Joy

Another one I wrote for the writing website, but since I'm in Corey mode, it belongs here too.


“Well?” It was two days before Halloween, 2002. I sat on the toilet lid in the ramshackle bathroom of my boyfriend’s rundown old house. Towels littered the threadbare carpet that adorned the creaky plywood floor, a tribute to the number of people that managed to call the place home. On the cracked ceramic sink next to me was a synthetic bar of chemicals that would reveal my destiny. One line meant no, and I could go on with my life as planned. Two lines meant yes, and my life would change forever. I covered my eyes, my heart thudding in my ears. I was truly uncertain which I wanted.

I shoved the sleeves of my sweatshirt up my arms and tucked them into my armpits. Droplets of sweat ran down the sides of my face as would a family of mice fleeing an approaching cat. My hot flashes were increasing daily in number and severity. Since I was far too young to consider menopause, my best friend was certain I was pregnant. She was with me that day, patiently seated on the side of the bathtub, the torn and mildewed shower curtain flirting with her as the warm air from the furnace blasted into the small room.

I could hear the aged floorboards groan as she stood to observe the plastic stick on which I had deposited my waters ten minutes before. I heard the cardboard box tap against the sink as she compared the images before her. At last, she ripped my hands away from my eyes and flashed the results in front of me with an excited grin. Whether I liked it or not, Corey was on his way.

I did not feel the emotions that I was told most women feel with their first pregnancy. I hated being pregnant. Further, I hated everyone around me expecting me to be smiling from ear to ear all the time. From the moment of conception, I found it nearly impossible to be comfortably cool, and therefore nearly impossible to be pleasant. The excitement of those around me was little more than annoying. I had come to terms with the fact that I was eventually going to give birth, but my discomfort made it difficult for me to be thrilled about it. I found myself leaving the house in the shortest of shorts, spaghetti-strapped tank tops, and stringy flip-flops, still too warm for my comfort.

The seasons drug their feet like a toddler forced to leave the playground on the first warm spring day after a long, frozen winter. Summer was especially resistant, and especially hot. My plus-sized maternity clothing tightened around me until I could barely breathe. I tugged incessantly at the waistband of my shorts, trying desperately to loosen it. One night, I snuck into the family restroom at the amusement park where my then husband worked and completely disrobed. I gawked at my enormous belly in the mirror. Feeling the tautness again, and not thinking, I reached to yank at the waistband. There was no waistband. My skin had reached its maximum elasticity. I sank onto the toilet in disgust.

The growing child inside poked at the tightly stretched skin. I was fascinated and irritated at the same time to see the imprints of fully formed elbows, knees, and heels as I sat on park benches with little to do but watch my belly move. Most mothers, I have been told, are thoroughly overjoyed at this prospect. I felt a combination of awe, revulsion, and pain, since the skin had already expanded as far as it could go. It reminded me of a film I saw once, where some aliens had kidnapped a boy from a field to experiment on. In the spaceship, he, along with others, was encased in some sort of pliable substance that prevented his escape. Poor baby!

I attended my family reunion on my due date, the last Sunday in July, fully expecting to rush to the hospital before the end of the day. I forced myself to be agreeable and smile sweetly when the extended relatives questioned, “Didn’t you have that baby yet?” I did not go to the hospital that day. I did not go any day that week. Disappointment was an understatement. I complained incessantly, spending the days sprawled in a recliner in front of the air conditioner. A brutal nine days later, I was at last summoned to the hospital before dawn in order to coax the little one out.

I am convinced that my hatred of pregnancy had induced my body to keep me that way indefinitely. After thirteen tedious hours of waiting, pumped full of a variety of labor-inducing pharmaceuticals via clear plastic tubing and a fat needle that invaded my tender wrist vein, nothing had happened. The muscle spasms ripped through my abdomen like samurai swords in battle, but they did nothing to open the door through which my infant boy could escape. Attached to a number of monitors with cords that scraped and irritated the delicate exit, I was forbidden to do more than lie still and groan in agony. As the day waned, the obstetrician surveyed the scene thoughtfully, and then instructed a nurse to prepare the operating room. They would simply have to remove the little fellow by force.

At 8:46pm on August 5, 2003, Corey made his debut in the world. As fate would have it, I was blissfully unconscious due to a faulty epidural and subsequent general anesthesia. It was the first time in ten months I had been comfortable. Half an hour later, I floated out of the soft blackness to the sound of the nurse calling my name. I opened my eyes wide as I tried to remember where I was. “He’s a beautiful baby boy,” someone said. The pain remained at bay as I drowsily told his name to no one in particular: the name his father had picked out. It was a name that we had argued endlessly about, only because I wanted to be the one who chose the name for the child I carried inside my body for such a long time. Corey had been the name of my husband’s best friend who passed away tragically two years before. In the end, I gave in. As I considered the name in my woozy mind, the nurse placed a rolled up blanket in the crook of my arm.

I turned my cloudy head to see that the rolled up blanket had a face. At the top of the face was a bit of chopped stocking with a blue ribbon tied around one end that served as a hat. The little face, itself, was wrinkled and pink, and a few wisps of dark brown hair peeked from under the makeshift hat. It looked no happier than I felt, having been compulsorily removed from the leisure of the blackness. The miniature mouth turned down in a frown; the tiny eyes scrunched into a squint. I felt bruised and assaulted as I continued to drift into consciousness. It appeared that the little face felt the same.

As I returned to the room in which I had spent most of the day, the little face began to shriek; my head began to throb. A nurse collected him and carried him to a clear bassinet a few feet away, placing him under a lamp that reminded me of the French-fry tray in the fast food restaurant where I had worked as a teenager. I faded into a fog and drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

It was the next morning before reality settled into my fuzzy, anesthesia-soaked brain. I hauled myself into a wheelchair and took the baby from the bassinet, cradling him against my chest. “Hi,” I whispered, “I’m your mommy.” He responded with a baby sound. I removed the chopped stocking. Under it were locks of wispy dark brown hair that lengthened at the back of his little head to form a natural mullet. I kissed it and covered it with a real hat. In that moment, all was forgiven.

Corey

I wrote this two years ago for my writing website. With a little editing, it still applies. It always will. I just wanted to share it, since I'm thinking about him and won't see him for a couple of days, since it's Friday.

Corey is eight years old. He is wild and unpredictable. He is sensitive, yet bold. He is intelligent and wise beyond his years. He is, above all, mine.

On the day he was born, they took him from me. There was a problem. There has always been a problem. He overcame it, like he overcomes everything. He follows me, reminds me of my dreams, and when my natural tendency to procrastinate gets the better of me, he tells me to get back to work.

I discovered that Corey was coming sometime in November, 2002. I was scared. I didn’t know the first thing about babies. My mom told me it would come to me. I didn’t know at the time that he would be my only one, for a number of reasons. He didn’t come on his own; they had to go in and get him.

Corey is eight years old. Corey loves school. He has a crew of close friends in his third grade class. They adore him. His teacher adores him. The principal, the nurse, the secretary, and the lunch ladies all adore him. I adore him. He is, above all, mine.

He is funny without meaning to be, and when he means to be funny, just comes off as silly. If he doesn’t grow up to be an entertainer, it will be a shame for the world. His soft brown eyes twinkle when he knows you understand him. His smile, crooked with partly grown in teeth, delights passersby. He is amazing. He is what I always dreamed of, even though I never knew it.

When it is warm outside, that’s where he would like to be. A playground is like a beacon, calling straight to his little legs, to carry him forth to the slide and the swings. He cannot help himself. After school in the Spring and Fall, we stay and play a little bit. In the Summer, we go to the playground across from the post office. Corey loves the playground.

Corey is eight years old. On the weekends, and on extended holiday breaks, he goes to his daddy’s house. I miss him when he’s gone. He calls me and tells me all that he’s doing. Sometimes he’ll get on the computer and email me. He misses me, too.

We go to see movies together. He is an avid Chipmunks fan, and so we were the first in line to see The Squeakquel on the day it came out. Life-size Chipmunks in the lobby were too much for him, and begged a photo op.

He would rather have McDonald’s chicken nuggets and French fries than any other meal in the world. Sometimes, he’ll eat pizza, plain cheese. If there’s no pizza, he’ll settle for angel hair pasta, tossed in butter and parmesan cheese. He calls it Angel Noodles.

Corey is eight years old. Corey has Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder and a crappy immune system. His hands don’t hold things the way they should. His arms don’t throw things as well as they should. His legs don’t kick things as far as they should. He is the most wonderful mess I have ever known.

We visit the hospital a couple times a month for therapy. Some months we are there two or three times for appointments. On occasion, we are there for several days in a row because the latest virus has discovered his crappy immune system. He always overcomes it, like he overcomes everything.

Most of the time, Corey won’t come on his own; I have to go in and get him. His imagination is limitless, so every dancing character on the television screen is instantly his friend. He has a hard time leaving his friends behind when it is time to go to school, or to an appointment, or anywhere, except outside.

Corey is eight years old. He is wild. He is sweet. He is wonderful. He is wise. He is precious. He is a reminder that I was meant to give him life. I was meant to care for him. I was meant to raise him. I was called upon to be his mother, and I hope I have risen to the challenge. A challenge, it is. He will overcome it, of course, like he overcomes everything. I only hope I can be so good. Still, I would not have it any other way. He is, above all, mine.

Not much of a post

Well, this really isn't much of a post, but I wanted to put a link to some stuff on here. Don't click it if you're easily offended. Some of my writing is not for children! Have a nice day.
http://Writing.Com/authors/julianne2007

I Love Country Music

Why I love country music:

Because I can always find a song that says in perfect words how I’ve lived my life, what kind of person I am, and what kind of guy I’m lookin for. If you care to know, the following videos describe it quite flawlessly.

Who I am:

How I've lived:

What I'm lookin for:

Wish I Could Say (think Eminem)

Wish I could tell you how it feels to know that I did nothing wrong

But somehow it hurt you and the sorrow is so strong.

Is there somethin' I can do to change your mind,

Baby, let me in, come back one more time?

So I was upset and I did somethin' I wish I could take back,

So this is my punishment? Keep goin' til I crack?

Maybe I already have, maybe I'm already gone,

Maybe it's stupid to just keep hangin' on,

Like I don't know that you're done, don't know that you're out,

Don't know that it's over without any doubt.

Baby, I'm sorry, I don't think I went astray,

I woulda done anything to make you feel you could stay.

And the world is just spinnin' now, your love for me thinnin' now,

And I can't believe I didn't consider

How my actions might distress you, make you bitter.

So now you don't wanna see me, don't wanna pretend that you care,

Even when we are together, you don't look at me, you stare

Like I'm a pain or a bug that you wish you had squashed,

The blood you're crying out for help to wash

Off your life. Don't give me the crap that you just aren't ready,

It might be true, but when we're gettin' all sweaty,

In the dark, all alone, waitin' for that feelin' to hit home,

You know it was me, it's always been me, and it's always been you,

And I wish I could just hear it back when I say that I love you.

Do we need somethin' to compare this to?

A list of broken promises from you?

I ain't blamin' you, baby, I just wanna say to you,

That I understand just what you're goin' through,

But we wasn't together, we weren't even a couple,

So how is it fair to put me in a bubble,

When all I ever asked you to do was hold me,

And you straight up dismissed me and told me,

That my feelin's didn't matter, you didn't care,

And what am I supposed to do, just stand there?

I tried to be strong for you, tried to belong to you,

Tried to do anything I could all along for you,

And what did you give me but excuses and lies,

And when you did come clean and reveal all those ties,

That binded you, blinded you, wish I coulda reminded you,

Of all the things we had, we were good, baby, true blue,

But you don't even remember that, do you?

Wish I could say to you that I don't want you to want me,

Anymore but you haunt me, taunt me, now our friendship just daunts me,

Want more than what you're given me, to know that you've forgiven me,

To take you with me to the place that you've driven me,

But all I can feel now is shame, waitin' patiently is gettin' lame,

And I love you but you know I can't take all the blame,

And all I ever asked you was to show me that you feel the same.

Now I could sit here and call you names,

Tell my friends I'm tired of the games

You play with my heart, I'm fallin' apart,

Lookin' for a place where I can start

Over and just be your friend, I can't stand for this to end,

Even if I never get to hold you again.

But you ain't treatin' me like you treat all the others,

Wrap them in your arms like they're sisters and brothers,

You just leave me out in the cold, like I got old

Can't shake this feelin' that I been sold,

Up the river, baby, ya make me shiver, baby

What an Indian giver, baby, you gave me your word

And it's absurd that you'd take it back again,

Maybe I haven't been a perfect ten,

But I don't deserve the brush off you've been handin' me,

And with you I can't even tell where I'm standin', see

All I want is you, whatever you are,

I ain't tryin' 'a raise the bar,

You and me go back so far it hurts to think that maybe it's over

Maybe we weren't rollin' in the field of clover,

I thought we were, thought we could last,

Thought maybe we could get past the past, I shoulda known,

Shoulda guessed, wish you'd just rip my heart right outta my chest,

It'd hurt less.

I can take responsibility for the stupid thing I did,

And maybe in a lotta ways I'm still just a kid,

But I'm a kid that loves you more than you could know,

And I can't stand that you're leavin' me out in the snow,

It's drivin' me crazy, baby, tryin' to pretend it don't phase me,

The whole world is just gettin' hazy,

I can't laugh, can only cry, maybe I just wanna die,

It's hittin' me now, it's a bitch to bitch with a tear in my eye,

But you don't care, you don't know, just how much you hurt me so,

I guess you wanted me to get it, well, I get it, yo, let me go,

In the end, I guess we're friends, always been the perfect blend,

Seems I'm the friend destined to bend,

Over backwards, overboard. I can't take it anymore,

It's like I'm only happy when I hit the floor.

So come on, baby, and give me all you think I deserve,

And tell me how much I'm on your last nerve,

But you want me around, you need me in your life,

Come on, all you gotta do is push in the knife,

It's already there, ready and waitin',

I'm suffocatin', it's so frustratin',

Damn it, you won't let me be close, maybe it's just adios,

Why not just hand me the lethal dose,

Nothin' but friends, we can't amend, you don't care what I intend

And that's the end.

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Road Trip: Somewhat Daunted by Spring 2011 Flooding

Road Trip!
Took a road trip with Josh (a.k.a. Brooksey) and his best buddy Chris (a.k.a. Moll) to Hershey/Harrisburg area Saturday, originally intending to visit the Antique Auto museum. They have a limited-time exhibit on the history of the Shelby Mustang. Brooksey loves Shelbys. The museum opened at 9, and our tour lasted less than two hours, so with most of the day left to play with, we headed over to Hershey's Chocolate World. Brooksey has never been on the factory ride. He got a kick out of the singing cows! Even then, we were done before noon. A bit of toying with his GPS and Moll drove us through Harrisburg to the National Civil War museum. Comparatively, Josh and I loved the Civil War museum best, Chris preferred the car museum. All of us were particularly smitten with the Reeses Pieces chocolate cake and peanut butter icing that we had following the chocolate factory ride.

With still quite a bit of time left to spare, we took a joy ride through some known flood zones. The river seems to be creeping ever closer to the roads, with U.S. 11 closed down in some areas. The marina at Shickellamy State Park has been closed for a few days now, but today the water is up over the gate! Parts of Selinsgrove and rural Sunbury are flooded. The Isle of Q, a river island Brooksey once said we should move to, is slowly being swallowed on one side. Pictured to the right is an ordinary road on the island made impassible. After some maneuvering, we backtracked and did manage to find a way home that was not under water.

Although our road trip ended reasonably without drama, it was fun. While I loved the Civil War museum, chasing floodwaters was most undoubtably the highlight of the day. My camera battery died right after my three fabulous floodshots, though, requiring me to return home to charge it. I was a bit depressed, but I'm sure there will be other floods for me to chase in the future.