Busy Making Other Plans

There are days the bed beckons me.
I want to sleep and dream and drift for days.
I must fight the Darkness and stay awake...

There are days I will weep if that James Taylor song comes on.
The song about Carolina... I can feel the moonshine, even in December.
On those days I can hear the voice of ocean, it's been so long...

Not enough days of just us two,
Somedays I miss just us two, I want to be alone with him so I can accidently brush by...
Oops, sorry, did I touch? Please forgive...or don't. Oh no- did it again...

Days I just want to read a good book,
wearing clean pajammas and cozy socks,
while a movie is on cable that I am not watching.

There are days I want my Pap paw like no one else.
Days I ache for his conversation...his laugh...his bias love for me.

There are days I get lost on the way.
I hear that older boys voice in my head and can't shake it out.
Sometimes I sing really loud so not to hear him, angry songs.

There are days I witness our children get older.
Those days I give away the "now too small" clothes.
Days I pray to just hold on.

There are days I need a cigarette- and I don't smoke.
A drink- and I don't drink.
A joint- and I haven't smelled it in years now.

There are writing days, when I can't focus on conversation
for the words in my head.
Singing days, when I can't not at least hum.
And quiet days, when I hope to go unnoticed.

Planning days, phone calls, home work, paper work, checkbooks, bills,
School days, Work days, exhausted at the end of the day- actually before-
but can't do anything about that.

Life is what happens...

Sweet Little Girl

When i look at her baby pictures i see all the wonder in those gorgeous little eyes. She still is full of wonder and full of delight and a magic imagination that seems to come from no where.

She was sick for the first three years of her life. in and out of the ER, constant fevers above 104 degrees. Throat, nose, eyes were always sick. her immune system so weak that three separate times I was told to keep her inside and that a common cold may kill her. I cloroxed everything. it was a common occurrence for her to throw up three or more times per week for absolutely no reason.

Many nights ilay awake and held her burning hot body praying that she'd survive the night. Once she blacked out and wet herself. The hospital gowns were so tiny they broke my heart. The first time I saw one I thought, "No, this cannot be something we need here in this world. That is for a toy doll, not my sweet, funny, loving child." Her perfect cheeks would turn red, her beautiful lips would blister up in these horrible bubbles from her fevers.

She weighed twenty pounds for about four years, never more and sometimes less. she wore impossibly small clothing and at times I thought to myself I should buy better quality clothes because they would have to last her more than 2 warm or hot seasons.

The doctors threw out words like -underweight, failure to thrive, and undernourished. I would never speak of home life, I left him while she was a baby, but he saw her still and I am positive in her lifetime she has witnessed some sort of abuse by her biological father on some part of my body. I never dreamed he could have that effect on her or I would've left sooner.

When school started and she began kindergarten there were issues. She can't remember things properly, she can't hold them as well as she should. Her writing is terrible and she does not care that she can't do these things.

I was made aware that all of her issues were related to the biological fathers drug use before i got pregnant. I was aware that he used but had no idea it happened so soon before conception. As with all addicts you never know when or what they use, or how much. I was in shock when the news settled in. I pretended to be ok, and took it like a trooper. I accepted the challenge of helping her after school everyday and told her teachers we would work on what we could. I was broken inside though, worried that he had given her this gift- this lovely package- great shiny box and huge perfect bow, helped make her beautiful. The only gift he has given her aside from the occasional visit and check. How nice of him to give her this- father of the year.

She doesn't care if the other kids are her friends or not. She doesn't care what they say about her, or if they don't say anything. She wears crazy clothes and wants her hair to be crazy and tells me they say she looks like an alien or a weirdo and she doesn't care. She is like me in those areas. If I make friends it's great and if I don't then I enjoy the personal quietness when they all talk to each other.

Then there is her Daddy- technically step father- whom earned "Daddy" and does a fantastic job at it. He knows my heart is broken about her little delay and has not said anything other than, "She'll come around, she is smarter than what everyone gives her credit for. She's amazing and we'll do our best to help her. She needs some extra, that's all." I could burst with love for this man who bathes, feeds, loves her. Who can just look at me and knows that I'm exhausted, I have a algebra test in the morning and I've been told that our daughter may be developmentally delayed.

This gift of her future from her genetic donor, this lovely package is all I can think of. I watch her sleep now, the undulating breath a miracle. Please, I beg God, do not let this package be empty, give us a shot. Please, let her be more than a pretty box.