Bearing Sorrow, Having Fun.

Sunday, November 20, 2016

Yesterday afternoon, the hubby and I headed down I85 South to Greenville, South Carolina and enjoyed a grown up dinner and a Garth Brooks show. As soon as the electric Mr. Brooks took the stage, I found myself cheering, shouting, grinning from ear to ear.  This was actually the second time we had seen Garth together, and I knew that we were in for a good time. What made this concert stand out, though, was that this was the first time I had smiled, laughed, felt real joy in many weeks. And, as my spirits lifted, I was acutely aware that this was the exact reprieve I needed from the grief that has been weighing heavy, so heavy, for the past three weeks.
We've all heard the expressions about 'phone calls you never want to receive', and on Wednesday, October 26, I was the unfortunate recipient of such a call. An afternoon of Halloween shopping with my biggest girl was brought to a screeching halt when I heard the news, "Ma'am, I'm sorry to tell you this, but your father, Michael Bowman, is dead." In that moment, it felt as if I'd been punched hard and swift square in the chest, and that feeling of being punched has replicated itself many times since. 
He's looking up at me so adoringly.
My mom tells me that he was mesmerized with me from the moment he first held me.
Pictures of a dad and his little girl. He took me out for a banana split on the day I got my first report card, bragged on my important role in the class program, and made me pudding when I was home from school sick. All seems so simple and sweet, yet life in the following years got complicated and things changed.
He and my mom split up right after I finished kindergarten. On the day we were packing to leave, Can't Fight This Feeling by REO Speedwagon and Hard Habit to Break by Chicago were playing on the turntable. Purposeful on his part: he always created a sound track to his life. And, clearly, their significance has stuck with me all these years.
On my 6th birthday, the next month, he took me to get my ears pierced. We chose the ruby red stones - my birthstone. Last week, Lindsay sat with Murphy, who'd just turned six, as she got her ears pierced. Full circle.
And here we are sitting on his beloved Barracuda afterwards.
Over the next several years, our time together became more limited. Christmases. Birthdays. On the occasional weekends I'd spend with him, we'd recored 'interviews' on my tape player and eat junk food and listen to his records. 
Allman Brothers' Eat a Peach.
We'd listen to Melissa over and over. 
Such a talented man.
He built me this doll cradle and matching bunk beds. My girls still play with them today.
I look so happy here.
I so desperately want to talk to that little girl and to her daddy.
A new bicycle for my eighth birthday.
I'm 11 here. 6th grade. (I know by the locket I'm wearing.)
I want to talk to this girl, too. 
Tell her how much this man loves her even if he isn't sure how to show her.
And then, my teen years hit, and I don't know what to say. He drifted. I drifted. We drifted. At the times we saw each other, I could tell we both felt odd, disconnected. Not like total strangers, but also not like father and daughter. And, now looking through adult eyes, I wonder if maybe that just comes with the territory of being a teenager. I'm not sure, but whatever the reason(s), a distance was formed. Through years of little contact, I never doubted his love for me. He always stressed the value of education, and it was important to him that he pay for my college. He was so proud of me for my grades and always told me so. He and a girlfriend (not wanting that to sound like he had lots of girlfriends over the years, he did not. Just this one for a year or so.) visited me at my first college apartment.  When he arrived, I had James Taylor playing. He appreciated my music choice. I'm sure he didn't realize that I'd spent quite awhile searching for just the right music that would make him proud. 
And then, I grew up, like all the way up, and got married and moved to Dallas and moved to Denver and started having babies.
Here he is holding his first grandchild, my Carter Lilly.
His blue eyes, my blue eyes.
When I was a young mom of two little girls, I found him on my mind a lot. I reached out to him. Suggested we start a pen-pal type relationship, get to know each other better. 
This was his first letter to me. 
"No more dysfunction? That will be the greatest gift I've ever received."
It's funny. I remember saying at the time how much easier it would have been if he'd just jump on a computer. Send an email or a Facebook message, but, now, I'm so grateful for his handwritten words and his unique left-handed penmanship.
I am yours, and you are mine. 
I hope your kids are making your life worthwhile - I know mine did.
{Dear God, I hope he meant that. I hope I did give his life some meaning.}
The right music can make your day. Just as the right seasoning can make your meal.
I have never forgotten about you. Never have. Never will.
I wish I could say that this back and forth changed more of the day to day of our relationship, but it did not. I'd mention in my letters opportunities for us to get together, but he didn't 'bite'. I can't say for sure why. I do think that this period allowed us to reconnect and get to know each other in a different way. 
A Mother's Day note.
I'm proud you are mine. I'm happy that they are yours.
Then, again, we drifted. We reconnected a bit when my grandmother hurt her back and moved into assisted living. During a phone call from her hospital room, he thanked me for being there for her. I simply reminded him that family takes care of family.
She died just over a year ago, at her funeral he commented on how my girls were 'little stair steps' and that Wright looked just like me. I last saw him on the day we said our final goodbye to Grandma Margie. As we left lunch, I gave him a big bear hug. I was newly pregnant with Hatch, and I could see a little twinkle in his eye at the news I was having a son. When I got home that afternoon, I said to Lindsay, "I wonder if I'm ever going to see him again?" I never did.
I texted him from the hospital when Hatch was born. He left me a voice text in which his voice was beaming. I sent him a couple more photos over the next couple of weeks. 
A Mother's Day card from this year.
The last time I heard from him.
Do I have regrets? Sure I do. I'd guess there are few people who lose a loved one and don't feel any sense of regret. But, do I know I tried? Yes, I know I tried. Do I wish things had been different? Absolutely. 
"Around 1984 the song 'Ghostbusters' came out. It didn't have any meaning or soul. 
I turned to country and never looked back. It had enough feelings for any mood." 
In the middle of that concert last night, while cheering and smiling and dancing and singing along to Shameless, tears began pouring down my face. It hit me how happy it would make him that I was reclaiming my first moments of joy through music, country music. 
His little corner of the world. West Pelzer, South Carolina.
I never stepped foot in his house until after he had left it. Haunting. There's no other word for me to use to describe the experience. I wonder if he had any idea the gaping hole his death would leave. Sometimes, the moments of grief are almost too much to bear. The repetitive, maddening thoughts swirl incessantly. Breathing in and out becomes difficult, and the simple act of swallowing feels like a giant undertaking. I loved him. Deeply.
I hope that in his memory I was always that adoring little girl. 

The Days of Our/Their Lives

Thursday, October 20, 2016

We all experience days in life that we'll never, ever forget: cultural moments that seem to freeze time and permanently mark themselves in our memories. At their mention, we instantly recall exactly where we were, who we were with, sites and sounds and smells even. Generations prior to mine likely recall events like JFK's assasination and Elvis' death with this type of certainty. For me the first such event happened in 1986.
The Challenger explosion.
{Sitting in a second grade classroom at King Primary School.}
The white Bronco chase.
{Babysitting on a summer Friday night.}
The OJ verdict.
{Senior year of high school. Driving home at lunchtime to grab my pom-poms.} 
Sadam Hussein's capture.
{Sitting in my boyfriend Lindsay's apartment watching reality tv.}
Osama Bin Laden killed.
 {Visiting with out of town family at our second house in Denver.}
Michael Jackson's death.
{Scrolling through Facebook in the summer of 09.
Then, told my hubby by holding up a note while Skyping.}
Nick and Jessica's split.
(This one can still bring a tear.)
{At my parents' house celebrating Thanksgiving when I was engaged.}
Britney's bald headed, umbrella wielding rage. 
{In our first home, a townhouse in Addison, TX, on a Saturday morning.}
Anna Nicole Smith's overdose.
{At work at SMU via a voicemail from my mom, then discussed at Bible study that evening.}
Let me guess... I lost you somewhere between the King of Pop and the Newlyweds? Is it odd that I remember just as clearly where I was during President Clinton's denial of sexual relations with "that woman" as I do Ashton's Vegas hot-tub romp while still acting as a bonus dad to Demi's girls? (I've lost you again. I can tell.) I'm the first to admit that I'm a pop-culture junkie addict - full blown, possibly in need of an intervention, if I had a problem, of course.
Judge if you must, but I come by it naturally; it's in my genes! My Grandma Sumner felt a deep connection to all of her country music faves, and Crook and Chase was her favorite source for information in the pre-internet era. She could go on and on about George (Jones. Obviously.) and his struggles with the bottle. She'd speculate on what woman or circumstance could lead him to pick up drinking again as if she'd just sat at her own kitchen table and had a heart to heart with him. She relied on Soap Opera Digest to keep her up to date on the Days of Our Lives  off-screen romances. And on the other side of the gene pool is my Grandma Margie who made no secret of her love for the National Inquirer. She especially loved discussing political scandals and local celebrity scoop. Goodness, even sweet Aunt Suzie, who's an aunt by marriage, not blood, once told me, "If you don't know what to talk about, and you don't want to gossip, just talk about celebrities!" See? I don't seek out the stories; they find me. 
On a Tuesday morning a few weeks ago when a migraine had me down and racial riots were erupting in my our own hometown,  I was really in need of a pick me up, or even just a distraction. You can imagine how this image stopped me dead in my - Instagram scrolling - tracks:
I can always count on Perez (Hilton. Obvi.) to keep me informed.
Now, don't get me wrong: I was not happy about the demise of a marriage. I would certainly not rejoice in the ending of any marriage, let alone the marriage of two people who were raising six children (Three biological, three adopted. Three boys, three girls. I'd list the names and countries of birth, but there's no need to show off.) together while jet setting all over the world. Though I felt no pleasure at the situation, I felt an extreme amount of joy for what it meant for me. Personally. 
The collapse of the marriage of arguably the two biggest movie stars on the planet (since Amal Clooney is not a celebrity) meant that the next hours, days, and weeks would be a celebrity news goldmine. And, I was not disappointed. Websites like TMZ, The Daily Mail, Radar, Blind Gossip... all provided me with glimpses and tidbits into the whos and whats and whys and whens of this shocking celebrity split. During weekday morning laundry folding, my girl Wendy (Williams. Of course.) provided an unique perspective as did the ladies of The View. My man Perez even recorded an emergency podcast which I listened to intently during gymnastics carpool. 
At a birthday dinner on the Friday night after the split, the topic of Brangelina came up (not by me) at the table. It was during the conversation that I realized that perhaps my feverish mental cataloging of pop culture facts and my in depth knowledge of all sides of the story, including what attorneys had been retained by whom, could perhaps be viewed as odd. I held back on contributing too much to the conversation for fear of seeming like a big ole weirdo. Yet, when a friend noted that I must 'follow People magazine', I was slightly offended, but I didn't let it show. She meant no harm; how was she to know that PeoplePeople is for amateurs...

* This post is dedicated to Maddox, Pax, Zahara, Shiloh/John, Vivienne, and Knox Jolie-Pitt.

Deez Nuts: A Tale of an Enlightened Second Grader's Expanded Vocabulary

Wednesday, July 13, 2016

With a few weeks left in the school year, I was doing my best to balance all that Maycember brings topped by the addition of a newborn to the mix. I felt like things were going pretty well, though, admittedly I was probably judging my success through a dense, sleep deprived fog. So, one afternoon when my perky as pie eight year old bounced off the school bus and into my bedroom as I nursed the baby and told me she had something to share with me since 'my sisters aren't around', I imagined she had planned a fun surprise for them for their daily after school adventures. I greeted her warmly and with a kiss and anxiously waited for her to share her surprise. She looked right into my eyes, pigtails bouncing, and casually said, "BITCH". Just like that. Without a pause or inflection.  That grown up word spilled right from my daughter's lips.
THIS face. 
Does it not scream out innocence?
Backstory...
A couple of nights before, all of the girls had gone to dinner with their Daddy so that I could get a little rest. In the middle of their date, I received a text from my hubby informing me that our oldest child was spelling the F word in the car and that middle daughter was repeating it. Clearly he was shocked and upset. Till this moment, the baddest bad word we'd heard any of our children say was stupid. In fact, in our home, we still say fanny or bottom or booty instead of butt and spell the word fat. We continue to avoid cartoons like Rugrats just because of the sassy backtalk that could be imitated. And, yet, my husband had just heard our little darling saying spelling, thank GOD, the granddaddy of all naughty words. 
So, when we got the other girls down that night, we had a talk with her about where she'd heard the word (a fellow second grade classmate with a big brother) and when she'd heard it. We let her know it was the worst of the worst and she should not say it again. She was truly sorry and promised to come to us the next time she heard a word that she was unsure about. 
And THAT is how the encounter with my darling came to be that afternoon. She was simply sharing with me a new word she'd heard to find out whether or not it was 'bad'. Once I lifted my mouth back up off my chin, I got to the bottom of its origin - darn you older brothers!!! - and told her that indeed she should not say that word. I also used this time to see if she had any other words floating around in that inquisitive head of hers. 'Well, we were doing a word search and some kids were laughing at A-S-S and H-E-L-L,'. Great. So she'd pretty much been exposed to every four letter word that we've tried so gosh darn hard to keep out of her ears {as well as 'deez nuts' which I needed hubby to define for me}. I hated the fact that true curse words would no longer just go over her head if she occasionally heard one on a movie or something. 
Once we got into summer and she was no longer exposed to those big brother influenced hooligans, I thought things would be easy breezy in the language department. I mean, honestly? I deserve some kind of mom trophy for keeping obscenities tightly under my breath during moments of ninety degree heat - car seat installing - kids whining - baby crying - stress. I'm talking a Gold. Freaking. Medal. But alas, her will for being a good girl and a great example to her little sisters is just no match for her desire to totally drive her daddy bat-crap crazy with the use of the 'P' word. {Penis. Obviously.} Now, I see it as no different than saying arm or leg, but he just can't bear to hear that word come out of his girls' mouths. So, when a simple car trip lead to shrieking laughter and the constant chant of 'Pe-nis! Pe-nis! Pe-nis!' I had to intervene on my blushing hubby's behalf.
Ten reasons she should not teach her sisters 'penus'. 
My personal favorites:
# 8 Murphy has a BIG mouth. # 6 Murphy always lies.
# 7 Wright says inappropriate things like "poop". (Loved her use of the quotes on that one.)
It's not so much that we think "bad" words are the end all be all, it's more about maintaining our kids' (it's SO WEIRD to me that I can no long use the pronoun girls when referring to all of my children! but, I digress) innocence for as long as we can. Oh, I get it. The real world won't give a rat's behind about their innocence, but in our home, fairies are real and grown ups have the power to turn our ears off at whim. I also realize that she is our first child, our oldest, and that numbers three and four will probably start kindergarten having already viewed a PG-13 movie or two. Heck, I probably will lose my battle and let a bad word make it farther than under my breath. Her being the oldest doesn't make it any easier though. It may even make it harder because, despite being the oldest, she is still our first baby. I guess we all just want to keep our babies babies for as long as we can, and every little thing that leads them closer to growing up is just no fun for us parents. Damnit. 

And Then There Were Six

Friday, July 8, 2016

Dusting off the MacBook and drafting a blog for the first time since the cold days of January. I even let my never-skipped quarterly Sweetest Things post slip by without nary a word. I don't have a great reason except that between my body growing increasingly foreign to me as I got closer to the birth of our son, and life just being a fluster of kids' activities and such, and my mood being less than cheerful, the blog just took a back seat. Like, in the far back.
Had I taken the time to blog over these last few months, posts such as: 
Mommy Has a Coke[acola} Problem
No, My Husband Was Not Trying for a Boy
My Birth Control Practices are Not Your Concern
My Son is Only Three Weeks Old, and I Already Hate His Wife 
Deez Nuts: A Lesson in an Enlightened Second Grade Girl's Vocabulary
would have been written for your reading pleasure. Alas, those ships have sailed as my Coke habit has drastically decreased (and somewhat been substituted with Dr. Pepper), and the other topics have become less emotion fueled. {Though, I may still opine on expanded vocabulary of our eight year old thanks to some all-too-wise little boys.} Yet, here I am: clickity clacking on the keys and getting back into the groove.
I'm not quite sure where this typing will lead. I know that my heart is heavy, so heavy, with all the senseless tragedy that is going on in our country. My mind is flooded with grief for lives lost and violence on every side. Yet, on a personal level, I am happier than I could have imagined I'd be since the addition of a sweet boy to our bunch. It doesn't hurt that said son is the sweetest, dimple-faced little man that ever there was who just happened to sleep a solid eleven hours last night. 
Half way through 2016, and life has been so full.
 
Bae and I at the Sugar Bowl in New Orleans over New Years.
A great getaway for us two, but a harsh loss for the Pokes.
A cold night cheering our hometown team to NFC victory.
Superbowl bound.
Go, Cam, go.
Roar. 
The Superbowl loss was heart wrenching.
Throughout the ups and downs of this season, we could always count on our littlest lady to bring a smile back to our faces.
Her costume changes are frequent
and unexpected
and rarely seasonally appropriate.
She's imaginative and creative
and sometimes even canine.
She likes to be 'the baby'
yet looks older by the day.
She took up fishing
and scootering
and soccer.
She is a social butterfly with a best friend list a mile long.
She truly makes us happy when skies are gray.
Fortunately, though, we experienced many more sunny than dark days.
We celebrated Daddy turning 37.
and Carter turning 8.
I got bigger and bigger and bigger
as my Baby Daddy got focused and determined and shrank before our eyes.
{Couldn't be more proud of my stud.}
A warm Saturday morning in February brought a gathering of the most important women in my life.
Surrounded by love as this amazing group showered baby boy and me.
Hostesses and Life Groupers.
Roommates for years. Love these girls so much. See them far too little.
Girls from grad school.
Love our sustained connection.
Denise Penino. 
There aren't enough words to describe what she means to me.
Dawn. My second spouse.
This girl keeps me going on the daily.
And, my Mama. Besties since birth. 
{My birth, not hers.}
Then there's my other best girl. The one who describes our relationship as that we have the same heart.
Miss Murphy is looking way too old these days.
She began joining Carter for afternoons spent in the creek
and got muddier than I ever imagined she would.
She mastered the two wheeler
and her reading skills took off.
She often gathered her 'friends' for story time.
But her first love continues to be a Saturday evening spent with Mom at Nordstrom.
She's a perfect mix of sassy 
and silly.
She's selective of her friends,
and her happy is THE happiest.
She kissed preschool goodbye
as she graduated from TK.
We get each other. Really get each other. And life without her would be no life at all.
Then, on April 11, our family dynamic was forever changed.
I met my son.
Hatch Hughes Lewellen.
6 pounds 11 ounces of pure joy.
The baby meeting the baby.
I never thought she'd be a big sister and have loved watching her rock her new role.
Doting: day one.
Meeting Aunt Lala. She loves my babies as I love hers.
[We had no idea that she was 24 hours from a second cancer diagnosis.]
Tiny toes headed home.
The months since Hatch's arrival have been a mix of craziness and exhaustion and indescribable bliss. Watching all of our girls fall in love with this little man has brought his daddy and me more joy than I can describe. 
Fresh and new on Carter's birthday.
She loves him SO. BIG.
A movie mate for Murphy
and a future bestie for the silly one.
Our little gowned man
quickly grew
and expanded his wardrobe selections.
His cheeks filled out
and baby pudge began to appear.
Daddy is his consistent resting place
and smiles most often grace his face.
He looks great in bright orange.
{As if it was an option. Go Pokes.}
And he has completed our family.
Really. We are complete. Done. Four is plenty. 
For a blog that I thought would lead nowhere, I sure covered a lot of life; highs and lows, happy and sad. In a world so fraught with trouble, sorrow, heartache, where there seems to be more questions than answers, these five are my safe place. They are my harbor. And, even when they are at their craziest and having me question my own sanity, they are my peace.
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