"Getting older's not been on my plans"

   Name (s): Alysse, Aly, babe, beautiful, and mommy (!!!)    State of mind: Clusterf***   Hair: I would say messy bun, but not in the cute way...more in the "Holy hell what happened to you" way   Fashion: compression knee high socks, shorts, depends diapers with overnight maxi pad insert, nursing tank top, and a tired bland expression.   Reality: new mother   First of all, I have to mention that when the nurse was discharging me and explaining what my mental state might be postpartum, I laughed. I began to regret it 4 miles from home as I start crying and couldn't stop. "You might experience the need to cry one moment and not the next." Welp, this was full on tears. Waterworks. The let down!    It wasn't pain either, at least not in the sense of physical pain. Sure, that was there, but this was, "I need my mommy and I need her now," kind of pain. And, when we pulled up into the drive, I saw her come out on the porch with her camera, I fucking lost

   "I c-c-c-can't stop shaking." "Oh, that is normal," he said as he looked down at me before he peered back over the blue medical sheet in front of my face. I couldn't. I just couldn't stop the incessant shaking. The moment of welcoming my son had played out in my head everyday for the last 10 months, and I promise, this was NOT it.   We arrived 30 hours prior, and my utopistic idea of induction had not come true.    "There are only a few reasons we would revert to a cesarean section... 1. He is under stress. 2. I am under stress. 3. He isn't progressing after some time, but chances are we won't get there."    So, after 22 hours of quite intense labor, I found myself being prepped for a c-section. I'll be the first to admit, my words of, "We will do what we have to do to have a healthy baby," seemed so far gone now. I wasn't sure emotionally how I had gotten this far, or even how I would get further.   "We are go

   I used to write. Often. And when I thought of myself being a great writer, the first thing that came to mind was poetry. I secretly have always considered myself a poet above all else. The lost art of combining words in immortal lines that rhyme or don't... Although I am no Shakespeare, poetry was the first form of written art that I began to create. It is my first love.    My first poem, "Untitled" (of course titled such) was the musings of a 6th grader who didn't know much but that she wanted to be like Anne of Green Gables caught up in the ethereal musings of a writer. I think if you ask any person they are most likely to tell you they had a moment in adolescence in which they were a poet themselves. It is how we wrote our life. Our diary. Our story...a lot of times in terrible rhyming form.    But, I digress. Everyone should be a poet. If not of words, then of life. We should do things with a grace that blends our life into a rhythmic beauty. It is the only way

  There is this scene in Deep Impact  at the end of the film in which 2 characters are standing on the shores of the beach watching/waiting for the tsunami of water, the product of the asteroid, to come sweep them away. It isn't a secret it is coming; it isn't a secret what is going to happen. The inevitable is death. Complete ending.   Every year, I sit and wait for the tsunami that is August 15th. I wait for the inevitable that is this day. The grief, the pain, the flood of immobilizing memories to come sweep me away. It isn't a secret it is coming; it isn't a secret what is going to happen. And come it does. In strange ways, it comes. And the odd thing, I always think I am going to be ready. I always think I will be able to assuage the cavernous void that he left behind. Laughable I know. Anyone who understands one modicum of grief understands that we can't assuage the void. We have to embrace it. It doesn't go away; it doesn't close up. Perhaps it might

Bee,   I am usually one for so many words that I can't stop, but this time around, I have but few. What to say? What to say that I haven't already whispered while you slept soundly next to me? What to say when looking at you brings up too many emotions that words couldn't even begin to express them? What to say to you that I haven't begged you to memorize in fear that one day I would forget?    Thus, I love you.   I heard it once said, "A best friend is someone who knows the song in your heart and can sing it back to you when you have forgotten the words." This year has proven to be a lot of silent moments strung together because the song in our heart was desperately void of words. You, my best friend, have given me nothing but the utmost love, and have sang to my heart in ways I didn't know possible.   The amount of pain we have endured this year...these last few years...has been nothing short of life altering. We have watched life ebb away from us in a w

  I don't look the same from when I started dating white boy. In fact, to me, I am barely recognizable. Love made me fat. It is my excuse and I recognize it as just that...an excuse. White boy doesn't look the same from when I started dating him. In fact, to me, he is barely recognizable. Love made him beautiful.   I never thought of him as an ugly guy. To be honest, I thought he was one of the the prettiest boys I had ever dated. But, in looks, I was out of his league. I could turn heads and had more than one person turned in my direction. I also had confidence to boot.   Because of "love" and my "weight gain" I have decreased in confidence, but mostly when it comes to him. I want him to love all parts of me, and because I struggle with loving all parts of myself, I can easily convince myself that I am not the person he met, dated, fell in love with, and married. But, not a day goes by that I am not regarded as beautiful. Granted, white boy isn't stup