Memorial Day - Time for Thought

I want to apologize on the front end for this post will probably ramble, something difficult for a person with a degree in English. I'm up late reading another Jodi Picoult book, "Harvesting the Heart." As I'm reading, I'm wondering why I always end up reading books that are somewhat depressing, very introspective, and often about psychologically confused women. I even asked my therapist once why I always chose these types of books. They consume my mind, cause me to feel that I AM the main character, a psychologically confused woman. Most recently, I read a book "The Almost Moon" which was about a woman who had a mentally ill mother. At the very beginning of the book, she kills her older mother, then goes through strange rituals of bathing her mother, dressing her mother, and eventually accidentally dropping her down the basement stairs. As she struggles with the relationship she had with her mother and struggles with the woman she has become, she took me through dark places, places with which I couldn't identify and yet with which I seemed to identify. (No, my mother is not mentally ill!) Afterwards, I needed someone to read the book, to discuss it with me. It was so strange.

Shortly after finishing that book, I moved on to a book about a woman who was a Harvard professor and developed early onset Alzheimer's. As I read the book from her point of view, I was drawn into the thoughts and confusion of Alice in "Still Alice." As you can imagine, this book had no happy ending and left me feeling confused as well.

While Rowland and I were in Boston, I read a book called "Our Last Summer." It, too, dealt with a young, dysfunctional girl and a sister who was dying of heart disease as an older teen. Upon putting the book away, I laid in bed next to my husband and cried, telling him that I, too, was afraid that I was going to die young as I've been a smoker off and on since I was 20. Surely, my few stolen cigarettes here and there would not lead me to an early death of lung cancer. I could hardly wait to get home to my children. I held my precious Jia, wondering how she would ever be able to survive if something were to happen to me.

Rowland encouraged me to pick some happy books. I always enjoying reading a good mystery so I read a couple from one of my favorite authors, "Hide" and "Alone." While they were both excellent books, "Alone" once again took me into a world of a woman who had been horribly abused at a young age and had major psychological problems.

Finally, I read "The Double Life of Isabel Bookbinder" which was actually a very frivolous and funny book. I wasn't sad when it ended and can't wait for the next book to be published. Unfortunately, that was the author's first novel so I may have a little while to wait.

A friend suggested Janet Evanovich's books about Stephanie Plum. They're numbered 1 - 12, and although I bought the first two, Jodi Picoult's book was still calling my name. I've spent most of the day reading her book, a book about a woman whose mother left her when she was young and who doesn't feel that she has the capacity to care for her newborn child. Eventually, she, too, succumbs to her own private demons and leaves her not-very-patient husband and three-month old child. She's still on her journey, and to be honest, I'm reading as fast and furious as I can, praying for a happy ending.

So why do these books affect me so strongly? I assume it's because of my own insecurities, my own struggles with not ever feeling good enough, not ever feeling like I do things as well as other wives and mothers, not ever feeling that I have the same energy as the rest of the world seems to have. Is that my medication? Is it my fight against depression? Is it my wrong view of myself? Or could it be that I just love my family so intensely that I feel overwhelmed at times, that I NEED to hold on to every moment, and it wears me out?

One thing I do know is that I love my children fiercely. Each one of them is so special to me in unique ways. Jia still clings to me, always seeming fearful that one day I won't come back. She has the most precious giggle, and she loves snuggling with her blankie, her beary, and her momma. I'm sad that I'm losing her to all-day school in July. Will she be okay? Will I be okay?

Little Kitty is the daughter I never thought that God would allow me. I remember her ultrasound, and I still never believed she was a girl until I held her in my arms. She is so full of life, singing and dancing, being overly dramatic about almost everything, and enjoying her friends immensely. I love that she still gives me big hugs and wants to have "dates" with just me.

Then, there's my precious William. He was such a strong-willed little boy, forced to grow up too quickly as he was only 16 months old when his little sister was born. He would follow me around the house when he was only nine months old, whining and crying until I would hold him. Even now, he has the softest place in his heart for me. He searches me out to tell me that he loves me, to give me hugs. When I'm sad, he feels responsible (although I definitely tell him that he's not) and loves on me until I can put back on my happy face.

Lastly, there's my firstborn Carson, my soon-to-be high-schooler. We had four wonderful years together before there were any other children. Actually, after Carson and all of the fun we had together, I didn't know if I would ever have any more children. He made me a momma, what I'd always wanted to be. He was my "toot-a-bootus," and we would sing and dance and watch Barney for hours on end. Now, he has my brother Douglas' sense of humor. I think that he is the funniest person whom I know. He fills my heart with laughter and joy when he hangs out with me. There's just something about that first baby!

I couldn't end without mentioning the love of my life. We've been through so much in our fifteen+ years of marriage, and we always come out stronger on the other side. He's my best friend. I miss him a lot these days because I'm so consumed with the kids and the house. I love the times when he talks to me, when he tells me what he's thinking, when he encourages me, when he demonstrates his love and, even more, his like for me. May God grant us many, many more years together on this Earth. Rowland is wise beyond his years, my rock, my Prince Charming, the one person I desire to spend time with over anyone else in the world. When he chooses me to take to a movie or out to dinner or to run to the store with me or to sing with him on Sundays, I feel truly CHOSEN. His holding my hand can make all of the stress in my body disappear. His arms around me make me feel like I can make it through the rest of a hard day, like I can relax as the world goes on around me.

So back to the original question. Why do I keep choosing these contemplative books? Perhaps there's something inside of me that fears losing myself, not being able to give enough of myself to those people who mean the most to me. Perhaps I'm afraid that when my children are grown, they won't love me like I love them. Perhaps life is too good, and I feel that I must keep in touch with the reality of just how much I could lose.

Perhaps I should follow my wise husband's advice and finish this book, then go on to some fluff. After all, I want to enjoy each day and fill each day with laughter so that one day, when I'm no longer here, my children and my husband will remember that I made them laugh, that I danced around the house listening to my dance music that they all laugh at, that I loved each one of them with the fiercest of a momma's love.