1st Literacy Narrative

Life's Literature: An Intimate Sliver

I was raised with a love of reading. I believe that if a parent loves to read and passes this passion along to their children, it will continue on for generations. One of my earliest memories is of my grandmother reading to me from a collection of well worn nursery rhymes. The multi-colored pages crackled, some ripped and frayed. My grandmother recorded me reciting "Little Miss Muffet" when I was about three years old. I still love listening to it...my voice sounds so small and I mispronounce some words.

My mother was very close to her parents and we spent a lot of time with them when I was growing up. We ate together, read together and danced through the house to eight tracks of the Glenn Miller Band. I was nine when I realized how cancer-stricken my family was. My grandmother, Reva, a now eight-time survivor, was battling her forth stint with cancer at that time. That summer I spent hours at the quaint library that sits around the corner from my grandparents’ home. Day after day during summer break I researched cancer the dreadful disease. I came away from that experience with no fear and an acceptance that one day I would hear the words that have been spoken to many surrounding me.

My awkward early teens were spent mooning over Elvis, reading about hair bands and movie stars in Tiger Beat. My room was covered with posters, my friends and I traded them like boys trade baseball cards. It was all about teased hair, French-rolled pants and Sweet Valley High. I watched soap operas, read romance novels and made up true love stories with my little sister.

My senior year of high school I was seventeen and fascinated by criminology. I wanted to be a criminal psychologist. I devoured book after book regarding famous murders and serial killers. I wrote a lengthy paper about a famous murder and trial referred to as “The Trial of the Century.” I was spellbound by the killers’ mind, deliberateness and cockiness. Shortly after high school, I watched a movie where Sigourney Weaver played an agoraphobic criminal psychologist. It terrified me. Thoughts that had never previously entered my mind now became forefront, “When I have a family, would I really want to be a criminal psychologist? Would I live in fear of some crazed lunatic coming after myself or my family?” It was surprising to have these thoughts as having children was not a priority to me. I didn’t particularly like children, could never see myself as a mother and to this day am not fond of some.

During my early twenties I played hard and rarely gave a thought to having a family. My first pregnancy was not planned. Honestly neither of them was. I tend to joke “I’m terrible at taking pills, meet my children.” My boyfriend and I fought the night before I took the pregnancy test. Prospective parenthood scared both of us, creating a tension so acute that anything was bound to set it off. The next morning the test results read positive. The elation was bubbling up inside of me. My thoughts racing, I opened the door to the living room to share the exciting news with my boyfriend. I said the two words that would forever change our lives, “I’m pregnant.” I sat, shaking with nerves, as I awaited his response. He covered his eyes and said the four words I never thought I’d hear “You’ve ruined my life.” I was twenty five when I became pregnant with my now oldest child.

Throughout my pregnancy I read numerous books regarding what to expect during pregnancy and what to expect once the baby arrived. Week by week I could read what was happening inside my growing belly….both amazing and frightening. I was terrified of S.I.D.S. to a level of fear that is hard to explain. Any small step I could take to prevent it, I did. Suddenly I understood why my mother would sneak into my room and check if I was breathing at night.

Sunday, September 29, 2002, I was forty two weeks pregnant and miserable. I went grocery shopping with a good friend for that evening’s dinner of Italian sausage and sauerkraut. We were walking to the car when it started. A slow pain rose thru my belly and I could feel my muscles contract. I was admitted into the Labor and Delivery September 30, 2002 at 1:00 am. Twenty two hours later I had an emergency c-section and Blythe Reva came into the world.

I can’t find the words to describe what happens when a mother holds her child for the first time. There are millions of words in the world and it’s hard for me to find any that can express the power of that feeling. The first time I held Blythe I shook, whether from a side effect of the epidural or my fear I’ll never know. That is the moment I knew what love was. Only mothers would truly know what I mean when I say that. Everything pales in comparison to holding a child that is part you for the very first time. The fear melts away and a protectiveness that will only grow takes its place.

In February 2005 I was pregnant again. A week straight I had stopped every day on my way home from work for Twinkies. Who needs EPT when you have a daily craving for Twinkies? Twenty weeks into my pregnancy I laid on the paper lined bed as the ultrasound technician applied a cool jelly on my protruding belly. Only a minute passed when she excused herself from the room. I lay there, heart clenching in my throat as I awaited the technician’s return.

Horrible thoughts darted thru my mind. “Was something wrong with my baby?” It was my biggest fear. The technician re-entered the room with news I wasn’t expecting….Twins. Two baby boys. My hysterical laughter rang through the hallways of the doctors’ office. In less than twenty weeks I would be a mother of three children, ages three and under. I immersed myself into any literature I could find on multiples. Maybe it was my interest in the two lives brewing inside me or maybe it was the fear of what would happen once they arrived.

The twins were born on October 17, 2005, surprising us all when the first baby was a girl. The second baby was a boy and he became my grandfather’s namesake. My grandfather, John Clifton, died from lymphoma when I was eight months pregnant. I didn't realize until I held them in my arms for the first time how much more a mother's love can grow.

I traded in my romance novels for nursery rhymes and Sandra Boynton books. Staying up until the middle of the night, lost in a good book was no longer an option. I sneaked in snippets while the kids took a nap or were in bed for the night. I would nod off after a few pages in, exhausted. It would take me weeks to finish a book, where now that the kids are older, it takes me a day or two.

I am always on the lookout for new authors. I rely heavily on my friends and colleagues recommendations. Many had enthused over “The Shack”. Reading the back of the book I knew it was not the type of book that I would normally read. I picked it up in Wal-mart and promptly returned it to the shelf. Later, a friend gave “The Shack” to me and I felt awkward, not wanting to accept it. It sat in my car for months.

I was out of books to read and there it sat. “The Shack” is about a father who is angry with God for the tragedy that befalls his youngest child, a daughter. The father leaps to the rescue of his two older children and in a split second, the daughter is taken. Only her red dress was found on the floor of a shack close to where the family was camping. The tears ran down my face clouding my vision during what is referred to as “The Great Sadness.” My heart clenched as I felt the pain that a parent surely would feel when a child is taken in an unimaginable manner. I recall getting out of my bed, walking softly into my children’s rooms. Kissing them gently, whispering “I love you’s” and thanking God I’d been so blessed.

The book is written in first person and it’s so easy to put yourself there. I have a child exactly the age of his youngest. My daughter also owned a red dress. A red dress that she insisted on wearing the very next day. I did not want her to wear it, so I hid it deep in my closet. My mother read “The Shack” after me and she threw the red dress away.

I have never cried so hard while reading a book. It was incredibly heart wrenching but beautiful. It was spiritual without being pushy and the views that were expressed in the book are exactly how I feel. If I had read “The Shack” prior to having children I know that it wouldn’t have affected me in the same way. I would love to re-read the book, as I think I could get so much more out of it. However, I am not sure I emotionally want to experience that level of empathetic pain again.

When I think about how my love for books has evolved throughout my lifetime, I can't help but wonder what changes will take place in my own children. I want my children to become great readers and writers. Our bookcases at home overflow with children’s books. I see the love of books already shaping their lives; when we read “Moo! Baa! La La La!” by Sandra Boynton and they sing along to the pages, when we relax at night with “Goodnight Moon” by Margaret Wise Brown and they each take a page to read and point out pictures, when they ask for just one more book before bed. Life changes us all; we change along with it, emotionally, mentally and physically. I cherish the memories of my grandmother reading to me out of that old nursery rhyme book and now I am creating memories like that for my own children.