What do I say? . . .

What do you or I or anyone say when they find out one of their best friends is getting married? Of course there is the obvious, "Congratulations," but after that has been said, then what? This engagement was not wholly unexpected, in fact, it has been talked about off and on since September, even though they only started dating in July. I find myself at a crossroads: one road makes me protective, wanting to shield this young 22 year-old girl from making the same mistakes I did, and the other wants to be nothing but happy for her and pray she knows what she's doing more than I give her credit for. What do I say?

Looking back on my own marriage at the tender age of 18, there are times I wish someone would have sat me down and said, "You don't have to do this, you know?" My daughter was born in November of the previous year, and I had been brought up in a Christian home. I had already broken the rules, in more ways than one, and it was time to make things right. No-one ever told me I didn't have to go through with it, or that I had another choice. Nine years later, I look back on that time both with fondness and disbelief. There is something to be said for not having a clue what you're taking on, or how big of a commitment marriage actually is. Neither of us had any idea what it meant to put someone else first or that forever meant, well, forever. Often times it doesn't. On New Years Eve this year we had the conversation that had been coming for months, hell, truth be told, years; somewhere along the way we had become friends and stopped being husband and wife. Maybe we never had been. Maybe we should go ahead and divorce? We weren't miserable, nor do we hate the other person. We still live together. Our relationship is complicated, but aren't they always in some form or fashion? Nine years later and I'm not as naive as I was at 17 years old. Nor do I believe in fairy tales anymore. The only shoe that can change a girls life is the one found in a department store. That is the reality no-one could have told me or convinced me of nine years ago.

While I type this, my son half wakes from his sleep and cuddles up next to me. He is now my cuddle partner in a king size bed that feels even bigger. I sing along to Betty Soo in the background and tell him, "I would learn how to fly if it meant I could stay by your side forever / and I would swim to distant lands if it meant / I would find you when my fingers reach the sand." He smiles in his sleep and I know he is comfortable and feels safe here with me. Nothing warms my heart like placing my fingers in his palm, and his grasping them like he did when he was an infant; he is now five. If their dad and I did nothing else right, we knocked this one out of the park; our two children are amazing. I would do it all over again to have my children, to love them, to know them and watch them grow. It is in watching my son that I know I have the answer for my friend, even though the answer is actually for myself. I now know what to say.

You have so much life ahead of you, and no, I don't think you know yourself -- yet. Still, you are beautiful and brilliant. To think you are incapable of deciding who you want to love or who you want to try and make a life with is to take away everything that I love about you. It is not my place or anyone else's to rain on your parade. Marriage won't be easy, but it's not impossible. There will be something you will learn, multiple things actually and the gifts you will take away from the time spent (if there is an "away") will be worth the experience -- whether those gifts are children or just a better understanding of your self. You will make a beautiful bride. 

That is all I know to say. 

Love, 

The Rambling Gypsy

I miss him.

Tonight, I am missing him. The question is, who is the him? Cleaning out my bedroom in an effort to begin the tedious task known as packing and sorting, I found a letter I wrote several years ago. I remember the night exactly, even though the letter was not dated. My mother had found, and in turn, gave me pictures of my old boyfriend. Looking through the pictures, I fought the smile that inevitably crept upon my face, before handing them back saying I no longer cared. In all honesty, I really didn't care anymore; he had left a long time before. Still, it was nice to see his face. The one that will never age now, and will forever be sixteen. I allowed myself to have a moment, that moment, the one that missed the way his eyes looked at me, and how his hair felt when I ran my fingers through it tenderly. I remembered a look that used to cut me to the core and gave me butterflies. Briefly, I wondered if he was still capable of doing that? I surmised he probably was. Once the moment was over though, it didn't matter anymore, and I was once again the young twenty-something that had let him go.

Since writing is how I deal with my life and the things I don't understand, it did not surprise me to find another letter. This one was all kinds of messed up, as I started it on the wrong side of the notebook paper and continued that trend throughout the letter. Looking back now, I no longer remembered which page or which side came first; it was fun trying to piece my own letter together. Unlike the boyfriend who left by choice, this letter was to my grandpa -- he did not leave by choice. My hero. The best man a ten-year-old girl could ask for, when her own father was no longer around. The man who is irreplaceable, and unfortunately for any man who tries to come into my life now; will always be the model of what love and family should look like. The night I wrote his letter, I was missing him then too. When I was a little girl, and after he died, he would frequently show up in my dreams until I told him to stop visiting me; the pain was too much to bear when I woke-up and he was no longer there. After that time, I have seen him less than three or four times; he came only when I was in such a desperate place in my life, that he was the only one that would suffice. The night I wrote the letter, I was lamenting the fact I just wanted to see his face once more, as it felt like I was forgetting him. I didn't need him though. My life wasn't falling apart. I knew he wouldn't come, but still, I couldn't remember whether his eyes were blue or green, and that was cause for alarm enough. If I remember correctly, I didn't see him in my dreams that night, in fact, I still haven't. And yes, he is fading, but I know my love nor his never will; just the physical nature of his body fades.

The only other him I could be missing is the son I never had. The child who earned his angel wings before I got to meet him or hold him or find out what kind of man he'd turn out to be. He's been on my mind a lot here lately, as different things have made me think of him. A friend has a blog that she writes to deal with the loss of her sweet baby girl, and it had me reduced to tears just last night, as I read through her day-to-day struggle to achieve normalcy; whatever that is now. I think back to a friend who miscarried a year or so ago. She told me at the time, when I confessed I had as well, that she felt like she joined a secret society that she never wanted to be apart of. The tragedy we as women endure, the ones who carry the child, can feel their kicks and are their sole protector for nine months; the tragedy that unites us, but the one we never speak of in public. Today I saw a baby, a three month old little girl when I was out to lunch with the father of my children. We both watched the new, young mother as she tried to handle a diaper bag, her purse, the baby and a stroller all at once. We smiled inadvertently, and even chuckled as she managed the juggling routine, but we never said a word. Every now and then we have those moments where we understand. The loss is bigger than the both of us, and there is nothing to say.

I miss him. 

Love, 

The Rambling Gypsy