Family - A little heavy

Everyone has their own definition of family. Up until tonight, my definition/idea was very narrow. My family is my husband and kids because I know that where ever they are I am too. I depend on them and they depend on me. But I now realize that if something were to happen to any of us, we really wouldn't have the support or love we would need to get through it.

When I was little, I was close to both my dad's and my mom's side (parent's divorced when I was 2). I slept over at my grandparents, I annoyed and followed around my aunts, my cousins were my best friends. Somewhere along the line my dad moved out of state and I gradually lost connection with his family. I moved to be with my dad when I started middle school and my relationships with my mom's family somewhat faded. I went years and years without seeing most of them.

Fast Forward to today....
We all live within 30 miles of each other (if not closer) and not much has changed, I hardly see anyone. Including on holidays.

My husbands family is quite opposite. They all live close...in fact most are neighbors. They are there for every milestone, every good thing, and every bad thing. They help each other out. They are each others best friends. The spouses of his aunts, uncles, and cousins all get along great too. They all grew up in the same area. They share childhoods. They have history. I have never fit into his family. I sit alone at most gatherings because when I do attempt to engage in conversation....it just feels too forced from both sides. I am quite the outsider since I am younger and didn't grow up around here. Even my kids see the difference in how all the cousins play and interact. But I'm ok with all that. You stick to what you know and they know close family, I don't. I don't know how to be a part of that and they probably don't know what to do with me. Stepping out of your comfort zone is hard. And while I accept that it is what is it, I do envy their relationships. Of how their kids all play together and spend birthdays together. Of how they know if something were to happen their family is a phone call, or a door knock, away. When a member is sick or in the hospital, everyone of them shows up. They call to chat. They stop to talk real quick when they see you, instead of a passing "hi, how are you?" (I get those often.) I'm envious of THEIR family.

This is all at the forefront of my thoughts because tonight, I saw my grandmother, my dad's mom. She is at home under hospice care and isn't expected to make it through the weekend. All of her children and their kids came and went to spend time with her. While I sat with her for a little while I couldn't help but remember being 4 and spending nights with her and my aunt Sam. She would cook the best chicken n' dumplins in the whole world. I remember the times I stayed there with my dad after he and my mom seperated. I could remember the time I told her I wanted a "wedding cake" for my birthday cake with blue flowers. And that's what I got....it was only a 1/4 sheet, but to me it was a wedding cake. I remember the curio cabinet she had with little trinkets and the box filled with happy meal toys. And sadly those are they majority of my memories. Over the past nine years, I have seen her and visited but not often. Life got in my way and I would always comment that I needed to stop by....but never got around to it. While being reintroduced to family that either didn't know I existed or hadn't seen me since I was 5, I thought this can't happen for my kids.

While I am not close to my husband's family I can follow their example. I can be closer to the people I share interests and memories with. I can make it a point to see how they are doing. I can stop by on the holidays. Their kids can come over for sleep-overs. And my children's cousins can be their best friends. Financial status, the neighborhood you live in, the education you have, all don't matter because you are family. It shouldn't take failing health to bring family and loved ones together. I hated not knowing the names of family members or recognizing faces. I'm sad about the missed opportunities for a quick visit. I'm sad of the memories not made. And I'm sad that my children didn't get to know their great-grandmother; to know her voice, her laugh, see her smile, or taste her yummy cooking. These are all memories that I will cherish.

Truth is...

For me, blogging is an interesting beast. It's a creative outlet for me, and at the same time meets my imaginary requirement that every good mom needs to scrapbook. I don't scrapbook because I'm awful at it. I blog.

Anyway, I try to make this blog an honest, real, and revealing place, but I also have boundaries. Some boundaries are safety related (not posting my address, for example) and others are for personal or even stylistic reasons. It's a balance between being cheesy and boring (my life is so AWESOME that it is AWESOMER than anyone else's and here are 8 more posts about how AWESOME I am in case you somehow forgot my level of AWESOME) and sharing intimate feelings with the world.

So anyway, it's a challenge and the more serious posts are tougher to navigate. But, whether anyone else wants it or not, sometimes I want it said so I can feel it later.

Here is the truth: I hated being pregnant (Shocker, right!? Since I have given birth to 4 beautiful babies). There were many unpleasant things: I waddled about, for instance. And I puked a lot. And I peed a lot. And sometimes I peed when I was not planning on peeing. I was always miserable. And I complained. A lot. Pregnancy is not necessarily lady-like.

However, it is womanly. I may someday forget my own name, but I will never forget what it felt like when my kiddos moved and kicked inside of me. I was proud to stand without sucking in, tightening, pinching, hiding, or twisting myself into any of the myriad of positions women find to hide themselves in plain view. Each time, I felt as if my body-- however imperfect-- had purpose. I joyfully anticipated the need for each part. My arms to hold and rock a child. My legs to kneel as I washed my baby. My lips to kiss and my fingers to stroke each cheek. My body grew as they did, and it was good.

Now, at nearly 4 months post-partum, I find myself wondering (for the final time) how to regain that sense of purpose and confidence. I love my babies, and I revel in my ability to physically care for them. I hold, carry, touch, tickle, caress, wash, snuggle, kiss, and teach. Mothering my children is a verb, and I am blessed with capability.

Now, knowing that I will never again experience pregnancy and the sense of meaning it brings; I must find a way to appreciate and treasure my body and its importance. I must find a way to banish my nay saying and revel in who and what I am. It is not about the size or shape or even the objective of my body. It is about the dialogue in my mind.

Because, you see, I am the mother of not only a 4-month-old daughter, but 6 and 3 year old princesses as well. And if I cannot restructure and redraft the words that run through my head, then someday my beautiful, perfect daughters will look at their beautiful, perfect bodies with the same terrible thoughts that I have about my own. And I cannot let that happen.