arising from unhappenstance. Always includes offspring in various degrees of agreeability and manner, shouting pleas for toys, snacks and other unreasonable requests, darting uncontrollably in and out of sight, and otherwise inflicting holy terror upon everything in their pathways.

It’s been the elephant in the living room ever since I began practice as a doula. How much will my experience shape the way I react to the experiences of the people I am supporting? Is it possible that my experiences could hinder my ability to support someone experiencing the same? I’ve been wisely cautioned that I can’t be out to “save” someone. I can’t be out to give her the experience that I would want. I have to understand: it’s not about me, it’s about her. So, can I keep my experiences out of hers?

Kristy, meet the elephant.

Yesterday evening, after a long and bravely-fought battle, my client went under the knife. And I was there with her in the operating room.

The fear in her eyes, the confusion and uncertainty in her voice, the disappointment in her sunken shoulders — all so much like me five just short years ago. And when she cried out in pain and they told her it was only “pressure”? The similarities were just too striking. The elephant was charging.

But I held strong. I understood my purpose. Yes, the memories were there with me, in that very room, but instead of igniting fear and terror, they served to bring forth empathy and genuine concern. I wanted, more than anything else in the world at that moment, to make a difference for her. I held her hand. I told her I understood. I let her know — I knew. And we cried, together. My tears were for her.

Oh, I was mad. Mad at the circumstances that stacked a deck against her. Mad at the choices she was given. Mad at the choices she was denied. Mad. Mad. Mad. And, for her, I am only sad. No, none of this is her “fault,” yet she will be the one to reap the consequences. That is what is so very sad — for me.

And yet? I am happy. Happy to make that difference. Warmed to be there when her partner and mother could not. Privileged to hold her hand. Comforted to listen to her, hear what she was saying, and validate her. And, yes, relieved to have found a way to help her make her own decisions, with confidence, though perhaps not without discomfort. Out of my experience came an empathy from which I could draw on to comfort and reassure her — during her own experience. The challenge — to draw on, but not dwell on, my experience — is deep, but the reward is far deeper.

So, I’ve met the elephant. And he’s not as wild and unruly as he’s rumored to be. I’ve no doubt, in fact, that elephants do indeed cry.

Everyone knows our dear English language can be a tricky little devil. She’s filled with all sorts of rules — that are constantly broken. She’s swarming with single letters that take on multiple sounds, and multiple letters that share the same sound. Every time she seems to make a little sense, she goes and puts you through the ringer. Apostrophes indicate possession in one instance, and contraction in an other. And don’t even ask her to take on plural possession with any sort of regularity. She’ll fight you tooth and nail on that one.

While the past tense of fret is fretted, the past tense of get isn’t getted, it’s got. The past tense of bet? Not betted, not bot, but — and how’s this for clarity? — bet.

Need is needed, but feed is fed.

Anything belonging to her is hers, but anything belonging to him is his.

Let’s not forget read and read, and aloud and allowed, and ….

You get the idea.

So, it’s no wonder that our little ones are just a little confused every once in a while. It’s one of their endearing habits, in my opinion, those mis-conjugated verbs and adorably off-the-mark possessive pronouns. That English? She’s really not that accommodating to the wee ones.

But I like her spunk, none-the-less. The hoops she has us jumping through make things just spicy enough, just fun enough, to let us know we’ve got a spirited one on our hands. I’m always ready to defend her honor, ready to correct the little ones in my house on their otherwise disrespectful use of our playground of words.

But, every once in a while, out of the innocent, untrained minds of a little one, comes an honest observation of our language that leaves me utterly unable to come to her defense.

Such was the case the other day when I reprimanded my daughter for calling her brother a poo-berry.

“Zoe, that’s potty talk and name calling. We don’t do either in our house.”

“But mo-om! It’s okay to call him Pooh Bear. Why can’t I just call him poo-berry, too?”

I sat there in stunned silence, because, you know? I really couldn’t even begin to explain that one.

My hands were virtually tied behind my back. “Don’t touch me,” she’d said. “Be quiet,” she’d said. My hands and my voice — the only tools I knew — were holstered and rendered useless. I struggled to understand how I could help her, how I could support her.

For so many moms, personality is magnified in labor. Preferences become requirements. Opinions become convictions. Introversion becomes isolation. And independence becomes fierce self-reliance. For this mom, it was no different. Her strong will, stronger. How could I support her?

And then, in one short sentence, I understood. “Let me do it,” she said.

Let me do it. It rang out loudly in the quiet room. I understood. Supporting her meant standing back. Being patient. Trusting. Supporting her meant letting her do it. Letting her proclaim her power. Letting her roar.

So, I let her do it. I sat quietly. I listened. And I watched, awestruck, as a powerful miracle unfolded in front of me.

Roar.

There is a plant, “the century plant,” that only blooms once in its life. But, oh, how magnificent that bloom is! Extravagant and showy, it grows fast and tall, regally reaching toward the sky. The prodigal bloom is both the plant’s final swan song and its own undoing, sapping the plant of all its resources and, eventually, causing the plant to wither and die.

I’ve had a plant in my home for the better part of fifteen years. It’s somewhat ungainly, that plant. Its broad leaves reach out singly from the root system, with little more to show than bright, waxy greenness. Rather plain, really. Given to me by my mother upon moving into my first home, the plant has seen me through many joys and tears. Its own health has often mirrored my moods, its wellness and vigor waxing and waning over the years. Whittled down to a few paltry leaves at one point, then nursed back to health by the caring love of my husband, it has now enjoyed a warm state of continued vitality for the past few years. Mirror, mirror.

The other day, Tim called me into the living room.

“Kristy, come here.”

As I came to the doorway, I saw my husband pointing down to this plant. Peeking out of the bundle of leaves was a single stalk, punctuated by a bulging, fertile blossom. It’s actually quite beautiful, this bloom. Graceful and delicate, it dances like a ballerina in white atop a stage of peaceful green. The plant’s unremarkable foliage, for fifteen years belying its secret beauty.

Fifteen years. Fifteen years.

I really hadn’t thought it capable. No, this plant wouldn’t, couldn’t bloom. But, it has. And, once again, it is my mirror. In a relative state of contentment the past few years, I was utterly unaware of just what growth lay within me. Slowly though, this year, I’ve seen a blossoming, a surprise, a graceful transformation that I did not know was there. Unfolding from my own soul, a blossom.

This blossom, though, is not my last. It is not my swan song. Far from it. While the century plant’s destiny is a fiery, striking exit, I believe my unfolding is just a beginning. My plant kept a secret for many, many years. It made me believe it was limited, its potential grounded by dirt. But, out of that soil came the unexpected, and suddenly its potential was boundless. Now, I trust — I know — there are many more blooms to come. Each one, a surprise.