E.C. Stilson's Blog, page 81

A Baby in a Laundry Basket

I was fifteen and so was she.  I won't sit here and lie.  I won't say we were best friends or that I wasn't curious.  The point is, my friend had a baby. We were close enough, she told me why she dropped out of school.  I knew the whole story, how she'd gotten messed up on drugs.  She'd met some thirty-year-old at Liberty Park and gotten pregnant in the back of his cheap car.  The whole thing made me sick--how romantic she tried making it sound, like it was destiny--but despite everything, I have to admit that after she had the baby I was very curious.



    I'd liked that girl.  Two years before, when we were in seventh grade, I remember having a crazy-amazing moment with her.  We were downtown on the roof of a movie theater.  It was illegal and we shouldn't have been there, but my friend needed to talk.  The theater was an old, faded pink, even the ladder we climbed was a rusty pink.  I didn't want to get caught and was in such a hurry I almost slipped a couple times, scrambling up the long ladder.  We made it to the roof though.  We sat on the hot cement and talked for hours.  Her mom had just died from an overdose and my friend swore she'd rather croak than do drugs.   

    I kept saying I was sorry.  I couldn't imagine losing a parent.

    My friend just bawled and said life isn't meant to be fun.  It's hard and that's what makes some people so bad.  She said sometimes she worried she'd be bad too, if she let the sadness come in.

    I've always been filled with rainbows and sunshine.  I told her all she needed was God and a good attitude to get her through, but apparently I didn't know squat, or she never listened because less than a year later she was completely wasted on drugs.

    So, in ninth grade, I went to see her and the baby.  I rang her grandparents' doorbell.  They lived in a nice part of town and I felt strange just being there.  Her grandma answered the door.  "You're Elisa?" she asked.  "I've heard so many nice things about you."

    I walked into their house.  It smelled like apples and cinnamon.  I knew her grandma was made of gold, but that couldn't make up for anything, not after I saw my friend.  She rested on the couch.  Her skin pulled tightly over her gaunt features and she looked frail from more than having a baby.  I gasped when I saw her graying face and puffy eyes.  "Are you okay?" I asked.

    "Me, man.  Hell yeah.  You know I'm doing great."

    "So . . .," I wanted to leave.  She was higher than her mom the day she overdosed.  "Maybe I should . . . " then I remembered why I'd come. "Maybe I should see the baby.  Did you have a boy or a girl?"

    "Don't know.  Don't care."

    "What?  You don't know?"  I couldn't imagine her not caring.  She'd changed so much.

    She pointed toward a laundry basket at the side of the room.  It was filled with towels and for the first time I noticed, the towels were moving.  I walked over, tears flooding my eyes; I was so worried about what I'd see.  I paused after I got there and wanted to scream.  "You put your baby in a laundry basket?  You . . . why would you do that?"  The baby mewed like a kitten.  It kicked off a towel and only wore a diaper.

    "It's not my damn baby.  The family's coming up for it later.  Why waste money on a crib?  Why put it somewhere nice when it ain't even mine?"

    But a towel--she couldn't even give the baby a blanket?  "I wasn't trying to accuse you. . . .," I said.  "It's not an open adoption is it?"

    "Hell no.  I refuse to be like my mom.  She stayed in my life and look what I've turned into.  I won't do that to a kid."  She rolled to her side, that friend of mine who looked worse than death.  She pulled a cigarette out of her pajama pocket and started smoking it, right there on her grandmother's Victorian couch.

    I wished I wouldn't have gone there; the whole thing shocked me.  I couldn't fathom having a baby at fifteen.  I couldn't think about being on drugs.  I couldn't imagine losing my mom and my virginity.  The whole situation hurt, especially because I knew how far my friend had fallen.  

    I gazed at her again, then stepped back.  It was like seeing a ghost.  She'd been so beautiful in seventh grade, but after having that baby, she looked old and haggard--just like her mom before she died.

    I left as her grandmother yelled and took the smokes away.  I'd been traumatized, by a girl who wouldn't look at her baby, by a grandma who was more concerned with baking than holding her own great-grandchild.  I couldn't get over the baby in the basket, or my friend who turned into her own druggie mother.  

    I walked back to my house.  I didn't want to see something like that ever again.  But the fact remained, I couldn't erase the memory.  

    I never found out what sex the baby was.  I never held the baby, or gave the love it deserved.  I couldn't comprehend why the grandmother didn't hold her great-grandchild, I guess I didn't understand until I had Zeke. . . .




I woke up this morning, thinking someone out there needed to read this story--an old blog post of mine.  It's a sad memory, but I realized something very important when I read between the lines.  Maybe one of the people who  needed to read this was me.  

This single line says so much: "I refuse to be like my mom.  She stayed in my life and look what I've turned into."

I'll explain tomorrow, how this story applies to so many lives.

Also, if you'd like to read Zeke's story, please go HERE.

In closing: What have you taken from this? 

Have you ever lived in a car?

    Have you ever lived in a car, with a man you hardly knew? (Guys, if you have, we'll understand.) 



    Ever been so cold because the two-door Isuzu's ripped-up seats bit into your arms and back, and you couldn't afford to keep the car running all night?



    Loved someone who just wanted to be friends?



    Have you had to sleep next to said person--IN THE BACK OF A FREEZING CAR?  (Who saw that question coming, right?  YOU should get an award.)

    

    "Put your arms around me," I wished I could tell Cade because it was flippin' cold--and I wanted him to admit that he liked me as more than a friend.  YET--the man didn't admit anything for months!  And at times, those feelings were less than complimentary.

    We saved up and bought plane tickets to Hawaii.  I thought we'd been through a real adventure in the western states--too bad I had no idea what Hawaii would hold.



    Since my book H omeless in Hawa ii just came out, I've been remembering where I was during the months when I was homeless.


 


   So, in early January, twelve years ago . . . that's where I was.




Where were you twelve years ago? 




    Well, that's it for today.  But I did write a guest post that I'd REALLY like for you to read--if you have time.  Here it is:


Author in the Making
 



Also, a fun review for Best of ECWrites went up this week.  You can read that HERE.

I'm Like a Bag of Sugar

"You're like a bag of sugar," my husband said with a sultry gaze that DID NOT fit his statement.





    "A bag . . . of sugar?" I asked, walking across the kitchen.  Our four kids had fallen asleep and it was the perfect opportunity to tease Cade.  "Are you calling me a bag?" I looked toward the pantry.

    He nodded, his gaze faltering a bit. "But in a good way."

    "Really. How big of a bag?  A huge, burdensome bag that no one wants to haul inside?  The kind of sugar no one has room for in their pantry--let alone their lives?"

    "Ummm. . . ." He stepped back. "The perfect size."

    "Perfect as in flawless, or pity-me perfect?" I asked and he blinked.  "And sugar?  Why did you pick sugar?  Because I can't get a tan? And I'm blindingly white?"

    He blinked again.  "You don't have tan lines--that's good, right?"

    "Why are you suddenly asking the questions.  I'm the one who should be insulted here.  You just called me a bag . . ."

    "Of sugar.  A bag OF SUGAR.  I was trying to say you were sweet."

    "Past tense?  I was sweet?"

    He gulped, and his confounded look broke through my act.  I nearly fell on the floor, laughing so hard I could have peed my pants.

    "You were joking?" he asked, edging to the other side of the kitchen table.

    I finally stood, still laughing. "Yeah.  Thanks, Babe, for saying I'm like a bag of sugar." After wiping the tears from my mirthful eyes, I sauntered over to him.  "Best compliment ever."

    He shook his head, still unsure.  "Fine. I gave you a compliment. Now you can give me one.  What food do I remind you of?" he asked.

    "Well--" I cleared my throat.  What was HE playing at? "You remind me of . . . of . . . " I looked around the kitchen, stalling for time. There were some doggy treats on the counter--that wouldn't work.  Or the miniature wieners--that'd be the wrong choice as well.  What about butter--too soft.  Eggs?--too feminine.  Pudding--too mushy.  Sardines--wait, who bought sardines?!  Then I thought of how he makes life shine and how everything is better with him around.  He's the icing in a triple-layer cake--the cream-cheese filling that holds everything together! Or the sweetest part of my morning mocha. "You're like whipping cream!" The words just came out.

    "Why?" he paused, his mind obviously whirring.  "Because you think I'm whipped!  That you can walk all over me? Tease me, constantly?"  

    "What? No!  How could you twist that?  Whipping cream, ya know.  I meant you're fun and special and . . ."

    "Fattening?"  He smirked then, such a freakin' Casanova.

    I cleared my throat.  "You win.  That's it, we should never compare each other to food, ever again."

    "Agreed," Cade said, still smiling as we walked hand-in-hand out of the damn kitchen.    

    And to think, I used to love sugar and whipping cream; now I hate them. 



    If you had to compare yourself to a food, what would you pick?



    I want to be like potatoes, because they're freakin' delightful.

conquering the world . . .

Sometimes I feel like I can conquer the world, with or without my blow-up bra. Maybe I haven’t offended anyone with my honest memoirs or my child-like words—today.  Take the woman who said my son would still be alive if I had more faith . . . or the person who tried converting me to Mormonism as my son took his last breaths.  I wrote about them—every juicy, damn thing.  Yeah . . . they were offended—like I was so many years ago.  The circle of pain.  But I closed the circle, by hurting them too. . . . Does that make it okay?     

    There are some days when I feel at peace with my choices because I hope my honesty will help someone else. Plus, maybe no one cares that I say the wrong things at the wrong times, or that things come out wrong. And I don’t have to worry about my faults because it’ll be fine—someplace else.

    Then there are days like today. . . . When I get yelled at by complete strangers who don’t care that it’s been a long week, or decade.  And I only had time to put mascara on one set of lashes before the kids were tugging and pulling, begging me to take them to the store.  Most strangers don’t care.  Instead I might walk out of the grocery store and some jerk will be cussing because he says I parked too close to his car.  The truth is, he’s old and has a patch on his left eye because he got some type of surgery. And even though he weighs more than a scale can count, he blames me since he can’t get into his car.  He keeps screaming, calling me a “B” and then switching to the F-word.  Truth is though, he can’t see me because of that stupid patch and the fact that I’m jiggling the keys—frantic—on the other side of the car.
    So I feel like a pansy and decide to get brave. I go to the other side—that used to be my blind side—and I look that mean man in the face.  And he kind of softens like I’m not the type he’d expect.  So I stare into his eye—just the one.  And I’m not even nervous anymore because he probably has this problem a lot, you know, being overweight and sick.  So he has to park close to the entrances—but can never get back into his car after people park.
    “I banged your door,” he mumbles.  “But it’s your damn fault for parking so close!”
    I don’t care anymore that my kids were pulling on my favorite pants—the only pair that cost full price AND don’t have holes.  I also don’t care that my head hurts and makeup only lines one eye.  I kind of bite my lip and whisper. “It’s okay about my door. It’s just a car.  I’m sorry I parked so close.”  Even though it wasn’t really all that close at all.  “Happy New Year.”
    His good eye squints, scrutinizing everything about me.
    Then I get into the car and the man crosses his fatty arms as I drive away.  But as I look in the rearview mirror, I swear the guy was biting his lip too, feeling bad for being so mean, to a stranger.

I had boobs for a day!

One of my best friends called. She said, “My fourth-grader is wearing a bra now.”
    I pulled the phone away from my head and looked at it for a sec. “What?”
    “A bra.”
    Well, didn't that beat all.
    “But I didn't want to buy her one of those sex bras from Victoria Secret. So we went and got her a regular one at the kids' store in the mall.”
    That was as funny as Hell, how she called it a sex bra. “That's just insane," I said. "My kid's in third grade and she still looks like a baby.”
    “Well, just get ready for it. A girl in my daughter's class already started her period.”

    After I gathered the shock from my voice, I asked, “So, she's wearing a training bra. Looks like Santa came five years early . . . this year. He must a brought her her two front boobs and her teeth.”
    “Except it's not a training bra. She's in a size 32A.”
    My mouth jarred open. What the hell! That's the size I wear. I guess it's 'cause I'm so skinny. I don't look like I just escaped from a religious cult or anything, but still . . . “Flip, she's the same size as me. I'm no better than a board with water rings and that just proves it!”
    My friend paused, not knowing what to say. “Oh, honey. She doesn't look nearly as big as you do.” As if she's even checked out my boobs. So basically this kid has mosquito boobs like I do, but I shouldn't be sad because I look bigger—that's fantastic. I wonder what God was thinking when He made me. Maybe He thought, “Hey, I'll give this one an indentation. At least she'll have something in common with Goldie Hawn, and that can't be all bad.”
   
I thought about all of this when a delivery man knocked on the front door. They were these big resounding knocks. Boom. Boom. Boom. Everything shook in the house except my boobs.

    "Is there an Elisa here?" he asked when I opened the door.

    "That's me," I said a bit stunned.  He handed me a huge box from Canada and I kinda felt like I'd finally made it in life.  After all, getting mail from Canada is epic.

    I took the box to the front room and looked at the return address.  Pat Hatt!  No way--that guy's part-genius, part Seuss!  You can see what I mean HERE .  What could he have sent me?

    I gingerly opened the box, not wanting to ruin anything that's been in Canada! Then I pulled out a package that read Miracle Product! Instant Breasts WITHOUT THE PAIN.  

    So Pat Hatt is a genius AND a saint.  I opened the package, thinking it was Miracle Grow.  Maybe I'd stuff it down my bra and become Aphrodite. But when I saw the actual product, I laughed out loud.  Mr. Patt had bought me a . . . Dun Dun Dun . . . blow up bra!

    He's hilarious and it was a pretty funny joke.  I bet they weren't really meant to use.  But I'm a curious sort of gal and I had to put the suckers on.  

    Can you believe it actually looked good?  They did, really!

    So, I was the Little Mermaid, finally getting legs instead of a tail.  Err . . . I mean, boobs instead of desert plains.  

    I wore my blow up bra all day--since magic does exist.  And can I tell you that after all these years of dreaming and scheming, hoping and wishing . . .

    I HATED having boobs! 

   

    #1 I could find all of the dirt bags in a mile radius, because they kept staring at my boobs.  (This made me giggle since I was just made of hot air!  Take that, creeps!)



    #2 Boobs are cumbersome.  I tried playing my violin and the boobs got in the way.   



    #3 I am a sporty chick. I like being able to jump and play, fit into tight spaces.  For instance, that day an idiot parked an inch from my van.  I almost popped a boob.    



    That was the bra's only flaw--fear of popping.  Oh and denting!  Cade hugged me and one side indented.  Can you see it in the picture below?  I tried pushing in the other side, but then it was dented and the other wasn't.  


Yep, the cycle of death.






Anyway, this whole thing got me thinking about the crazy,

       ridiculous expectations we put on ourselves.

Don't believe me? Look at this poor kid!

  


 

So back to the story, after having boobs for a day, I'm not impressed.

God made me who I am for a reason.  I'm not the cookie-cutter mold.  And maybe that's actually something to be proud of.
  And this doesn't go just for me.  We should ALL be thankful for who we are.

Life is short, why spend it wishing we could be different when the fact is, we're lucky to be alive.




So today I took a silly stand--which is really a big step for me.

This is me.  No makeup, not even a padded bra (shocker).  


 




I'm glad I got that blow up bra--thanks, Pat.  You made me realize, 

I know I have my flaws--we all do . . .

but I'm too hard on myself, and maybe (just maybe) I'm okay the way I am.




BUT I still have the blow up bra and if I regress, I can always put it on and remember why I hated having boobs for a day!




Signing off,

Elisa 

I Got Implants--in the Mail!

LOOK what I got for Christmas!



   



Now before you go thinking something that isn't, READ ON!

After all, these puppies came in the mail!


Have you ever felt like you aren't good enough? If you could just have this or that, maybe things would be better? I wrote about this last week here: Do you ever feel worthless?



    Well, I recently learned an amazing lesson--let me explain. . . .

 

Everyone who's read this blog for a while knows how insecure I am/was about my boobs.

Here's a perfect example:





At the time, we’d been back in school for a week. I remember because I saw Sarah dressing in the locker room; she was the girl in high school whom everyone wanted to be.

    I always tried changing far in the back where no one would see me. The teachers made three classes change with each other in a big room. I’d rush to my corner, where rows of yucky green lockers stretched. Normally no one bothered me, but that day was different; it was horrible.
    Sarah saw me changing before I even put my shirt on. She pulled my skinny elbow and forced me to stand in front of everyone. I still had my polyester pants on—although it was the 90’s not the 70’s—but everyone just stared at my training bra. Sarah laughed so hard she bent over. I tried getting away, but her two friends, one who looked like a poodle and the other a giant of a girl, grabbed me, and held me there.
    “Hey, look at this,” Sarah sniggered. “Elisa’s got a training bra. She’s got the smallest tits I’ve ever seen.” 

     I felt really small inside AND out, but even though I wanted to hate her, I thought how beautiful God made her. You see, Sarah wasn’t your average beauty; no, she reached beauty queen status before even being a junior.
    As she made fun of me, in front of all those girls, I watched her hair. She had red hair, not Kool-Aid red like I dyed mine, but real red. It was cut into an amazing style, and as if that wasn’t enough, she had dark-tanned skin that almost glowed next to my whiteness.
    I zoned out then, as the girls continued ridiculing me, I focused on a memory of playing the violin at church.

    The Giant and Poodle-face pushed me back toward the corner and broke my trance. “Yeah,” the Giant yelled. “Bible Girl probably lost her virginity to her own finger.”
    A lot of the girls laughed at that one. I tried showing they couldn’t get me down. “Nice one,” I said to the Giant, and when she looked at me she rolled her eyes.

    I put my shirt on fast after that. Then everyone left, and I crumpled onto the cement by the lockers. The air from the vent blew cold on my cheeks and smelled like sweat. I put my face in my hands and sighed thinking I’d never understand people. I couldn’t figure why Sarah, the Giant, and Poodle-face had made fun of me. I’d been nice, but it was never good enough. No matter how much I had changed since junior high, or how many times I waved at them in the hall, it was always the same; they were always mean.
    As I sat there wishing to be back at church, I pulled my Bible from my orange backpack. I opened it and can you believe, the thing fell to the perfect place! Philippians 4:8.


Finally, brethren, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is of good repute, if there is any excellence and if anything worthy of praise, dwell on these things.



It made me feel better. Not that part of me stopped wishing Sarah and her friends might get hit by lightning but because I knew God was looking out for me. I just needed to focus on the good things.
    I stared at my Bible and smiled. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing to be called Bible Girl. God and my Bible were the only factors that got me through.
    The truth is, though, something changed that day. It wasn’t a drastic change, like going from Jekyll to Hyde. It was something small, but a step nonetheless. It was the first time I thought about running away.




That's the beginning of Bible Girl & the Bad Boy .








    This has been a big issue for me--not because I really want implants, but because part of me feels flawed without them.

    It wasn't until last week that I realized something.  I shouldn't be asking why God made me so flat. Instead, I should be asking why I can't be happy with the way He made me.

 

    I needed you to understand that to prepare you for what happened--it is a bit hilarious, involving a mysterious package I got in the mail.



    To be continued tomorrow in the story: I Had Boobs for a Day!

Prophetic Child! MUST WATCH as he predicts the end of the world.

 

COMPLETELY unscripted. 

Because let's face it--being four makes it hard to remember endless dialogue! 

 

Really though, the Scribe and Hippie are training the Zombie Elf to be an actor. Don't believe me? Watch this.

 

 

His single word "SUCKS" was so well-timed and perfectly cued. He did a great job, but I have to admit that my favorite parts were the outtakes--all nine of them because they all ended the same and made me laugh so hard I could have peed my pants. 

 

Yes, I'm terrible. 

 

Take 2
 


 

Take 5








Well, I'm taking off to play my violin and speak at another school today. I'm so glad the world didn't end. ;)

Can you watch this video without laughing?

    This video makes me smile.  I love it when kids get the giggles.  The Zombie Elf is such a ham!  We took this shortly after they woke me from my nap the other day.

All I Want for Christmas--Featuring the Scribe

    You've heard about her crazy antics, now you get to see her in person--and the Zombie Elf who always likes being the star of these videos.




Look what else I found on the camera. . . . 



(I LOVE his little reaction after she hugs him.  AND I'd still like to know who gave him gum!)










If you'd like to watch another video like this--where these darling hooligans play a prank on me, please go HERE .

Should my kids get coal for Christmas?

After this video, I discovered my four children hooligans have been making videos with our camera.

    They made me smile--even if this particular video shows how devious they can be.

    I'll post one each day for this week.

    I hope you'll enjoy.