Life as a mother

I remember daydreaming about marriage and babies like any other young girl learning her identity as a budding female. Society has certain restrictions in place, what is expected clashes with what one wants. At fifteen you may have an inkling of what path you might be on, the possibility of other paths makes life interesting. Choices create the fork in the road, and we then continue on with an inner compass leading us. Then one day you get slapped. Life laughs at your plans and you grow up through force. For me, that day happened when at the tender age of sixteen I was told by the doctor that I would probably never have kids.

I grew up sickly…always in and out of hospitals for a host of problems. I was asthmatic, anemic, hypoglycemic, fragile, susceptible to viral infections, respiratory issues, and severely underweight. I didn’t understand the complications of being constantly on medicines and in hospital beds. I was a late bloomer, and the female end of growing up was hard on me and my physical weaknesses. Still, my eyes blinded while wide open when the doctor blurted out I couldn’t have kids, my chances were less than grim. My first period practically hospitalized me, and a new wave of medicines came into my life.

I hated that doctor.

As I grew older, tried to take better care of myself. I slowly came back to life. Letting my heart heal and accept the anger at the situation. I couldn’t have kids without major life risk and complications for both me and the baby. I threw myself once again into my academia and my writing. Trying to live like any teenager yes, but I hugged my security. I lived on the side of caution, never wandering too far from the line. Books were my solace. I didn’t party or go out much. My friends were few. I was known, since I was pretty enough and kind. I was too shy, timid, and soft spoken for more infamous notoriety. I lived in my classes, my academic clubs, my straight A report cards, and my books.

One green eyed boy changed that. I’m not much of a romantic, and ours is a less than perfect romance at this point. We met when I was on the cusp of turning 17, and he became my rebellion in a sense. I learned to peek out of my shell, and smile. He brought me out of myself. As high school ended, college began, he proposed, and I regretted. I regretted not being able to be complete. I regretted not being able to shine brighter. I regretted what I may never have, never be able to complete in life. My life with him. I told him about the chances of a family, in hopes of scaring him away. Yet he stayed. He’s still as stubborn to this day.

I accepted his proposal. We made it public. My mother knew my pain. I instead dived deeper into the world of academia at the university. We went on planning with our modest plans, the wedding dreams, and laughing while I tried not to be buried under my beloved books.

As our wedding drew closer, and we had a simple ceremony in the court, I thought my life could still blossom into something more with my family, friends, and him by my side. Then I got sick. My mother took me to the hospital, and as I lay in a bed waiting for further action from the emergency room staff I fell asleep from fever.

My mother was the one who woke me. The nurse had given her some news, news that would have otherwise made a mother happy for her daughter.

I was pregnant.

My mother had a strained look on her face, she spoke with me and then left to call him. My husband, my fiancé as my parents saw it since the church wedding hadn’t taken place, came in. He knew I was sick, but my mother had given me the respect to share the news with him myself. I told him as tears streamed down my face. I was pregnant. I was pregnant! I knew the road ahead would be difficult, my body was not ready for a baby. My life was not ready for a baby. I don’t know if our relationship, as young as we were, was ready for a baby. Yet God had graced me with my own miracle.

I would begin my life as a mother.

Writing 101: Home Sweet, Over-Crowded, Home (Sept. 28)

Walking down the street, headed home with a heavy backpack and a smile, I strolled with my face glowing. I saw him in math class, Mr. Chocolate Chip sat him as my partner.

It seems as I blinked and stood in front of the gate leading to that wooden door, which led to my domain. I stared. I stood there and stared, wondering what (if anything) I would reveal to my niece. Normally a niece and an aunt don’t have as close a relationship as me and her, but alas we live in the same bedroom. She is only two years younger than me.

Walking up the long, straight pavement walkway amongst the shadows of the Chinese oak trees I felt the warmth radiating from the small yellow kitchen where my mother was making homemade flour tortillas. I could smell the frijoles, arroz, and pollo wafting from the kitchen window that faced the front yard.


I try to stay true to my voice as I write. I tend to live in the moment and ride the emotional ride that is coursing through my body, letting it wash over my entire being and feeling it down to the dark pit inside me. I want to bathe in the emotion of the time, and let it take me away. It’s easier that way. I bleed, I write, and then I try to heal. If not, well then the scar paints another slash across the landscape of my inner being. It’s hard to try to get your work on the page. I feel as I’m cutting into the depth of me, and letting the blood spill on the page. At times, my poetry and my prose it’s more than blood. Blood oxidizes and has it’s own little death. Yet my words, they don’t die. When I release them onto the page, they take on a life of their own and give birth to more emotions inside of those who read them. They change and grow in the minds and hearts of others. I want to touch the world. I hope my work connects. I hope my writing steals a piece of them and then my work and their emotions give new birth to more art. I bleed on the page so that I may keep my sanity and not scream into the silence. Do not let your soul die. It is the one immortal piece that extends past all dimensions. My words are but a mere stain on the canvas of this life, but it changes the outcome. It affects the ever lasting, ever changing product of creation and existence. I write. I breathe.