House of A Writer

Welcome to my blog where I share my special needs parenting journey with my heart, truth, and love, one story at a time. ❤️

#1000 speak- My heart Connection to the ones I love 

My story I have to tell is a treasured one, it’s one I think about when I steal away for some quite hours to myself. I’ve moved a lot in my life between parents, Grandparents, and siblings. I have always been searching for that connection I had when I was young when I’d sit around the table drinking cast iron tea (steeped so much it poured out black into my porcelain cup). I would nibble on my Irish scones  and laugh with my elders. They would call me a “little tea Granny” and I would feel this amazing heart connection.
 As I mentioned earlier I had a wandering spirit and then I met and fell in love with another. We have formed this beautiful union made complete with our children. We have moved due to my husband’s job transfers four times in the last 20 years. Three times as a newly married couple and twice as family. We have now lived in our new home for almost a year. Every town that I live at I strive to make a heart connection. I’ve been blessed to work a lot and able to make friends easily, before marriage. After marriage and children I found the opportunities were plentiful, and my life had become all about parks, play dates, and picnics.

 I have met a lot of people and established friendships in every town I’ve lived in. It hasn’t been easy moving so much and making those connections. But I’ve persevered and done my best to socialize with other parents through my son’s schools or sport teams. When I moved from my hometown where I was born and raised, I lived in a town the same size. I worked a lot and my love and I were new to living together. We were in that town for thirteen years and will always feel like home to me. There I was established a heart connection and the best of friends I could ever ask for! 

We got engaged there and spent our first few months as a married couple there. When we moved to the city we had been married, bought our first house, and were expecting our first child. It was a whirlwind of moving in, unpacking and seeing all the things I owned after three months. I met friends through my husband’s work and my own. Then I took my maternity  leave and along came my precious baby. I attended a baby talk group for parents and met a wonderful group of Mom’s. We all remain friends to this day, and have seen our children grow up together. Over the years the circle grew and spread out as a few of us have moved away. There’s still the four of us that remain heart connected  and keep each other in the know of our lives. 

We were blessed to live there for six years and with them I found my sisterhood. I then moved on to a smaller town that charmed me with it’s beautiful mountain air, lakes, and forests and reminded me of my hometown. I met the most wonderful neighbour who filled our heart and home with her generosity, kindness, and love. Who took to my children like Grandma would to Grandchildren. She adored them and they loved and cherished her in return. In this town I met some wonderful parents, attended play group with my youngest, and school with my oldest. I went to the same place almost daily where I felt was a safe little cocoon in my life. 

While I struggled to sell a home, find a home, and survive hotel living for half a year! I have always loved the theatre so I attended a play with my son and I in costume and connected with each performance from this talented cast. We joined up for their next production and in that time the heart connection was made with my new theatre family.  I was blessed with and given a Mom who I fell in love with her giving heart, adorable children, and her strong faith in God and humanity that echoed my own. I found a Mom with incredible visual and artistic talent and a devotion to make a better life for her son then she had for herself.

 It was there in that play group I found the yin to my yang with a Mom who’s children were her life line and they were hers. This woman gave so freely from her heart, loved with her whole being, touched lives and hearts with her beautiful smile and friendly manner. It is because of her that I made it through a very long four month stint of solo parenting when my husband got transferred. 

 She sat with me and laughed and cried over wine, memories of our beloved Mom’s, and the dreams for our children. She looked after my children so I could attend theatre practices, loving them like her own. I was given the gift of friendship with her brilliant mind, heart, and love. Our hearts connected and I’ve never been the same since. And it fills me with great sadness that I have to attend her funeral tomorrow instead of hugging her hello. She flies with the angels now, talks with them, and looks down upon her loved ones with a joy and pride. Fly gently onto thee rest my sweet angel friend. Heaven was made a greater place with your entrance. Until I see you again, I offer this simple prayer. 

  

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These Eyes of Mine

I look at these eyes of mine ,bluer than blue staring back at me from the mirror. The crystal blueness takes me back as I see one tear slipping across my cheek. There’s a vast ocean of pain that these eyes of mine hide. I do my best to deal with it, hide it, and keep it all in until it’s pouring forth like a waterfall of emotion. I think to my past and wonder if I could’ve been better. A better daughter, sister, aunt, and friend. I think of all these roles I played from a young age. I became an aunt at the age of six, and I was quite used to being the youngest child in my family. 

I sat on my Dad’s lap and watched my big brother holding this tiny baby. I had a mixture of emotion as I looked at him. Curiosity, excitement, and yes even jealousy. My Dad had left when I was four I remember it all too well; the crying, shrieking, and red hot anger of my Mom as she chased him out of the house. He was running for his life as she brandished a knife, and I knew this was a women on the edge between sanity and survival. He had pushed her to a breaking point and she had pushed back. My Dad left, ran out of our house and didn’t look back. He took on a new family, responsibilities, and lived in their home. 

I visited every weekend and holidays and this never felt like my home.  I was a guest and nothing more, and I struggled to feel comfortable in my own skin. This wasn’t my Mom, bedroom, or backyard. This was too much newness for a little four year old girl to understand. I didn’t feel like I was special, wanted, or appreciated. I remember attending kindergarten in the fall. I was badly in need of a haircut and it was picture day on Monday. This would be my first and last haircut that my step Mom ever gave me. I couldn’t sit still the bowl on my head was heavy and cumbersome. The hairs tickled my nose and made me sneeze. It was an overstimulatmg sensory experience and everyone just thought I was misbehaving. I was called a brat and left on my own after that. 

I looked in the mirror and saw this ragamuffin hairdo and I cried bitterly the rest of the weekend. My first Kindergarten picture and I looked like I had cut my hair with a butterknife! My Mom was furious and tried to fix it but the damage was done. I couldn’t even smile for that Godforsaken picture. It tore me up inside to look so ridiculous. The taunts, jeers, and stares overwhelmed me. I spent more time hiding or throwing my fists around to avoid any confrontation. I was no stranger to it in fact I welcomed it, then someone knew I was there and mattered. After that hideous haircut I avoided going near a pair of scissors or that stool again. 

Then just like everything that floats around elementary schools and germ warfare I got lice at the age of six. I was horrified and scared about what was happening to me as I scratched my head until it bled. My Mom blamed my Dad, my Dad blamed my Mom and I was sent to stay with my Grandparents for a week. I remember sitting in the purple clawfoot tub as my Gram rubbed pink calamine lotion over my head, neck, and eyebrows. I felt that hot water pouring over me and watching those dead bugs lying in the tub. As they swirled down the drain my tears mixed with the pink liquid as it streamed down my face and into my eyes. It burned a lot, but not as much as my hot humiliation of having contracted the condition anyway. 

These eyes of mine have seen a lot of pain, hidden a lot of lies, and have yet continued to be my windows of truth. These are memories I’ve stored away in the tiny box that I’ve buried in my mind. Then something will trigger it and like Pandora’s ill fated box it will open up again. These emotional scars I wear on my heart threaten to overtake me at times. I watched something tonight about children and what their Father represented to them. Some said pride, confidence, anger, pain, love, and nothing but emptiness because he was gone. This struck a nerve with me. A jangling nerve trigger that was hanging in the balance. And my bluer than blue eyes welled up with tears while I struggled to gain my composure. My children will never know of my pain, they will never experience that uncertainty or need to doubt their existence. They will know only love, guidance, respect, and firmness when discipline is needed. They will know only of my joy and gratitude when they blessed me with their arrival.  They will know that they are and will always be, the key to my heart. ❤️

 

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