I see your children. Their beautiful blonde curls and their long eyelashes. Their dark, thick ponytails and their blue eyes. I see them, elbow deep in Easter egg dye and chocolate smears over giant smiles. I see them, through you. Your love, your frustration your joy. I cry when you cry for them, and want to wrap my arms around you, around them when life seems so unfairly cruel. I laugh when you laugh with them and wish to breathe in your happiness like the neroli-scented air of spring.

I try to stuff down my envy, my emptiness and the hollow, heart-shaped box of sorrow that resides in my chest. It echoes the ticking clock of my body as I watch motherhood happen all around me, but not within me. Childless in Bloglandia. An empty womb, a vessel devoid of her purpose.

When I tell people I have a blog, I am always met with this question “so, you’re like a mommy blogger?”

“No,” I say, swallowing a small lump, “I am not a mother.”

No, I am not a mother.

I never wanted to have children. Even though, if you asked anyone who has known me for any length of time, they would tell you I have a nurturer’s heart.  I am forever mothering those who have lacked. The old lady who lived in the shoe, a scattered collection of wounded hearts, entwined around me like vines of ivy. Their tendrils holding my bricks together.  All the while knowing, that my mothering instinct would just never be enough for a child. So, as is my way when things are too heart breaking for me to process, I gave up.

Then I met him. His love has changed everything. I see our children in every possibility, every story you all tell of triumph or of tragedy. I follow the trail of crumbs that your children leave, grasping up every morsel. The eternal aunt. As I watch my health waiver back and forth between glowing and dire, I see my own motherhood slip through my grasp and I mourn the thought of little spirit children. Souls waiting to be born to me who will never be. They will never hear my voice, but I hope they can hear my words.

Beautiful spirits,

I am sorry this life will pass without us seeing our love come to fruition. I feel that I am leaving you in safekeeping. I just wish the hands that guide you in this life would be mine.

But I am not strong enough.

I can see you, in my mind’s eye. You would have dainty hands like mine, a perfect nose like your father. You would be smart, you would be funny. You would be a royal pain in the ass because you of your brains and your humor. I miss you, already. I miss the possibility of you. I wish for nothing more than to bring you into the world and see you healthy and well. I am not either of those things.

I will never see you write your first words or call me mama or watch you pet your dog-sister. I will never teach you how to be gentle with her and not pull her ears. I will never teach you how to swim in our backyard pool among the flowering plants and the blistering heat. I will never be able to pawn off all of the household chores that I hate to do.

I will never hold your hands.

But your potential, I lock in my ribcage and hope that in my next life I am good enough to flesh you out. Until that time, watch over me and fill me with your spirit.

Love,

The girl who would be your mother

Two years ago, Katrina ripped through the Gulf. The damage left behind is still apparent and well documented, so I will spare you a recount.  But now we have a new name to fear, a new name to loathe, Gustov.

Every hurricane season, I cringe. A nervous energy settles into my bones. Every bit of laughter is slightly hysterical, sleep is disturbed and uneven. My mother, my sister, my niece. My aunt, and my uncle all call Louisiana home.

Two years ago, after Katrina it was five long and unbearable days before I could get ahold of my mother. This time, as if throwing the bird at Gustov, my mother has chosen this weekend to move from Lafayette to Shreveport. Nothing would make me happier, in truth, than to see a moving truck show up outside my door and to see the three women I love most in life, hop out.

I understand the draw of the Gulf. I understand the pull my mother felt to go there after marriage fell apart. To go home. To be in those places where her Daddy held her hand when she was little, where she and her sisters caused grief and joy for my grandmother. Just every season, the blackness rolls in, the seas get turbulent and unruly. Every season, there is another new name to loathe. This year it’s Gustov.

Paige, Megan, Maypole, Queen, Lance….and for the others who live in the path I am thinking of you and holding you and yours in my thoughts and prayers. A guest bedroom and corn muffins await you in Arizona. Head on over.

edited to add: I apparently live under a rock. I wasn’t aware there were so many Texas evacs. Julie, Kyla, Jenny, Briana anyone else I haven’t named…I love you and I am thinking of you.

The women of my family are a gassy lot.

Sorry, it’s true.

While my mother was out to visit, we rekindled a long standing rivalry in Mexican Train. Since The Boy and I are not officially adults yet, we have no table big enough to carry such a game. So we played on the floor.

There was drinking (mild, people MILD) and a lot of laughing. Then it happened.

My mother farted.

This was no delicate affair, it was loud and effusive and…well…hysterical. We all started to laugh, my mom included. She stood up and bent over. And farted again. The Boy, not to be outdone, let one loose and raised his hand, victoriously.

“In solidarity!” he roared.

As my mother began to laugh, a series of machine gun farts belted out of her backside.

Powpow POW pow pow pow!!!

In an attempt to stop the onslaught she backed up towards the wall. All was lost. The Boy started laughing and snorted (which never happens). My brother hiccuped and I laughed, silent, tear streaming laughter.

She sat back down, farting again and continued to play the game.

The Boy looked at me incredulously and said.

“Oh my God, it is ALL. SO. CLEAR. NOW!”

(yes, that really is my mother playing Guitar Hero. She totally rules)

I have a problem.

The urge to write is overwhelming me. In every day, in every moment, in every moment my desire is to be spilling words on a page.

Even when I am writing, other vignettes are dancing around in my head. They paint footprints in the sand of my head and distract me from doing things I ought to be doing. Like a limb missing, when I am not able to express at the moment inspiration strikes I feel a phantom pain.  When I cannot construct an edifice of words that suit my idea, my irritation is palpable.

Slightly obsessive, maybe compulsive, as rich as air scented with heady blooms- writing is not a part of me. It is not a choice, it is not a hobby. It is who I am.  It is fascinating how much more I am learning about myself.