Lynne Reeder
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the writings of a reeder

7/19/2017 0 Comments

Why I Believe in Angels

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Years ago, while reading a Jodi Picoult novel (one of my all-time favorite storytellers), I stumbled across a piece of information I've carried with me ever since. She told of a Native American belief that loved ones sent rain as a signal they'd crossed into the afterlife. I told my grandmother about this, because she and I had an affinity for Native American culture and beliefs. We had an affinity for each other, really. I'd speak of her in my classroom and call her my best friend and kindred spirit and meant it. We had one of those relationships that comes along rarely and only with luck and loyalty.

When she passed away on June 14, 2017, I lost part of myself. I think of everyone who suffers the loss of a great love and am unsure how anyone loses a husband, sibling, child, because I cannot look anywhere without pangs in my ribs because everywhere is her but her laugh, her tea, her soft arms hugging me and holding me tight are no longer. I won't sit and watch Maya Angelou specials with her and commiserate with her over politics. I can't vent to her about life or cry to her about students I've grown to love as my own children. I can't philosophize with her on the nature of existence or the meaning of life.

But the day of her funeral, as friends and family huddled under the graveside canopy and umbrellas, it rained. Torrentially, unapologetically, loudly. She soaked us. And when the prayer was done and we laid our roses upon her casket and walked back to our cars, the rain cleared, the sky opened, the sun beckoned us home.

I'd also heard once that angels send feathers as a means of communication. This was another item of spiritual mystique I discussed with Grandma. I'd walk in our local cemetery and ask the spirits to send me certain color feathers, and within a week or two I would normally receive them. My grandmother loved these tales, and I loved experiencing them, even if the whole time a small part of me remained skeptical and logically clung to the fact that where there are birds there will be feathers so perhaps it was all wishful thinking.

The day after Grandma died, I walked her house alone. I laid on her bed, on the living room floor, sat at her kitchen table, and I sobbed. I spoke aloud to her. I thanked her for being such a huge part of my life, for loving and supporting me, for making me who I am. I told her life seemed surreal without her a part of it. And I asked her to send me feathers, a large amount of them all at once, so I would know it was her. So there could be no doubt it was true, what they say of feathers, what I hope about the energy that is our spirits.

This morning, I awoke to feathers scattered across my porch, dozens of them. As if a bird had plucked every feather from its body and still somehow flown away, since no bird laid in sight. No feathers trailed through the yard or driveway to reveal a path of flight. Just feathers strewn in front of my door.

We do not lose people. Just the bodies they resided in for awhile. If you look, if you listen, if you believe, they are speaking. Love is a language needing no words. Just wings.
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7/16/2017 1 Comment

Please Stop Telling Me I'll Miss These Days

I believe you. I really do. I can already picture myself sobbing on the way home from dropping Maya off at her college dorm, sputtering about how just yesterday she still wanted me to lay beside her just a few extra minutes each night because she was scared of the dark. I know that when Layla walks out of our house carrying her last box of items to move to her own apartment I will have a void open the likes of which I can't fathom. So when you look at me in the grocery store with that wistful expression and say, "Oh, you're going to miss this one day, so you just soak this up while you can," I know that on some level you are right.

But, please. Let's stop pretending. Because I'm not going to miss ALL of this, and quite frankly, I'd love to be missing it for just one day right now. Because what you're conveniently forgetting in your selective romanticized memory of early motherhood is what mornings are like, or entire days of summer break. From the minute we are all awake (which is way too early), chances are I've yelled, screamed, threatened, cried, sighed, pointed, grunted, cussed, stomped, slung, pitched, ultimatumed, and declared "That's it! I've HAD IT!" all before you've had your morning cup of coffee. I have no personal space. Someone is literally touching me all day, whether it's this baby constantly wanting attached to my boob or my hip or the six-year-old flinging herself around and into me or the dog that won't stop following me and creepily staring at me. I spend every day feeling overwhelmed, behind in housework, friend conversations, developmental playtime, organizing, relationship building, school work, housework, bill paying, housework...and don't even get me started on people who tell me to just play with the kids because the dust will be there tomorrow. Someone's gotta clean eventually. And trust me, it ain't the six year old. Not without twenty minutes of reminding and patience-shredding selective hearing between every. Single. Item.

I spend enough time doubting myself and how I handle temper tantrums and pouting and cluster feeding and naptime. I already feel guilty every night for getting frustrated with a teething baby or losing my patience with a cooped-up hyper elementary-aged kid. I really don't need you presenting me with a reminder that I'm not appreciating what I have. Because I do appreciate it. So, so, so much. I curl into being a mother because it has so much intrinsic meaning and benefit.

But I also appreciate my sanity. So instead of platitudes about these being the golden days of motherhood, offer me something reassuring and real. Like, "It's completely normal to say you need to use the bathroom just so you can lock the door and have five minutes to yourself." (Even though the second I hit the toilet I hear "MOM! MOM! Where are you?!" And the dog is busting in to stare at me some more.) Or "My car smelled like milk vomit for seven years straight." Because we all know that when they're grown we will miss the sweet moments. But we all need to know we aren't terrible for fantasizing about driving off to lay in a chocolate bath and bask in complete glorious silence for just one full day.

​So, please. Instead of telling me what I'll miss, tell me what I have to look forward to, hand me a chocolate bar, and let me be on my merry mother way.
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7/7/2017 0 Comments

People, Let Me Tell You 'Bout My Breast Friend

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Hey, new moms. I've got something to tell you. I know, you've had a lot of information thrown at you during one of the most miraculous and simultaneously traumatic experiences of your life. Because let's face it, whether you just pushed an entire human out of an area of your body best designed for peeing, or you found yourself strapped on an operating table with your intestines outside of you and in a silver bowl, your body has been through more physically than a Spartan warrior faced in training. And it's not over, because if you're one of the many women who choose breastfeeding, you're probably in your hospital bed next to tears, clutching pamphlets and sniffling after lactation consultant visits because it's overwhelming and nothing seems to be going like it's supposed to be. So I am compelled to tell you something:

It's not you. It's them. And here are nine reasons why:

  1. Your nipples will burn for weeks. The pamphlet says if you're doing everything correctly, there should be no pain during feedings, just a light tugging sensation. False. You can be a yogi master in terms of nursing positions and your baby could be born with an innate talent for duck lips (perfect latching form), and it's still going to hurt like a mother. It's like getting a tattoo. People see the phoenix on my ankle and ask, “Did that hurt?” No. Having a needle jammed under my skin at the rate of 1000 times per minute was really equivalent to a Swedish massage. Of course it hurt. And your baby will be the worst tattooist ever with a needle tongue and unreasonable sit time expectations. Think about it: unless you've been involved in a hardcore S&M scene for years prior to giving birth, chances are your nipples haven't been pulled, twisted, grabbed, gummed, or sucked at for hours and hours, not even considering the raging torrent of hormones happening to produce the milk your baby is sloppily coaxing out of you and there for upping your sensitivity. You'll think your baby has hidden razor blades in his cheeks. I have had blisters and cuts and bruises that turned my nipples purple. So yes, there will be pain, because it's just like doing a ton of manual labor when your hands are used to a keyboard: they've gotta toughen up, and in the meantime, you get callouses until your sensitivity to it fades. So there you go. Calloused nipples. The joy of breastfeeding.
  2. You will resemble Niagara Falls. And I don't just mean because your boobs will leak. I know you know that. Maybe you don't realize how much, especially the first night your baby sleeps a few hours and you wake up to boulders on your chest that are on the verge of breaking every nerve in your skin (more wonderful pain not included above). I'm not talking about the waterfall portion of this metaphor. I'm talking about when that waterfall hits bottom and the splash ricochets everywhere. Because you won't just leak; you'll spray. You'll be sitting there, staring down at your little bundle chugging away at your boob, gradually releasing your clenched butt cheeks as you get through the first few minutes of sore nipple agony, and your little one will get milk wasted and lull off mid-swig and BOOM, milk will be spritzing out of one little nodule in a perfect imitation of a hose with a hole in it. Wonder how they figured out breast milk makes your skin silky smooth? Some mom got an accidental facial when removing her bra to shower.
  3. You'll be envious of tribal women who don't wear clothing. The nurses will tell you your newborn needs to eat every 2-3 hours and you'll read to not let them go more than four hours without feeding for a few weeks after birth. What they don't tell you is that you're more likely to be feeding them every half hour for a few minutes at a time since babies are like the cheapest drunk at your local dive bar and pass out when that sweet nectar hits their lips. You'll come to feel as if your boobs are never under a shirt, and will probably resent society's preoccupation with clothing, because life would be so much easier if you didn't have to balance a fussy hungry infant beneath a nursing cover while struggling with the clasp of a nursing bra and shoving shirt material out of the way every time you even contemplate having a social life. And trust me, while you may have a rather calm and confident suckler at home, your baby will suddenly become a teet monster incapable of stealth. There will be screeching, back arching, head flailing, and audible glugging. Not to mention coughing and sputtering and King Kong burping. So if you think you'll breastfeed in public without drawing attention, leave that fantasy at home. And take your nipple shields and nipple cream with you. Seriously. You need nipple guards and nipple cream if you want to live.
  4. Your ass will hurt. Never in your life will you sit as much as you will while being a breastfeeder. Those Sundays in college when you barely left your bed because you were hungover and still slightly drunk from the previous night's themed frat party are nothing compared to now. Bingeing on Netflix was invented by nursing mothers. They tell you to sleep when the baby is sleeping but forget to mention you'll often nod off with your head thrown back against the couch cushion and your mouth gaping open with drool leaking down your chin because your body will think it’s entering a coma from your lack of movement. You know that pins and needles feeling you get when your arm falls asleep? Get ready. Because you're about to experience that on a daily basis in your booty. And by the way, I typed this blog post while having my baby on my boob. A smartphone and wifi is the 21st century mother’s saving grace. If it wasn’t for this handheld gateway to existence, I’d be a hermit living on pretzel crumbs. Trapped under a cute version of one of those fish people get to clean their tanks.
  5. You'll sympathize with dairy cows. With breastfeeding comes pumping, because if you really do need (or God forbid want) to go anywhere without your infant attached to you, you'll need milk for someone else to bottle up and give your precious gluttonous milkaholic. There's nothing stranger than sitting on your couch with two clear suction cups attached to your already annihilated nipples, tubes running to a little motor that whirs and hisses while pulling on you the way you've seen cow udders treated in documentaries about the food industry. (unless, of course, you’re trying to do this at your desk at work, in which case it gets really strange. Especially when you’re a teacher and a sick ninth grader is on the other side of the nurse’s office curtain hearing the tell tale dripping.) And, I mean, when you spend ten hours a day with a human baby mouth sucking on you, why wouldn't you want to spend what little personal space you have with your boobs still outside of your shirt being sucked on? There's nothing to erase what last small shrapnel of sexiness you may have been holding onto like hooking up to a pump before bed.
  6. Your nipples will become rubber bands. After you build up that thick nipple skin and your baby becomes a professional latcher, you'll start to experience an identity crisis. Why? Because you'll wonder if you've somehow become Gumby or Stretch Armstrong or Inspector Gadget or any other 80s era toy that's claim to fame is its inhuman ability to stretch several feet without snapping. Your nipples, dear new mom, will come to eerily resemble silly putty. My five month old has become curious, but doesn't want to give up her first priority while trying to nose her way into seeing whatever is happening behind her back. So she will turn her head to look with my nipple still clamped between her bumpy teething gums. Or she now likes to do this thing where she only naps if she's eat-sleeping and latched on the same areola for an entire hour. And she latches hard, ya’ll. There's no squirming my finger in there and popping her free. So when she finally spits it out like a discarded chicken wing, I look like the nozzle used to pump up plastic pools.
  7. Your boobs will not be identical twins. So most of us know that women tend to have asymmetrical chests. But once you're breastfeeding, you'll begin to think your breasts aren't even related. Many babies will develop a preference and nurse on one side much longer or more often than the other, leaving you looking like Pamela Anderson or Jennifer Grey, depending which way you turn in the mirror. Because you'll look like both at once, ladies. If you get a glance of yourself before hopping into the bathtub (you know, once every three days when you manage to do that) try to not be alarmed. Your husband hasn’t suddenly replaced the medicine cabinet with a funhouse window. It’s really you.
  8. You’ll have a more boring wardrobe than the Amish. It only takes one outing wearing a seemingly innocent regular t-shirt to realize that despite no longer being pregnant, you still won't be able to wear most of your normal life clothing. Nursing bras, nursing camis, nursing tanks/tees/sweatshirts/geisha gowns: they've got your breast interest in mind. And while there are plenty of cute items available now for the mother with milk on the go, you won't want to spend your life savings, so you'll end up with three core items that you'll wear an entire week before breaking down to wash the milk and spit up stains out of. You'll lose track of days of the week because when you wear the same gray tank top Monday-Thursday, it becomes one long day. One long day with long nipples occasionally spritzing you and your baby in the eye.
  9. You'll make it through. The reason so many women struggle with breastfeeding is because we are made to feel (perhaps inadvertently but still) incompetent and inferior at something women have been doing since literally the dawn of mankind. Because of that we assume we should be experts and feel like failures when we are not. But do you expect yourself to hunt with a bow and arrow with the efficiency of a 15th century Native American or know how to scale a fish when you've never done it? No. We accept a learning curve for so many aspects of life that date back centuries, so why as women do we expect ourselves to be, or worse yet, why are we made to feel as if we should be, natural professionals at something truly complex and life-altering? Don't be so hard on yourself and don't worry because babies are way more resilient than they look and you'll both settle into a routine that mostly works, with plenty of bumps and hiccups and spit ups and crying jags from you both during the journey. Whether you are a milking mama for a week or more than a year, you've joined a sisterhood. Don't be afraid to share your woes and warrior tales with the other mothers you know in your life, because the best advice I can give is to find yourself a breast friend to complain, sob, and laugh right (and then left and then right again) along with you. So let’s all raise each other up while we experience that milk let down and look forward to what we all really dream of: one tall glass of wine* and peace of mind. Feed on, sister, and just keep being your breast self.


*(carefully consumed immediately following one full feeding so as not to affect our milk, of course)


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7/1/2017 0 Comments

Grandmother Meditations

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This morning, I brought a windchime from my grandmother's house to mine. After scrubbing it clean and re-tying the bottom piece on, I hung it on my porch. If I close my eyes when the wind blows, I almost feel like I'm swaying on her porch swing, our feet moving in tandem to keep our rocking steady.

This afternoon, I sat in the living room to nurse Layla, positioned in the rocking chair where I could look out the window and see the chime. And as I watched, a brilliant red cardinal landed on the railing beneath and looked up at it, turning its head and studying it before looking in my direction and flying away.

Perhaps I called her home. At least I like to think so.

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    Author

    Lynne Reeder is a mother, teacher, and lifelong reader. She's been penning poems and stories since she first learned to spell words. Her works appear in many online journals and other publications, and she received the title of Poet Laureate for hometown in 2016. She spends her time squeezing in writing drafts of her works around wrangling her two daughters and impulsive pitbull. She's been lucky enough to find love early, marrying her high school sweetheart Brandon, with whom she has been for over half of her life. She loves all kinds of tea, witnessing the moment a student discovers a new talent, and recognizing the infinite in the everyday. She hopes you enjoy her words as much as she thrives on creating them.

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