Rain

When I lived in Southern California, though I loved the lifestyle of beach living, the one thing I remember missing more than anything was rain. There was always the beach, the ocean, cool foggy mornings, warm ocean breezes, nearly perfect weather most days out of the year. But I always found myself longing for the cool rainfall that replenished and cleansed our earth. Growing up in the South, we tend to take for granted the beautiful, pounding thunderstorms that grace us so often in the summertime, the heavy downpours, the misting afternoon showers, the storms that set in and make crawling into bed and listening to its rhythm your only option.

But this summer, rain has been scarce down here. It’s been so very dry and hot, and I hadn’t seen a cloud in the sky in weeks—until yesterday. Though it didn’t last long, it was enough to cool things down a bit, water the starving grass and plant life, and offer us a delightful respite from the brutal heat of a Southern summer. As I sat on the back porch and took in the cool breeze that followed the storm, I remembered the last year I was in San Diego.

That year I spent pregnant (you know, women are actually pregnant for 10 months, not nine, and when you’re three or so weeks late giving birth, a year comes up pretty quickly). I rode the train to and from work every day along the coast. In the mornings, I watched the thick marine layer hover over the coast, and in the evenings, the marine layer had been replaced with the stunning view of the sun’s rays glistening off the ocean waters. I walked home from the train station every day along the bluff and was blessed to hear the waves crashing down on the sand. I walked my dogs on the beach every chance I got. I took it all in with every breath. It was a gorgeous place to live, but the pureness of the rain was never far from my mind.

I know it may sound crazy, but rain is a huge part of who I am. It’s my spirit—from the days when I played softball and hoped it would rain just enough to cool us off but not enough to cancel the game, to the strong and tumultuous storms of my college days in Kansas, to that year I spent in San Diego, pregnant, scared, and looking to the skies for a little bit of comfort. I didn’t realize how important the rain touching my face was to me until I was denied it for so long.

The day my daughter was born, it rained in San Diego. Two days later, the day we took her home from the hospital, it rained as we left the hospital. That was the first time my daughter—Makensie Rain—met her namesake, drizzling softly on her newborn head as if baptizing her right there in the parking lot of the hospital and whispering to us both, “Let’s go home.”

Independence Daze

I always love Fourth of July weekend, especially now since my daughter’s birthday is the day before. Usually we’re in San Diego, as we have a family reunion once a year during this time at my aunt and uncle’s house. But this year, my cousin and his wife had a baby (another Cancer, which seems to run in our family in the newest generation), so the trip was put off indefinitely. This year, for the first time since I can remember, I spent Fourth of July in Birmingham.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I like a firework just as much as the next person. They’re pretty, loud, great at gathering people together, usually include a barbecue and adult beverages—what’s not to love! Let me explain.

Fourth of July celebrations in San Diego are not quite the same as they are here. First, it’s California, and any little spark, especially in the heat of July, can ignite a wildfire that could essentially wipe out all life in Southern California. So fireworks are regulated, and their use is strictly enforced. At my aunt and uncle’s house, we sit on the back patio with our meal and adult beverage, and enjoy the regulated yet wildly beautiful fireworks show blaze across the canyon.

Now, let me tell you about Fourth of July celebrations in Chelsea, Alabama. Growing up (in Birmingham, not Chelsea, which is still considered “a little bit country”), I remember always going to regulated fireworks shows and having the occasional sparkler or string of loud crackers to enjoy at home. But in Chelsea (as I learned this holiday), the extremely loud, easily-mistaken-for-a-shotgun-blast firecrackers begin a day or two before the Fourth (as I’m writing this right now the day after the Fourth, I hear loud booms at least every couple of minutes, no doubt our neighbors getting rid of what they didn’t have time to blow up last night). Not knowing whether a bullet could whiz across our yard or there was an overly enthusiastic Fourth of July celebrator getting a jump on the holiday, (we have some unincorporated land behind our property on which you can do pretty much anything and nothing legally can be done about it), I kept my kid indoors. Last night, the Fourth, there were some loud pops here and there before dark, but nothing major or worrisome. But when that sun went down (well after my kid did), the fireworks renegades came out of the woodwork, and all hell broke loose!

Initially, we went out and watched. I love my country and want to celebrate its birthday as much as the next person. At first, I wasn’t too concerned about it waking my daughter since she refused to nap that day and was dead tired. How long could it last anyway? How little I knew.

As hour upon hour went by without cessation, I started to get a little bent. I mean, it was ridiculously loud and directly above our house! There was much debate in the household about whether this was legal (being Chelsea, we guessed it probably was), and I was pretty sure it wasn’t safe, as I watched sparks waft down into our trees and had to cover my nose and mouth when outside to filter the thick layer of smoke that had surrounded the house. Did I mention the three terrified dogs that huddled together in a hairy lump on the bed?

Finally, after many hours, a few trips out into the ’hood to search for culprits (who must have seen us and known we were none too thrilled because it became deathly quiet when we neared certain dwellings), and a call to the sheriff’s office to find out if these full-blown pyrotechnics shows were legal and safe, the light-filled booms finally ceased. (Yes, it’s legal in good ol’ Chelsea to set off any number, any sized fireworks you’d like at anytime. I think you could set off a bomb and get away with it out here!)

Kensie never did wake up during the chaos, and I attribute that to the nap she refused to take during the day and to her hitting the sack at 7 o’clock. I was thankful for that at the time, but at 4 a.m. when she awoke and was wide awake and ready to face the day head-on, I cursed Fourth of July in Chelsea, Alabama, and this newfound, two-year-old stubbornness that has recently, no more than a couple of days after K’s actual birthday, reared its ugly head.

Next year, I’m headed to SoCal!

Is This Really My Life?

This morning, Fourth of July, I woke to the same familiar feeling I’ve woken with for some time now—a sort of emptiness in my stomach that feels kind of like butterflies, but not exactly. When you have butterflies, you’re usually excited about something to come. But lately, I haven’t been excited about much.

When I was younger, I was a total doer. I went out with friends all the time, I got outside and ran and roller-bladed and took care of my body, I got down on the floor and wrestled my dogs, I dated—I enjoyed life. But when you have a child, those extracurricular things inevitably diminish. Baby is your central focus. Baby needs you, and in a way, you need Baby. At least that’s the way it was with Kensie and me. We had each other, and only each other, and we depended on one another. I think it will be that way for our entire lives, and that’s the way it should be between a mother and child.

But now, even though Kensie still needs me very much and I her, I am beginning to feel the need for other things. It’s hard to explain, and even harder to explain to those around me, which is why I choose not to talk about it much. When I do, it inevitably comes out wrong and hurts someone I had no intention of hurting. I have a daughter I have to take care of and support, and that is now and should always be my primary focus. My needs are secondary, and as a single parent, that concept is especially vivid in my mind.

Kensie’s dad has never been dependable, and I knew it from the first time we started dating more than 10 years ago. He was exciting and fun. He loved animals and the outdoors as much as I did. He did what he wanted when he wanted to, and that was so different from me and refreshing. What he wasn’t was responsible, and now I know how important that is. So I know deep down that I will never be able to depend on his support. That’s why I chose to leave San Diego and move back home where I have family and friends here who are a huge support to Kensie and me. It’s exactly what we needed to move on.

Quite often, especially lately, I’ve been quietly thinking to myself, “How did I get here? Is this really my life?” And not just since the day I lost my job; it’s been going on for quite some time. I’ve always worked, always supported myself, always had a certain sense of freedom that I held onto for the whole of my adult life. But somehow, for some time now, that freedom seems to have become a distant memory. It’s not just because I have a child. It’s also because I feel so dependent on the people around me for support, both physical and emotional. Although I’ve always known my parents would forever be there to support me in every way, I never knew how hard it would be to accept. Inside, I feel this constant gnawing at my gut, and it’s telling me that I have got to figure my life out now!

So the conclusion I’ve come to is this: It’s time I stop overthinking and stressing and self-doubting and self-hating and feeling terrified all the time. It’s time to stop worrying about everything and everyone else around me and look inside to what I need to be a healthy, happy person. How can my beautiful daughter grow up to be a confident woman who loves herself and every creature on this earth, a woman who knows she is worthy of every gift this world has to offer if her mother isn’t emulating that to her? It’s time today, right now, to start finishing some of the things I’ve started: dieting; working out; getting my boys back in shape; Kensie’s first-year scrapbook; multiple books on spirituality and taking care of myself and our world; research on a future family endeavor; my children’s book. It’s time to make myself a priority. It’s time to start loving myself again. It won’t be easy, especially in the state my life is in right now. But for my own sanity, it’s time I take charge and start to live my life for me.