It was the best of times.
Grateful.  Thankful.  Appreciative.  Safe.  Loved.  Happy.  Peaceful.  Belonging.
Inspiring words that miserably fail to describe this overwhelmingly precious gift of time given to me.

This is dedicated to the only fourteen months of wonderful I would ever know as a child.

Once my grandparents discovered my father’s disclosed secrets, there was no further discussion necessary. To put it succinctly, we three were unwanted by him, but wanted by them. Overnight, their home grew from two to five, and my life story took a sharp right turn down Carefree Childhood Lane. One peaceful day rolled into another, filled with fourteen months of wonderful, full of a child’s innocent curiosities and the discoveries of an unfolding world.  

This series of tender childhood memories were created while I felt sheltered, safe and surrounded by love. They would sustain me into adulthood as the undeniable benchmark for the existence and power of authentic, unselfish love in my life. Sadly, I would never again know consistent peace, acceptance and love – until I escaped from my family many years later.

Now, presenting a few wonderfully random memory snippets. I hope they make you smile. At first glance they are nothing extraordinary, but you would be incorrect in your assumption. Actually, they would shape the woman, wife, mother, and friend I would become, because the memory of my memories would compel me to recognize and reject counterfeit love, while pursuing to love others authentically.

the morning race –

As the brightness of the sun pried my sleepy eyes open, I would hear the symphony of morning sounds wafting from the kitchen. I loved the gurgling coffee, clanging of dishes, slamming of drawers, punctuated by an occasional crash, as Grandpa prepared for the next Great Cheerio Race.

Quickly I would extricate myself from Cover Mountain, then race into the kitchen for hugs, kisses and, “Did you have sweet dreams?” While the rest of the house slept, Grandpa and I would dine on Cheerios, usually studded with strawberries, coffee for him and kiddy coffee for me. In case you are wondering, kiddy coffee was a cup of milk with probably one tablespoon of coffee. Believe it or not that is about how light I drink my coffee even to this day. Occasionally we would indulge in the most heavenly bottles of chocolate milk (this will date me) delivered by the milkman.

Breakfast was a race, because a coveted gold star was at stake, and proudly placing it on the poster board chart was the winner’s prize. After the star posting ceremony, Grandpa would shave and I would talk incessantly while he did so. Even though he was preparing for work, he was never rushed or dismissive, but always legitimately interested and engaged in the ramblings of his granddaughter.

the singing heroines –

In the arena of pretend escapades and adventures, I was sorely pathetic. Stuffed animals and baby dolls were my nemesis, because – hello – they aren’t real! Much to my Grandma’s delight, I did eventually fall in love with Wedding Day Barbie and her extensive trousseau in Gandy’s Toy Store. I would spend countless content hours, not playing with her, but happily organizing her outfits and accessories repeatedly in her case. Yes friends, even at three I had a gifting toward organization.  

Fear not, I did have singing heroines: Shirley Temple and Mary Poppins. Each and every day, there would be several live performances as I would serenade or scream-sing my songs, all the while whirling and twirling throughout the house.  This culminated in the kitchen grand finale sequence: shuffle, tap, twirl, stomp could only be achieved on the super shiny black and pink checkerboard floor. The routine was magnificent and met with rousing applause from my audience each and every time, in spite of the fact that I can neither sing or dance.

Lest you think my obsessions lasted long, they didn’t. Barbie, Shirley and Mary were often temporarily forgotten when I discovered a random life long lack that I needed to fulfill. Remember I was three.  One such occasion involved my need to experience dog ownership, which was hysterical since I referred to all dogs as (nasty dogs), obviously due to several horrific encounters with slobbering dog-faces. More on the dog pursuit to follow later.

the conversation stool –

Grandpa had a special Comfy Lumpy Chair, perfect for cuddling grandchildren. Flanked to the right of it was a special something: a small wooden footstool upholstered in a slightly tacky, black and red embossed leatherette fabric. It was a multi-purpose stool; by day a weekly newspaper stand, by night a tired footrest, and occasionally a serious conversation platform for his tiny granddaughter.

Grandpa and I had an agreement with each other; all serious conversations must occur face-to-face so I could look directly into his loving eyes while I talked. I would place my chubby hands on either side of his face, slightly patting his cheeks, and then announce my conversational need. Somehow he managed to suppress his amusement while watching his serious granddaughter struggle to perfectly re-position the stool in front of his chair. Once I was satisfied, he would ceremoniously extend his hand to steady me as I ascended one huge step to firmly stand on the little stool.

Many of my questions would sound foolish and unimportant to other adult ears, but not to Grandpa. He always treated my observations and questions with gentle tenderness and the utmost respect you bestow on someone you love, regardless of their age. Grandpa had an amazing way of always inviting me into his adult world and granting genuine importance to my inquiries. I was never endured, placated, or worse – dismissed. Even at the day’s end, though weary, never was I treated with fatigue-induced impatience. Grandpa lived available and interruptible to those he loved.

In case you are wondering, the need presentation for an illusive dog was definitely a footstool conversation.

the bedtime routine –

I remember the sweet routine of bedtime.  Cloaked in footy pajamas, I made the rounds receiving several hugs and double cheek kisses from everyone. Happily I would jump into bed, snuggle and squirm my way under Cover Mountain, while my mom patiently waited for me to announce I was just right. She would stroke my face while engaged in bedtime silly talk, the secret weapon of moms to lull you to sleep. As my eyelids grew heavy, she would tenderly kiss me one more time as I drifted off to sleep, cocooned in a blanket of love and belonging. I lived in a peaceful world, and it made my child’s heart content and happy.

the closing for now –

Sadly, the absence of my father in my daily life didn’t create a void, because it’s difficult to miss someone who was a sporadic, reluctant participant in your family life. I had a father, but not a dad. However, I was blessed to have an incredibly wonderful loving Grandpa, whom I adored.

Grandpa was the first man in my life that I knew honestly loved the child me. When I entered a room, his eyes would twinkle and dance with merriment mixed with and a bit of mischief.  His delight was in teasing me, and in short order bellyaching laughter would ensue.

He loved me not because I was special, but his love made me feel special. Isn’t that exactly what authentic love should do? It should be transforming, causing others to feel special, accepted, safe, and wanted.

Friends, never doubt the life transforming power love brings to the heart, mind and life of another. Its brief or extended presence can and will have a lifelong impact. The feelings and memories of those fourteen months were imprinted on my life forever.

my random partial list –
I love the smell of ripe strawberries. I love the color green. I love chubby baby hands. I love God.

love truth –
Authentic love will be safe, comfortable, inspiring, and belonging.
Authentic love is transforming to the heart and mind.
Authentic love is accessible and interruptible.

Until next time,
Wen

My life story began before me.
The decisions of my parents appear in the opening credits.
The principal player in the opening scenes is Elaine – Mother of Wendy.

Scene One – First Glimpse

She steps from the shadows of my story, no longer an enigma, but a complex woman of substance and weakness. As our entwined stories unfold before you, her inner beauty will shine brighter than her blemishes.  She dreamed of loving and being loved, as a woman, wife, and mother.

My mom is a gentle, kind soul with sorrowful onyx eyes. She radiates a childlike awe in the simple, routine, often overlooked things of life, savoring deeply each moment as a gift. Seldom will she abandon herself to laughter, because her preferred expression of joy is an infectious giggle, which will absolutely melt your heart.

In a crowded room overflowing with conversations, she is the empathetic content listener grateful to be near you, but having no need to proclaim or promote herself. To know my mom is to love my mom, but you must be purposeful to discover her. Just imagine a beautiful flowering plant, concealed yet quietly blooming in a secret garden. That is my sweet mom.

She is the one who cradled my head when I was ill, checked my closet when I was afraid, and colored with me when I was bored. I am her first-born, and she is the first person to love me. I adore her, because I know her heart.

Scene Two – My First Childhood Memory

My earliest childhood memories play like a View Master reel; vividly detailed, but brief scenes alternating between unrecorded white spaces of time. Eventually the white spaces would be filled with details, but not for many years.

I was asleep, but the sound of voices awakened me. My parents were in the living room; so I slipped out of bed drawn to the sound of their strange conversation. Quickly my curiosity was exchanged for fear. I was only three, and incapable of understanding the content of their loud, harsh exchange. I only knew I was frightened, because something was wrong and strangely different about my mom. Her once gentle, loving face had vanished. A silhouette colored by anguish and heartbreak, stained by a stream of unending tears was all that remained. As she walked toward the door, she choked out the word, “leave”.

Over and over again I frantically screamed, “Mommy don’t leave! Mommy don’t leave!” She was deaf to my screams, hearing only my father’s words ravenously gnash and tear at her heart until love no longer remained.  When she reached the door my little feet suddenly began to run, intent on reaching her.  Fortunately or unfortunately  (still undecided) my father was quicker than I, and scooped me up in his arms. Holding me tightly against his chest in order to prevent my escape, I pushed against him, twisting and turning desperately attempting to break free, all the while screaming for my mom to come back.

Heart broken, hysterically crying, and alone, she stepped into the blackness of night.

Scene Three – White Space Details Revealed

On a beautiful winter morning friends and family gathered together in a small Catholic Church to witness my parents exchange their wedding vows.  “I take you to be my lawfully wedded wife/husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

Unfortunately, my father struggled often with the “to have and to hold” part exclusively applying to my mother. After four years of marriage, and several babies, he selected one particular night to cruelly and viciously boast of his countless infidelities, and demand a divorce.  Future hopes and dreams ceased that evening for our little family. 

That night would become my first childhood memory.

My father’s proclamation and their subsequent confrontation marked the failure of a marriage now rapidly careening toward divorce. One wave after another crashed over my mother that night, betrayal, rejection, and shame. Barely able to catch her breath between the battering waves, there was yet one more. The next, last wave overwhelmed and broke her mind, because it wasn’t directed at her, instead this final wave would crash over the lives of her little girls. They would be raised in a fatherless home. She could endure the betrayal of trust, rejection as a wife, societal stigma, and the shame of divorce in an Italian family, but her daughters condemned to experience life in a fatherless home was unbearable. Her greatest life failure wasn’t her broken marriage. She had failed to give her girls what she had treasured in her own life, a loving father, who adored them. That wave of revelation engulfed her, pulled her under, and for a brief while away from everybody who loved her.  

When my mom walked into the night wounded in heart and mind, she didn’t return, but kept walking for twelve long miles. Her destination, a place where she felt loved, safe and protected.  Everything she was taught and embraced about life, marriage, and family had shattered into pieces around her.  At the age of twenty-four, she became a casualty of infidelity.

That night created the bridge that ushered her toward a future abusive relationship. It was paved by betrayal, rejection, shame and her overwhelming desire to give her daughters the gift of a loving father.

Later, into the space of time between pursuit of healing and healed stepped her future husband.   Sadly, my mom would then journey across the bridge.

my random partial list –
I love tulips. I love jeans. I love lobster. I love watches. I love old movies.

abuse truth –
Rejection combined with shame shatters self-esteem, creating a season of vulnerability to future abuse.
It is dangerous to enter a new relationship as a salve for a failed relationship before healing has occurred.

next time –
Behind the Masque – the charismatic controller arrives

Wen