We grew up outside in the open air of the 80's, just a few miles from each other; in a place where a couple doors down meant riding your bike miles up and down country roads - sometimes the highway, and our parents ALWAYS found out. That was the community, a webbing of family, friends, and neighbors (mostly hippies and cowboys) who always kept an eye out for feral children up to no good. Tattle-tails is what they called children who did the same thing. My California transplant parents found themselves in a different world from what they knew. Upon reflection, I understand much more now the hardship of finding space in a place that isn't home. I didn't know I would want for the quiet life I was taught to leave; I never realized how much I missed it, until I got a piece of it back. After running too far in the wrong direction, this is our story of finding our way back to the "from scratch" life we both yearned for.
Our fathers' were friends, my husband and I used to play in the canyon next to his house, and fish ponds together with our families. Mud pies and hot wheels, tree canopies, and fireflies. Hide and Seek in the dark. Those were the early years, before the economy tanked and sent my future husband to the big city. It would be years later when we'd see each other again, in high school. We didn't speak, the distance had been too long by then, and the memories far behind us. Ten more years would pass before our paths crossed again, and that was it. We were a family from day one, each with two children (ages 5,6,7,and 8), who were friends from school. 
And then came the baby. Honestly, I'm not sure how we concluded we needed a 5th child, but we did; and he connected us the most special way. And there we were, young, with 4 boys and one princess.
Now we are another ten years in (they sure add up fast), I very much feel every bit of those years showing up on my face. Three are graduated now, one on his own not too far from home, one in college four hours away, and one still at home, advancing their skills at the local tech school. There should be a support group for mother's who have newly sprung children out in the world - other than a Bota Box, but that's another post. Number four is a Junior, and I cannot wrap my brain around the reality of having one child in the house in a couple years, a child that will still be in middle school. Despite the hardship of the inevitable aging and passing of time, the happiness is bountiful, I often wonder if I'm in a coma. I am in love, with my husband, and the life we made extremely hard decisions to have.
I was sick, and we didn't really know it yet. I thought I was normal tired, you know; I had a full time office career and a family to nurture. I was failing, and my body knew it before I did. I could barely get home from work without nodding at the wheel, the first visible signs were rashes. Rashes that lasted, oh geez - too long. I was placed on "indefinite" medications. At the time, I was studying for my first yoga certificate, the knowledge on the human body, its workings, and how to actually take care of a physical human body. I went Pescetarian for a few years, while educating myself further on better quality living choices. I will never apologize to my husband for the snow-ball roll into this life that happened afterward.
Now he has the beautiful skinned, unmedicated, master yogi housewife he never asked for, along with a few cows, pigs, chickens, unkempt veggie beds, 3 dogs, 2 cats, 45 houseplants, and a soap company. And there's probably laundry in that chair over there. The hardest thing I had to learn about self-care was the self part. I had to know myself well enough to face some ugly truths, and have enough courage to make the changes, and do the healing. I had done hard things before - how bad could it be, right? This blog is a story of how I learned to care for myself, and my family - the hard way.
