Category Archives: Family

BEWARE! Hormonal woman on the loose

Posted on November 14, 2012 | 2 Comments

CONFESSION: I haven’t been a teenager in approximately (sound of a muffled number due to a hand over the mouth) years. And yet, for the past three weeks, I remember EXACTLY what it was like to be a teenager.

Because apparently my hormones are currently on a cocktail of meth, bath salts and Nyquil. The same concoction they were chugging when I was 14.

And 15.

And 3/4 of my 16th year.

And OK, yeah, some of 17 too.

Possibly also 22.

And for a brief period when I was 27. And 30.

But I digress.

*Now, for you fellas reading this, I realize as soon as women mention anything about the H-word, you zone out and/or start stockpiling weapons for your own safety (as well you should). Hormones are simply a fancy doctor term for “Holy crap, I might die at the hands of this person who used to resemble my girlfriend/wife/friend with benefits.” But stick with me here. Just a little bit longer. At the very least for the benefit of your own safety.

As wacka-a-doo cuckoo crazy puffs as I am right now, I can officially say that this time there is a legit reason (other than “He left the seat UP AGAIN…APRILL SMASH!”). About four weeks ago, I had a miscarriage. Which was devastating. And which I’m still dealing with. And which I wrote about in a post linked here.

And one side effect of this horrific event is that when your body goes from being pregnant to suddenly not being pregnant, it also suddenly decides to go on a hormonal bender. Meaning I’m less of an actual person and more just a bag of skin and bones that is carrying around wayward hormones that have a GIGANTIC chip on their shoulder.

And which also means that anyone in my path is a potential victim of Hurricane Hormone. For example:

  • My dog, who has been yelled at thus far for breathing, for shedding, for pooping too much, for looking at me too long and for that weird, irritating noise he makes when he’s licking his paws.
  • My husband, who tried unsuccessfully to console me after I broke down crying when I saw a mouse dying from the poison the exterminater put around our house.  And trying unsuccessfully again when I sobbed uncontrollably at a deodorant commercial. And an episode of “Teen Mom 2.” And at a Triscuit that I thought looked like my recently deceased grandma.
  • My medical bill, which upon finding out that it cost me $300 to confirm that I did indeed have a miscarriage, was crinkled up, thrown against the wall and then stomped on. It would have also been set on fire, but my husband (rather wisely) hid any and all potential weapons in the house, including lighters and matches.

And just like when I was a teenager, I hate my body with a passion that only a white girl with First World Problems can. I have inappropriate responses to mundane inquiries (“Hey sweetie, how much was our electricity bill this month?” “Gaaahhh, what do you want from me!?! I’m only human. Sorry I have to keep my lousy phone charged. WHY DOES EVERYONE HATE ME!”). I alternate between being wildly insecure and thinking everyone besides me is an idiot. And, instead of being jealous of the Prom Queen, I am now jealous of all the women I encounter who are pregnant and/or have babies and so make up horrible gossip about them in my head (“I bet her stupid baby will grow up to live at home until he’s 41. Ha! Serves her right.”).

My only solace is that this will all pass soon. And I can go back to normal. Which means instead of being a crazy, hormonal 31-year-old teenager, I’ll be just a plain, old, normal, crazy, hormonal 31-year-old woman.

But since I’m not sure when that will be, I bought helmets for both my husband and my dog.

And the mailman.

Just to be on the safe side.

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I am the 40 percent

Posted on October 22, 2012 | 27 Comments

The longest day of my life began at 4 a.m. on a Tuesday.

I had gotten used to waking up early ever since I found out, which I chalked up to the lack of massive amounts of caffeine in my body and my newly formed habit of falling asleep around 8:30 p.m.

But this time was different. This time it was the dull ache that gently woke me up. Clumsily making my way to the bathroom though, it was the blood that jolted me awake.

Spotting, I told myself. Mild cramping. No big deal, my head said while my body frantically looked for the right section in the book. Yep. Totally normal.

I laid down on the couch in total darkness and turned on some crappy late night/early morning/not really suitable for human consumption TV. I absent-mindedly rubbed my lower stomach, a sort of unconscious gesture meant to signal reassurance for the both of us. I’ll be fine.

We’ll be fine.

By 5, the crappy movie was over and the meaningless dull ache had forced me into a fetal position. By 6, I was walking around bent over in an effort to relieve the meaningless pain that had meaninglessly grew into an intense ache. By 6:30, I was lighting a cigarette from the secret stash I hadn’t been able to throw away yet even though I had quit smoking. Just one to calm myself down.

Everything is fine.

As my husband woke up at 7 and as dawn broke, casting brutal light on the situation, I allowed myself the first tears. He ran to the store for Tylenol and maxi-pads, a first aid kit for a gaping fatal wound. By 8:30, we were on the road to the women’s health clinic, an appointment that had actually been made weeks ago.

Good one, universe.

No one even knew yet besides a handful of close friends and family. Eight weeks pregnant. Keep it quiet for now. Just in case…you know.

And suddenly, I knew all too well.

We nicknamed it Poppyseed in lieu of the popular moniker “It” so many other couples use during those early months. Poppy, for short. It was a private joke courtesy of my cousin, who upon finding out my new condition three weeks prior, pulled a poppyseed off her cheeseburger, pointed at it and said, laughing, “that’s how big your baby is right now.”

Urine sample. Blood sample. Weight and height check. Hello, I’m Carol. Is this your first pregnancy? Congratulations. Symptoms could be normal. Your cervix is closed. Good sign. Hmm…can’t find a heartbeat. Let’s schedule you an ultrasound…just in case…you know.

I was due in May, which was perfect. If it was a girl, her name was going to be Mae. A decision made long ago. Because Aprill is always followed by Mae. If it was a boy, well…Milo has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?

Two hour wait. Silent tears. It’ll be fine, honey. Don’t worry. Mrs. Brandon? Nice to meet you. Hop on up here. Now what happened exactly this morning? Relax your legs. Too small to see on the monitor. Let’s try this.

Just the other day I had planned on shouting the exciting news from the virtual rooftops of Facebook and Twitter. After our first doctor appointment. Once we made sure there was little chance of any sort of just in case.

Well, there doesn’t seem to any pregnancy tissue. You may have passed it this morning.

There’s nothing you could have done. Or did do. These things just happen. Forty percent of pregnancies in the first trimester, to be exact. Most women only have one in their lifetime. Chances are high you’ll conceive again.

I know they have to say this. The doctor. The nurse. The now demoted future grandparents. The friends and co-workers.

There really is nothing else you can say.

But it doesn’t help. At least right now. Because no words can erase the image of your husband, so strong and stoic the entire time, finally breaking down on the phone when he calls his boss to tell him he won’t be in today. And because what died on that horrific morning wasn’t just a fetus. What also drowns and dies in that tsunami of blood and cramps is that movie montage you’ve been playing over and over in your head the past eight weeks until it’s the perfect mental screenplay of the rest of your life.

But then, the dream of a completely different future than the present you are currently living in fades slowly to black.

Suddenly you can no longer see the labor scene where you hurl hilarious insults at whoever is standing by, ones that even give the nurses a giggle. Or the moment you both sob like idiots when it’s all over and you’re holding a baby that has your eyes and Praise Jesus! his nose.

The never-ending need to count all his perfect fingers and toes. The uncontrollable urge to kiss her little face all the time.

The framed photo of her sleeping on her dad’s bare chest or his first Halloween where I dress him as Frankenstein’s monster simply so I could send out a photo card with the caption “We have created LIFE! It’s ALIIIIIIVE!”

Christmas mornings. First birthdays. ER trips because someone couldn’t resist shoving a Lego up their nose. Catching her digging through the trash with the dog as her accomplice. Him helping me make pancakes.

Ballet recitals. T-ball games. First girlfriends where I whip out every single embarrassing photo I can find, including the one of him in a dress having a tea party with his female cousins. First heartbreak where I cuddle with her on the couch and we eat ice cream while watching “Love Actually” and I let her cuss in front of me for the first time.

Graduation. Marriage. Becoming a grandparent myself. And everyone coming back home for Thanksgiving, filling our quiet house with welcomed chaos.

It all died too.

So, for now, I mourn the loss. Of her. Or him. And of the dream.

And hopefully, after time, and some Merlot, and maybe a night or twelve of healing vodka, we’ll be able to try again.

And I can start to dream again.

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Playing Russian Roulette with Nature

Posted on October 8, 2012 | 4 Comments

So, awhile back, my husband and I made a horrible mistake. We decided to casually try for a baby.

Now, you may be thinking “how do you casually try for a baby?” Well, it’s very simple. Casual baby-making means you stop actively trying to prevent pregnancy but aren’t necessarily aiming to get pregnant. But if you do get pregnant, you’d, like, totally be cool with it. Also, you have to both wear fedoras during your “maritals” to up the casualness factor.

Sure, it may not be the most effective method to conception but it’s perfect for a couple like us who want to start a family but are also utterly terrified of the prospect at the same time. So instead we play Russian Roulette with nature and let Fate decide.

(Plus, we really like to wear fedoras.)

Now, kind of, sort of, maybe-ish deciding to try to have a baby wasn’t the horrible mistake we made (although I’m sure there are plenty of people out there who would disagree, including anyone who has ever met our dog, who is in desperate need of canine therapy). No, the mistake lay in telling people about it.

As it turns out, when you start contemplating entering this new and monumental phase of your life, everyone has an opinion about it. Forget that whole “it takes a village to raise a child” idea. The village is much more interested in helping you conceive.

For example, here are some of the responses we got from family and friends (or what I like to call “What to Expect When You Think Maybe Sorta Kinda You Want to be Expecting”):

“Ooh! How exciting! When was the date of your last period? I’m going to chart when you’re most likely ovulating.” –my cousin

“Oh…wow…why?” –our childless friends

“Have you started taking folic acid? You have to take folic acid. Like, now. I’m going to send you some folic acid.” –our pregnant friends

“Are you pregnant yet?” –our co-workers

“Oh, you’ll LOVE being parents! It’s the hardest thing you’ll ever do, you’ll never sleep again and will constantly be covered in poop and puke. But it’s WORTH it. Trust me.” –about half of all parents we know

“Do as many things as you possible can before you have a baby. Because once it’s here, you’ll never be able to do anything ever again.” –the other half of all parents we know

“Are you pregnant yet?” –our former co-workers

“Make sure you don’t have sex EVERY day. Do it every OTHER day. Otherwise you deplete his sperm.” –my cousin again

“Better hurry. You’re not getting any younger.” –my aunt

“MAKE ME A GRANDMA! I mean, you know, on your own time. No rush. Also, check out this cute onesie I bought eight years ago when you guys first met.” –my mom

“Are you pregnant yet?” –my mailman

“OK, according to my calculations, your best bet is the third of the month through the seventh, so…get busy.” –again, you guessed it, my cousin

Now, I’ll admit, at first this outpouring of responses surprised me. I considered this a very personal decision between myself and my husband. We were the ones who this decision affected, not everybody else. So why was everyone so eager to get all up inside my uterus, verbally kicking the tires and checking under the hood of all my lady business?

But then I slowly came to realize that when and if we ever do get pregnant, while it will completely upend our lives, the ripples will also reach out and touch everyone else. Parents will be turned into grandparents. Siblings become aunts and uncles. Nieces and nephews become cousins. Aunts and uncles become great aunts and great uncles. Cousins become godparents. My mailman will probably have to deal with a lot more care packages. And close friends become honorary family members.

So, as it turns out, it’s nice to know that there is an entire village waiting with bated breath to see what happens. It has the effect of making one feel very loved, if a bit uncomfortable with the sheer number of people in your life who are comfortable casually discussing your uterus.

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Thanks for nuthin,’ technology

Posted on July 29, 2012 | 2 Comments

There are a lot of downsides to moving far away from friends and family to make it “big” in the big city (or in my case, make it “small-medium-ish” in the big city).

But one of the upsides is that you ALWAYS have the ultimate excuse to get out of undesirable social events, such as the lesser holidays, weddings of second/third cousins, high school reunions, the “Let’s help Bob and Sue move across town!” scenarios and, most importantly, showers, both of the wedding and baby variety.

But now, thanks to technology, that convenient trump card has swiftly become obsolete. To wit: This past Saturday I, while hanging out at my house in Boston, attended a baby shower for a couple who lives in Branson that was thrown by a group of our mutual friends from Texas.

Thanks a lot, Steve Jobs (or whoever is the Steve Jobs equivalent over at Google+). No, really.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. It really was great getting to see them all again, or at least the tiny, overly pixellated versions of who I suspect was them (Thanks to my 1998 computer software, I could have been participating in an amateur porno convention online for all I know. The dialogue would have probably been the same. We’re a super classy bunch).

And it was an incredibly thoughtful and sweet gesture by a group of people I’m proud to call my friends. The problem is simply that I’ve never really been one of those people who enjoys baby showers. In fact, I even wrote a column a few years back (which I have conveniently re-posted below for your reading pleasure) about my dread of these events.

This was compounded by the fact I couldn’t really communicate with anyone since my crappy computer had an approximate 17-minute microphone delay:

“So, Aprill, how’s Boston?”

“Can you guys hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Guys?”

“We can hear you, Aprill.”

“GUYS!?!”

“Aprill? Can you hear us?”

(15 more minutes like this)

“Oh, Boston’s great! I love it.”

And lest you start to think what a horrible friend I am (which I may deserve but for far more devious reasons than this), let me just add that I am super excited for Trysta and Steve and their soon-to-be-born unholy spawn baby and know they are going to be wonderful parents (Oh, and P.S. guys, your gift should be in the mail soon…at the latest, you should get it before she goes off to college).

30 Women & A Baby

As much as we like to think equality between the sexes has come a long way, baby, there is still one giant gap that exists between men and women. Alas, pending some major medical breakthrough, I don’t foresee this gap ever being bridged.

Yes, it’s sad but it’s true. In a recent study it was found that 99.9 percent of all babies come from women.

I know, I know. You’d think that since we’ve put three women on the Supreme Court, we could get at least a few men knocked up, but apparently the medical community is much too busy with other stuff, like curing cancer and finding new poisons to inject into our faces to combat wrinkles.

To be honest, I’m actually all right with the fact that my gender is shouldering this burden alone (or miracle, for those of you who are more of the “glass is half full” mind-set).

But what I am not all right with is that this biological difference gives men another Get Out of Jail Free card. Despite the fact that it takes two to make a baby, women are the only ones who are required to attend the dreaded (insert dramatic music here) baby shower.

Oh sure, maybe not all women hate baby showers. I once read a study that said one leader will emerge out of every group of 20 people. I have a feeling those numbers also apply to the amount of women who actually enjoy the finger sandwiches, uncomfortable small talk and swapping of horrific birth stories that make up your standard baby shower. As for the rest of us…well, dental surgery is an apt comparison.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love babies. I love holding babies. I love smelling babies. I love handing babies back to their mothers when they start crying.

I also love mothers. I fully believe they deserve all the rights and privileges as the rest of us. In fact, some of my best friends are mothers.

So the problem with baby showers is not in the actual act of celebrating the mother-to-be and the brand new life she is carrying. That is a wonderful thing and should be celebrated. No, the problem lies in the mechanics of the event.

See, a baby shower is essentially when you thrust together a group of women who have nothing in common other than knowing a pregnant female and then give them nothing to do for a couple of hours other than to watch this chick open presents and drink punch (which doesn’t contain even a trace of booze).

For you men out there reading this (all two of you who actually made it to this point before you flipped over to the sports section) and have no idea what I’m talking about, let me give you an inside glimpse at what you get to skip out on.

You ring a doorbell and are greeted by a perky woman whom you’ve never met. As you’re shuffled inside, you look around and see a bunch of women of all ages clustered in small groups of two or three, all of whom you’ve also never met. You stand there awkwardly until eventually some brave soul, usually propelled by the fact that they can’t stand the awkwardness anymore, will leave her cluster and strike up a conversation with you. Now if you’re both mothers, this tends to go well, since you can swap war stories about the time little Johnny got a toy army man stuck up his nose or the time little Aprill felt the need to announce to her entire second grade class that Santa Claus doesn’t exist, thus causing a mini-riot at Hardin Elementary (true story).

However, if you are a woman of child-bearing age sans kids such as myself, the resulting encounter typically goes something like this:

Random Woman: “Hi.”

You: “Hello.”

Random Woman: “So, how do you know the mother-to-be?”

You: “I’m her second cousin. And you?”

Random Woman: “Her dentist’s niece.”

You: “Ah.”

Random Woman: “Yeah.”

You: “So, great potato salad, eh?”

Random Woman: “Oh yes, it’s delicious.”

You: “Yeah.”

At this point, one of you will generally make some lame excuse to get out of the conversation, such as, “Oh, I think that’s my child on fire…will you excuse me?” This goes on for about an hour and then, just to add to the awkwardness, you will all be forced to play awkward baby-themed games with each other. These generally consist of smelling chocolate that’s been smeared on a diaper (fellas, I’m not even kidding about that).

Then finally, FINALLY, it’s time for the mother to open presents. This is the best part because now all you have to do to “ooh” and “ahh” over tiny baby outfits, many of them involving a hat intended to make the infant look like a tiny bear or dog.

Then at last, like a drowning man coming up for air, the last present is unwrapped and you are now free to leave. Just be careful not to trample grandma in your madcap rush to the door.

So gentleman, take it from me. Rejoice in your freedom from this barbaric tradition. And the next time your significant other returns from one of these things, be kind and give her the only known cure for the post-baby shower hangover: A glass of wine the size of her head.

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10 Reasons Why Whatever You Got Your Mom For Mother’s Day Isn’t Good Enough

Posted on May 11, 2012 | Leave a comment

1. You puked on her. Repeatedly. And I guarantee that at least once, she managed to catch your vomit in her bare hands when you got sick in public.

2. That gerbil/bunny/kitty/puppy/fish/hamster/bird/ferret you just couldn’t LIVE without? She’s the reason it didn’t die within three days.

3. No matter how hard Dad or anybody else tried, they could never make your favorite meal quite like she did (and probably still does every time you come home).

4. She gave up cigarettes, booze and caffeine for nine months (OK, fine, 7 and 1/2 months) for your ass.

5. You were a teenager at one point. ‘Nuff said.

6. She went to every single one of your extracurricular activities. Every. Single. One. Even when you were the third carrot on the right and had no lines.

7. You made trying to take a decent family photo sheer hell. Which is why she had to send out the same photo every Christmas for SEVEN years.

8. On average, you have almost accidentally killed yourself approximately five times a day ever since you first learned to crawl (remember the Great Firework Disaster of ’87?). You’re the reason why people say “your mom used to be so pretty.”

9. When she said “this will hurt me more than it hurts you” in regards to shots, vaccines, and pouring alcohol over boo-boo knees, she was telling the truth.

10. After hours of agonizing pain, she PUSHED you and your giant HEAD out of her vagina.

Now cancel that stupid-ass basket made of fruit shaped to look like flowers and go get her something better.

Something MUCH better.

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The Unbearable Heaviness of Bearing Pall

Posted on April 24, 2012 | 3 Comments

I’m sure there were a lot of other thoughts that should have been running through my head at that moment. Thoughts that probably would have been a lot more appropriate. But that’s the thing about thoughts.

They don’t really like to be controlled.

“Don’t drop her. Oh god, please don’t drop her. Please, please, please. Just concentrate. And whatever you do, don’t trip Adam in front of you. He goes down, we all go down. He’s, like, seven-feet tall. Tiny steps. Baby steps. Careful. Don’t drop her. Just don’t drop her.”

There were eight of us. Five strapping young male grandchildren, two of us more solid-looking female grandchildren and one longtime family friend with the broad shoulders of a linebacker. I have no idea what they were thinking at that moment, but judging from the fact I was the only one who seemed confused by our instructions, it was probably something much more dignified.

“I’m worried,” I said to Peter the Linebacker right before.

“You’ll be fine. It’s fairly self-explanatory. We carry her in and then carry her back out,” he said.

“I know, I know. It’s just…I’ve never beared pall before,” I responded with a weak smile.

I knew it was a stupid thing to be worried about. I knew I should be thinking other, deeper thoughts, like how I had just lost one of my heroes. Or that being a pallbearer was actually a great honor. Or even trying to ease my fears by realizing that the seven others beside me wouldn’t let anything happen to the casket or the dignity of the moment should my feet suddenly forget the mechanics of walking forward.

But I couldn’t stop.

A similar thing happened when I first got the news that Grandma had cancer a month before. Of course there was the initial burst of sobbing while sitting cross-legged on my kitchen floor, but shortly after I remember thinking how dirty it looked underneath my stove. It was a place I had never thought to sweep before. The realization that things could happen in my own kitchen without my knowledge or consent was actually mildly shocking. Of all the hundreds of times I had stood in this kitchen, I had never seen it from this vantage point. And then I remember thinking I should really clean it. And then thinking of logistically what would be the best way to go about it since the stove was so low to the ground. And then thinking “Grandma is dying.”

It happened again when we got the news she had died. My mom and brother were inconsolable and I just kind of stood there (oddly enough, in another kitchen) thinking how I didn’t bring clothes for a funeral with me. And then just where the hell was I going to be able to buy appropriate clothes in this small town. And then that it would probably have to be Wal-Mart. And then how much I hated Wal-Mart. And why it was always so crowded. And loud. And then “Grandma is dead.”

It was like my brain wasn’t able to process all this horrifying news and so it dealt with it in small bursts, in-between mundane thoughts of dirty floors and evil corporations that make cheap and poorly tailored clothes and whether or not a casket would fly open should it fall because some idiot forgot how to walk.

So while I was carrying my Grandma to her final resting place, it was just easier to focus on the actual task at hand (or not royally screwing up the actual task at hand) than it was to realize that I was carrying a woman in death who had carried me, both literally and figuratively, throughout my entire life. Or that she had also carried eight children, 16 other grandchildren and 28 great-grandchildren despite having the body frame of really, really slim hobbit. Or that when things got really bad toward the end, those same children (and their spouses) and grandchildren (and their spouses) and great-grandchildren were all clamoring to help carry her to the bathroom because she was too weak to walk herself.

Or that the last time I saw her and it took all her remaining strength just to lightly rest her hand in mine, she looked down at one point and said “Oh my, I must be squeezing your hand something awful. I’m so sorry.”

I can think about this now. I am thinking about this now. In-between thoughts of “despite its cheesiness, the show ‘Victorious’ on Nickelodeon is actually quite good.”

Because that’s the thing about thoughts. Sometimes they can’t be controlled because they know our hearts need a break from breaking.

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When real life attacks…

Posted on April 11, 2012 | Leave a comment

Well, I’m back. It’s been a hellish two weeks out in the real world that ended with the funeral of a beloved family member, but now I’m ready to retreat back into my virtual life where the biggest emotional incident is when someone I barely know un-friends me for cursing too much in my status updates.

I’m sure at some point in the near future, I’ll write more about what happened, but for now I am emotionally drained and physically bloated (thanks to way too much little old lady church food). So, for now, please enjoy this re-run column I wrote when I got bored one day at work a few years ago and created new state mottos for this lovely country of ours.

Mary Ahlers
1928-2012

                                          Aprill’s List of New State Mottos:

Texas: Come for the Ungodly-Sized Bugs, Stay for the Debilitating Heat

Arizona: Yup. Just as Racist as You Imagined

Florida: Housing the majority of senior citizens so the rest of you can get to work on time since 1967.

Delaware: Bet you ten dollars you can’t pick out our state on a map.

Illinois: At least we have Chicago.

Idaho: No, You ‘Da Ho

Kansas: Flatter than your 12-year-old sister

North Dakota: The “North” State

South Dakota: The “South” State

Rhode Island: Officially neither a road nor an island.

Ohio: Screw you, Michigan.

Kentucky: Over one million people, only 15 last names.

Nevada: Prostitution is legal…need we say more?

Georgia: We should already be on your minds.

Michigan: Suck it, Ohio

West Virginia: The Alabama of the East

Utah: Former Day Saints need not apply

Arkansas: Yeah, we’re not really known for anything

California: For sale

North and South Carolina: The “Mary Kate and Ashley” of the U.S.

Washington: Remember when we were cool? Grunge? Kurt Cobain? Starbucks? Anyone?

Missouri: Motto Currently Under Reconstruction

Colorado: Come for the mountains, stay for the snotty rich kids on school break.

Alabama: Not as redneck as Kentucky, ya’ll

Louisiana: Mosquitos big enough to rape your dog

Iowa: We heart vowels!

New Hampshire: Like Old Hampshire, only newer

New York: Like we care about a motto

Connecticut: We’re pretty much just one giant suburb for New York

Virginia: No presumptuous directional prefix required

Alaska: Sorry about Sarah Palin

Hawaii: If you enjoy swimming, take a ride on our interstates

Maine: We have crabs!

Massachusetts: The Traffic Jam State

Mississippi: The Educashun State

Maryland: The Other OTHER “M” State

Nebraska: CORN RULES!

Montana: Ask us about our state motto contest!

Wyoming: Wy not?

New Jersey: The Reality TV State

Pennsylvania: It’s not really always sunny

Tennessee: Rivaling Mississippi in misspellings since 1867

Vermont: Name two of our cities, we dare you

Wisconsin: We’re actually OK with global warming

Oregon: Like California, only crappier

New Mexico: Aliens!? Wha…? Don’t be ridiculous.

Oklahoma: We hate that fucking musical too

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Oh father, where art thou?

Posted on January 25, 2012 | 10 Comments

I don’t remember him. But based off the photos, he was tall, tan and hairy, with dark hair and a big 80′s mustache.

I’m assuming he’s the one I should thank for the brutal leg hair I’m forced to tackle with a razor on a daily basis.

He left when I was around two. Or, to be more accurate, my mother cut him out of my life for my own sake when I was two. She was only 19 when she had me and they were never married, but still, she decided to try and do it on her own after she gave him the ultimatum of your daughter or the drugs.

I lost.

And for a long time, that’s all I had. Just little tidbits passed down to me from my mom. He was handsome. He did drugs. He had two sisters. His dad was a geologist. Since his last name was Noel (pronounced NOLE), they used to joke that I was the first Noel (pronounced like the song).

There was never any child support. No birthday cards. No letters. But as a kid, it didn’t matter. I had aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents and a strong, loving mom. To be honest, I hardly noticed.

Much.

Although I did used to make up stories on the playground when my classmates asked me about him. He was a firefighter in California. Sailing on a ship around the world. One time, I even said he was dead, just to stop the questions.

But I got older, as children are wont to do. And I started searching.

I thought I had found his address when I was in college. I sent a letter. Within a week I got it back. Unopened. With a giant “Return to Sender” sticker.

In my early 20′s, I thought I had found his phone number after an online search while I was living in Texas. I called. The man on the other end was sympathetic but ultimately told me “Sorry, sweetie, I’m not him.”

And then this past fall, my husband found an obit for the grandfather I never knew. My father’s father. He had died in May. All the pieces were there. It was them. The family I never knew. And a quick Google search later, I finally had a phone number.

Not for him. But for his sister.

My aunt.

Surely she would want to know me. Dads leave all the time. Abandon their kids. Hell, without deadbeat dads, the stripping industry would crumble. But an aunt or an uncle…well, they love you unconditionally, right? At least, that’s the way it has always been in my case.

It took me four months to finally work up the courage to call. But curiosity and dreams of being welcomed with open arms as tears of joy ran down our faces finally got the best of me.

I got ahold of her husband, Al, who to his credit handled my somewhat bumbling story well. Hi, my name is Aprill Brandon. You don’t know me but I think your wife is my aunt. Her brother is my dad. And I’ve been searching a long time for any of you. Here’s my number.

He assured me he would pass on the message. And after we hung up, I sighed a sigh of relief that was 30 years in the making.

There was just so much I wanted to tell her. Or anyone in that family, for that matter. That I was prom queen. That I played sports and was in the top of my class. That I graduated college with honors and with two degrees. That I’m an award-winning journalist and columnist. That I had traveled the world and lived all over the country. That I married a wonderful man in a beautiful ceremony and who now works for the Boston Globe. That we’re thinking of having kids and that if my brother, our nieces and my cousin’s babies are any indication, they will be beautiful as well.

And so I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

It’s now been about three weeks. And the pain, I think, is worse than if it had been my father rejecting me. I’m used to him rejecting me.

But now I know that none of them really want to know me.

So, I guess the moral of the story is, it’s not always like it is in those cheesy “reunion” TV shows and even cheesier Hallmark movies. Sometimes you’re just a bastard.

Sometimes you’re just a black mark on the family record.

Throughout this process, demeaning and heart-wrenching as it has been, I keep asking myself, “Why am I even bothering?” There’s a million reasons, of course, the most personal being they’re my family and everyone should know their family and the most practical being I should know my family medical history.

But in the end, at least I did what I ultimately wanted to do, which was to let at least someone in that family know that I exist.

I exist and I turned out great.

So for now, I think I’m done searching.

Because with my mom’s family (going on 70 members strong now) and my husband’s family, who adopted me as their own right away, there are a whole hell of a lot of people in this world that know I exist.

And that I turned out great.

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