A few days ago I opened an email that put a lump in my throat and made my heart hurt. It read something like, renew your GameChanger account today and receive a 30% discount. GameChanger kept me connected to my girl throughout her stent as a pitcher at Navarro College. I don’t need it anymore. I miss seeing her in the circle.
Twenty-one years ago this July, a brown eyed girl stole our hearts.
Around my forth month of pregnancy, I thought I was having another miscarriage. After several hours of pains that I thought were all too familiar, Stuart and I made a trip to the emergency room. I had already prepared my heart for what I thought was the inevitable.
In the back of my mind, the number five. Five being the number of miscarriages my mom experienced. She told my dad repeatedly that those miscarriages were boys. Her reasoning was that God wouldn’t allow my dad to raise boys and ruin them.
I think the ER process went pretty fast but then again it might not have. That was so many memories ago.
After an ultrasound and CAT Scan, the radiologist reports concluded that I was in fact not having a miscarriage however, birthing a kidney stone or two was imminent in my near future. The number five slowly faded from my memory.
After several hours of IV fluids and pain medication, I would be sent home to birth my stones. Prior to my release, another ultrasound was performed. “Mrs. Peters, we think you are having twins.” The cold jelly was applied to my belly again and the magic wand showed two images.
Before we left the hospital, it was determined that Stuart and I would not be having twins instead blessed with one very energetic girl. The double imaging was my feisty female rocking and rolling, back and forth across her bedwomb.
This rocking and rolling would become a round the clock practice for the tiny human taking up residency in my belly. From the minute I could feel her move she didn’t ease up. That girl wreaked havoc on my rib cage and everything in the vicinity for the remainder of my pregnancy.
Honestly, I don’t remember when I knew it was time to expel the spirited summer girl from my womb, but I do recall I was more than ready. I’m pretty sure my insides are still recovering from the never-ending calisthenics.
Stuart would be by my side. If you have been following my ramblings, you know that I remember benign details. He wore a striped shirt with a red Houston Fire Department cap.
Compared to the birth of #1, Casey was a textbook delivery per Stuart. “You pushed a couple of times and she just plopped out.” Explanation of the #1 moniker to come in a later entry.
Brown eyed and squishy cheeks. I soon forgot the bruised innards that had plagued me since her first roll around my rib-cage.
Casey Layne was a game changer. Until now, it was me and my boys. I was not equipped to be a momma of a little girl. Sugar and spice and all things nice! Counter-intuitive to all things Julie. I was terrified. Inept. So many things I was afraid I would screw up. So many scars left by my own mother hindered my ability to fathom having the wherewith-all to rear a girl.
What if this brown-eyed beauty fantasized of being a cheerleader or yearned to don a delicate pair of ballerina slippers? What if she had a fear of bugs and couldn’t tolerate dirt under her fingernails or grass beneath her bare feet?
She inspired a sense of femininity in me that was lacking. Casey Layne was a game-changer.
As time passed, I realized I could be a momma to this little girl. If she wanted to be a cheerleader or ballerina, I would figure it out and be her biggest fan. I would strive to guard her heart from the hurt that I harbor today from the lack of rearing from my own mom. I would equip her with knowledge I learned on my own. I would break the cycle.
I’ve come to realize that my mam-maw didn’t give my mother a fighting chance. There was no nurturing. There was no relationship. There was plenty of turmoil accompanied by situations. Situations she should have never been party to.
A few days ago, I opened an email that put a lump in throat. Casey Layne was my game-changer.