Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Perspicacity abounds, y’all (Guest Post)

I love a good sounding word. A rolling off your tongue, filled with meaning but difficult to say at first word. Like perspicacity. Stumbling on an odd sounding, meaning filled word excites me as much as stalking the Amish. And I love the Amish. Really, I do. My nick-name should be Mama Amish Obsession instead of Mama Grits. But that’s a whole other story.
I want to thank Mama Snow for letting me share my thoughts and whatnot on her piece of the blogosphere. I’m what you might call a “Grits” kind of a girl. That’s a “girl raised in the south”, y’all. We really do say y’all and eat cheese grits here in the South. I even ate fried alligator the other day. Of course, that was in Florida while on vacation (after a margarita, with salt) and I am not for certain but don’t think reptile is considered a southern delicacy.
But there is more to this southern raised girl than cheese grits and acronyms. My input here will be full of southern speak, insight born from heartache and sarcasm laced with wit. This post is to give you a little bit of background on me, Mama Grits. I am not always funny, not always serious, nor fully awake. But always, I speak truth.

Enter perspicacity. No, ya’ll I didn’t say I need a new deodorant due to perspiration. Perspicacity put simply means, keenness of insight. Insight follows me. Haunts me. Can’t get that darn perspicacity thing off my grits eating back.

I have survived the unthinkable; the death of a child. Yet, in my core there remains joy, laughter, and faith. People tell me my thoughts are inspiring. This is interesting to me. I don't feel inspiring. I feel I have experienced great heartache, boundless joy and this creates a unique perspective. Does a unique perspective equate to inspiring? Does inspiring follow the path of insight?

The definition of inspiring is this; a: divine influence or action on a person believed to qualify him or her to receive and communicate sacred revelation b: the action or power of moving the intellect or emotions c: the act of influencing or suggesting opinions

Most definitely my views are not “a divine influence qualified to communicate a sacred revelation.” Now, that is entirely too much pressure. Let’s move on to the next definition, the action or power of moving the intellect or emotions. I will attempt to inspire as according to definition “b.”
Six years ago my husband and I heard the words “cockayne syndrome” and that elusive, odd sounding; unfathomable reality of a genetic disease sank its grip into our family. One autumn afternoon upon hearing the diagnosis, the fate of our little girl, Emma lay in the hands of mutated DNA gone awry. Upon first hearing the diagnosis we became trapped in a quiet, immobile moment as we internally careened out of control. On that day, Eli and I unknowingly catapulted into a season of life where calendars didn’t exist yet time whirled like an out of control missile and its target was Emma’s earthly existence.

“Is she going to die?” my husband asked me after I hung up the phone with Emma’s neurologist.
I replied, “Yes, but not today, not tomorrow, and not next week.”

“What are we going to do?” he asked. I wanted to console him, cushion him from the crashing fall I knew he was taking.

“We are going to live life, have fun, laugh, and make each day we have left with her a memory” I said.

And we lived under those terms for nearly two more years. She left us when she was three, just before her fourth birthday. Our Emma. She was born with fiery red hair which over the years slowly turned a haunting shade of blonde. We called her Little Bit because she was always a tiny, tiny little girl. She left as swiftly as a breath of air takes away the flame from a candle. In an instant she was gone. And we were left here on earth. I became a mother with a phantom child, attempting to muddle through the debris left behind in the wake of her leaving. After she left I learned to tread waters I had never been before, and have made discoveries about myself I had never known.
The depth of my character is now found in the lines across my forehead, deep truth forever shadowed in my eyes. Peering at my aging countenance I am aware how pain can live, breathe, and over time transform itself into strength. Strength which has borne in me a level of awareness that is now the foundation for the rest of my life.

I am thankful for both joy and pain. For each have forced me to look inward and realize what is truly important in life. It’s not money, accomplishments, awards, prestige, or materialistic belongings. But simply, love. Embracing my remaining children and husband, absorbing their laughter, sharing tears and joy with them; these are the things which are most important in life. Continuing to laugh and find happiness in the midst of sorrow is possible. We are a living, breathing example of how it is possible to find peace after the death of a child. We laugh, cry, love and share memories of Emma together. Linking hands we continue on knowing someday our family of five will be reunited.

I am living, breathing, and enjoying life, God and my family. Grateful for all things, good and bad. Despite the pain I feel blessed beyond comprehension.
Most of all, I’m proud to be a y’all resounding perspicacity filled mom, wife, and grits kind of a gal sharing life, laughter and sarcasm aplenty.

Blessings, y’all!

Mama Grits

Mama Grits, a mother of three, wife to one very patient man who puts up with my slight obsession with the Amish. Filled with an awareness that it is okay to be imperfect and say so. Advocate for creating awareness of childhood life threatening conditions, co-founder of Circle of Hope, a non-profit organization to support families and children. Writer of truth; filled with southern drawl, insight and sarcasm aplenty while blogging at Thirtysomethingland, where we childproofed the house, but they still get in…

Read more of life according to Mama Grits at http://thirtysomethingland.net


Jayne said...

Thank you for letting me read about your little, little girl, Emma. I too have a little, little girl called Amy and have also been told those dreaded words 'cockayne syndrome'.

I can imagine how very pretty and frail Emma was.

I founded www.amyandfriends.org to help other children with cs and their families.

I send you much love x

Mama Grits said...

Jayne...I know you, and Amy! I met you at the Boston retreat, and in Nashville. I have many photos of your Amy! What a small world! Have you met Nikki, mom to Naomi who passed away in 2005 also? She lives in London...incredible MUM! go to my blog and email me or through the CS site, it is good to hear from you!