Somewhere back there, I took a different turn.

Four days ago I walked into an operating room. 45 minutes or so later, they rolled me back out, drugged, stitched, and now finally able to look at the unexpected turn life took awhile back. His name is Oliver, and he's awesome.

Sure. I admit to bias. But it's all true.

There are relevant details... 20 inches long. 8 pounds, 13 ounces. Dark hair. Dark blue eyes. Interestingly, all these details change. He's already lost a pound. His hair color and eye color may change. The fact that he's awesome? Not budging on that one.

Awesome, as in awe inspiring. He reminds me of good things. Love and patience and light. He reminds me to look at my other children and savor, even when I'm frustrated and angry and overwhelmed.

Despite some sound advice, I spent as much of the first 24 of his life out here in the scary world as I could just being with him. A smart person probably would have sent him on down to the nursery and get some sleep. And the following day, my body was screaming at me. But my heart needed to cushion the transition from being pregnant to having an infant. It did my soul good to stare into that tiny face and breathe it all in.

Like most people, I revert to old habits while under stress.

It was a rough weekend. There's really no getting around that or hiding it. Being involved in a significant car wreck at 36 weeks of pregnancy sets off all sorts of alarms and problems. And I've got the refrain down pat: we went to the hospital, we got checked out, we're all fine. And we'll be fine. Don't worry. We're fine.

Only, I'm not fine. And the best I can seem to do about it is lie to everyone. It's so easy to say that I'm fine. Except at 2am last night, when I just sat there broken and sobbing, hiding in the dark.

Physically I will be fine. Seat belts can leave a bad bruise and mine did, so I can't lift anything or move too quickly or even sleep comfortably. But it will go away and the laundry can wait until it's better. And that's about it. A nasty, hurts when I breathe, bruise across my chest.

Emotionally, however, I'm just broken. It's not the accident, not really. Yes, it sucked and yes it ruined my weekend and yes I feel horrible that my friend's brand new car may be junkyard bound. But realy, I think this experience is just enough to push me beyond my limits. I was already operating at maximum capacity. Now, we're on overload.

Having some measure of control over things like laundry and housekeeping was keeping me sane. And those things are beyond my ability to impact right now. I felt like I could keep going a few more weeks until things are radically different, and then I could blame hormones and exhaustion and all of it on major surgery and a newborn. And that was ok. Because no one expects you to be all together after major surgery and a newborn, not even me. But I'm falling all apart, with no good excuse, and I'm pretty sure that I can't just keep going anymore. Which is making the whole situation so much worse.

Despite all that, when well meaning people ask if they can help, I tell them "we're good." In part, I say this because there's nothing they can do. Sure, the house is a mess but asking them to clean it would make everything unbearable for me. In part, I say this because I cannot face that level of weakness at this time or I might never recover. It feels like the fake persona I'm letting everyone see is the only thing that's saving me from going over the edge forever.

I'm tired of my own drama but I'm not sure how to change it. So I'm just going to keep trying to ignore it all until it goes away by itself. Or until I hit the point in a few weeks when it's acceptable for me to be an emotional wreck.

Once upon a time, I would have thrown a fit. I accept this as progress.

The thing about family is that we all have some expectations built in. No matter our personal circumstances, experiences, or set up, we come into the situation with stuff. Expectations, judgements, bias. It's part of basic human nature in this societal construct. The word alone evokes such a range of stuff in our head. It's inescapable.

Sometimes I want to confuse the concepts of expectations and hope. But when I consider my extended family, I find those two areas clearly defined. Over time, I've probably lowered my expectations of them. A classic defense mechanism against being hurt by them. I tend towards expecting the not so great outcome. Most days, however, there's spark of optimism in me, and that spark is responsible for hoping that they will exceed my expectations. It seems that once in awhile it works all the right ways and I'm overjoyed. It also seems that most of the time it works out all the wrong ways.

History is a funny thing. It doesn't matter what my father, sisters, brother might say today. Today's words don't change sharing a lifetime together. A part of the puzzle that works into my soul are those people. Nothing changes that, not even death. We change the present, or the future. We can forgive, accept, move on from what's happened before. But changing it - no, that doesn't happen. It's already done.

And so today I find myself in that place where thing worked out the wrong way. My expectations were met while my hopes were dashed. And part of my maturity is acting out as a grown up instead of as a child. That's the expectation I have of myself. It doesn't really soothe that part of me that's quietly crying, feeling rejected and unloved but that is somewhat irrelevant. Only by acting as an adult do I preserve any opportunity to change the future.

For now, though, I'm just going to take a deep breath and try to move on. Sometimes, it's the only path I can see.

I thought this gig got easier with experience. Once again, I was wrong.

Children can be difficult. Each stage of development comes with it's own pitfalls and rewards. But somehow I got the idea that as I grew with my children, as I gathered experience points in this motherhood thing, it would get easier. Funny me. Delusional me, maybe.

Six and half years into this adventure, I'm beginning to realize that when you start with an infant, you start out easy. Address the basic things: food, clothing, shelter, love. Some babies are easier than others, I know (my first was a difficult baby). I just felt like I could work through everything, be generous and loving, and it would all work out. It gets so much more complicated from there.

As a family, we attended an open casket visitation and then funeral service this week. It was my daughter's first personal experience with this sort of ritual. We tried to prepare her for it, using a (quite serendipitous) question about a mortuary we drove by to explain things like embalming, viewing the dead, and funeral rites. Upon approaching the casket the other day, the first question was easy to handle. Then the distractions set in and it seemed like smooth sailing.

Until we hit the car. For some reason Ari thinks that the car is the perfect time for deep meaningful conversations.

I won't get into the nuts and bolts of the conversation. I will tell you that Ari was upset. Confronted with a person's mortality made her perceive a threat to those people that she loves dearly. [Grandpa's earlier attempts at being honest and well-meaning, with comments like "We all go someday. I'll die someday, too." didn't help matters.] And I desperately wanted to stop the car, pull her into my arms, and murmur platitudes assuring her that I would never leave her. That she would spend all her days sheltered in the arms of the ones she loves, never feeling the pain of loss and grief.

But I knew this would be wrong.

On one level, I couldn't bring myself to say this because, frankly, I want my children to outlive me. I want us all to have long, full, rich lives and come to a natural end. To tell my six year old that we would never leave her somehow implies to my brain that she will leave us instead. Short life isn't on my list of things I want for my kids. This is honest and raw and natural.

More than that, I couldn't offer Ari those reassurances because I know life is painful. It's hard. It's cruel sometimes. And I prefer honesty. We don't believe in Santa Clause, perfection, or that everything works out all the time. We do celebrate when things go right, when we try our best, and when the hard stuff reminds us of how good the good stuff is. If I am the one to leave my daughter, I do not want to complicate her grief with lies. I want her to know that I value her, love her, respect her.

So, as hard as it was, I didn't offer empty promises. Instead I followed her lead and did my best to help her through her fear. In the end, she seemed to feel better after deciding what memento she would keep from each of us. She asked for my jewelry box, some of her dad's shirts, her brother's keepsake box. She staked her claim on those things, in case one of us dies.

It took almost all of my energy to calmly progress in this conversation. To accept that she needed to have it. To hear her fear, to lift her up, to promise her these transient material things in case of disaster. Days later, I'm still digesting and processing, and when I can sit and think about it, I go ahead and cry.

The questions just keep getting harder.

All the things I'd like to say get jumbled together with my expectations and trapped inside my head.

Five things to do today:

1. Pick up all the toys littering the house.
2. Load, turn on, unload, repeat re: dishwasher.
3. Teach school.
4. Catch up on school record keeping.
5. Run over to that (new to me) cafe for tomorrow's needed birthday gift.

Isn't that exciting? And seemingly easy to accomplish?

Wait - there's also a piano that needs to be moved into the house. And those overdue library books. And the trip to the post office. And trimming the dog's toenails. The list really does go on.

My life: a fairly accurate representation of what goes on in my head all the time. There's the short list of five (or even one) thing/s I might want to do for myself and my mental well being. Post on my blog. Write an actual poem. Read something that isn't just brain numbing. Work on my decoupage project. Knit. Deeply inhale the steam from my cup of tea. Instead I get tangled up in all the other things. I feel like I'm running an endless maze and I've forgotten the way back.

Some days this is a very sad thing. Some days it's just the way it is. And sure, like most of us, there are things I would change about my life if I could but usually I focus on just accepting and changing things where it is possible. Serenity, anyone?

In the meantime, my words are all jumbled together in my head while my soul is busy living out this life of mine. Weird and all jumbled up together.

When someone calls me antisocial, my whole body tenses and I want to throw up.

When I was in second grade I participated in my First Communion (Catholic). It was a Big Deal. Months of work, frilly white dress, veil, gloves, my own (new) rosary... I even got my picture professionally taken in the whole get up. It's an odd awkward photograph, my dark hair sharply contrasting with all that white material while I bowed my head in a semblance of humility. I believe I've made my point: This was a Big Deal.

First Communion was Big enough that I even got my own party. In my house, party translated into tons of people, ridiculous amounts of food, a beer keg, and a store bought cake. It was tradition. And expected.

But here's the thing. I don't like parties. I don't ever remember liking parties. It was too much. It was overwhelming. The only party I've ever been excited to plan was my wedding reception - and once I did all the obligatory reception things, I did what I wanted for the rest of the night. Which meant I hung out with the people I liked and listened to music I enjoyed. The rest of the invitees were on their own. So I enjoyed about half of my wedding reception. Which is a much higher percentage than most parties, so I count it as a win.

How I digress.

Back to the First Communion Big Deal. This is the first party I remember truly and deeply hating. I was too little to play with the big kids and too big for the little ones. I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable around my drunk relatives (my parents didn't drink, and the difference was shocking to me, even then). There were more grown ups than kids. I was the star of the show so I was supposed to talk to everyone. And worst of all, after putting up with all that frilly white lace dress, gloves, tights, shoes, veil crap, I had to wear another dress for the party.

I hated dresses. I still do (mostly).

As the guests started to arrive my dread grew until it seemed completely unmanageable. I couldn't face the day. And I was too young to articulate any of that. I went all the way to the back of the yard (a good distance from my mom's watchful eye) to hide. I climbed up on an old trailer sitting along the fence. It was the kind with a tongue at one end, two wheels in the middle, and open all around. I was feeling good about the situation until gravity took over, tipped the trailer the other way (like a bad seesaw) and spilled me onto the ground.

I wasn't hurt, but I'd stained my dress. And just like that, a crappy party went to sheer hell. I tried sneaking back into the house - though I have no idea what I was going to do after that - but I got caught by some helpful woman and delivered to my mother. Who was absolutely horrified by my appearance. I had stained my dress. At my very own party.

I was allowed to change into comfortable play clothes and then thrown back into the party. I had to apologize the rest of the day to everyone for my appearance. I had to apologize to my mom for ruining all her hard work. It felt like the rest of the party was one huge punishment for running away in the first place.

I was eight. And this party has been preserved in my memory with amazing clarity - something really unusual for me. I couldn't tell you who my second grade teacher was, what sports I might have played that year, what my favorite game/movie/tv show/book was, or whether or not I liked school. I'm sure some people have all that information stored in their head but mine got misplaced. So the retention of my First Communion party strikes me as significant.

I think it was the beginning. I think it marked the time when my shyness started to become crippling. It was the first party I tried to hide from everyone, and I've spent years hiding at parties ever since. My father used to bang on my bedroom door and tell me to stop being antisocial, come out and enjoy the party.

I suspect that many people who think they know me wouldn't use the word "shy" as a description. But it's true. I work really hard at overcoming this feeling but the truth is that it's incredibly difficult for me to walk into an unfamiliar situation, meet new people, make connections with the people around me. Even now, after 7 years of hosting a Christmas shindig for 15-20 family members, I have to eventually go hide in the kitchen or risk a total freak out. I've overcompensated at times and found myself in some really bad situations. Sometimes I totally fail and cancel at the last minute.

It's not that I want to stay an arms length away from everyone. It's just that sometimes I don't feel like I have any choice.

In a world full of noise.

There's a deep part of me, strangely silent, that yearns for words. The right words or wrong words, awkward or flowing, it doesn't matter. The silence is deafening and it is echoing through my soul.

In a bad way.