On Wednesday, I watched as an 8 year old girl and her 3 year old brother buried their mom. Marisa Christina Gallegos was 27 years old. Her mom is one of my mom’s oldest friends. She and I were friends as children, I hadn’t seen her since we were about 13. She was one of the sweetest girls I’d ever met.

As of last I heard, they think she died of alcohol poisoning. Her mom (whom both she and her children were living with) was not notified until the police came to her door three hours later. Her friends did not call her mom. Her friends identified her body, so her mom didn’t have the opportunity to see her until days later. Her friends didn’t think, for one second, that her mother and her children had a right to know. It makes my heart break.

During the funeral, Eric looked over at me and said, “We’re chaining Ben to us.” I said something along the lines of, “And he’s not allowed to have friends.”

My dad said, “The streets will take your life. It’s always been that way and always will be.” My mom thanked God that Eric and I had found eachother and that I had “settled down”. There but by the grace of God…

I listened as the priest said things that were meant to give comfort. Things like how she was now in a place to help everyone fulfill their life goals. How no one should be sad because she is in a better place. It sounded patronizing. It doesn’t mean I don’t believe it, it’s just that, were I in her mother’s shoes, I’d smack anyone who told me my daughter was in a better place. She has two children that need her here, now. There is no better place.

I found pictures of her at my 5th birthday party. I made copies and will take them to her mom when we go to visit her next week. It struck me how her daughter looks exactly like her at that age. Same skinny body, rail arms and chicken legs. Everytime I saw her, I couldn’t help but cry. While I may have barely recognized the woman in the casket, the sobbing face of the little girl was very familiar.

I have so much to say about this but I’m not entirely sure how to put it together, so I apologize for this being scattered. I can’t imagine burying a mom so young and I can’t imagine burying your child. When her mom stood to speak, she reminded us all to hold our children a little tighter. I did and I will.

Goodbye, Marisa.

Until my recent tooth removal, I hadn’t built up any sort of stored breastmilk supply. Not only because my supply was already a drizzle and it was just depressing watching the drips end at 1 ounce on each side, making me want to cry and scream to the Gods, “WHY ME, GODS?! Is it because of my blasphemous use of Gods over God because it’s just for effect! JUST FOR EFFECT!”, but because I wasn’t ever planning on being away from my son for longer than, you know, 10 seconds.

Thanks to the 8 whole hours I was out of it with the removal, I pumped 2 whole bags and one whole bottle of breastmilk for the freezer. We recently popped one out for Eric to use when I was at my 5 hour staff meeting early last month. When I called (which I managed to avoid for nearly 3 whole hours despite the continual let-downs because I couldn’t stop talking or thinking about him), Eric said he wouldn’t take it but he did finish nearly an entire avocado. He was hungry but didn’t want the milk. I did not freak. I did let-down…again.

When I got home, I inspected the milk and, AHA, it smelled soapy! I remembered the many stories of over-enthusiastic lipase making good, frozen milk smell like a bottle of liquid Dawn. “I know what this is! It’s too much lipase! It just smells bad, it’s okay to drink.”

Here is where I take a sip. Now, some people may think it’s gross or strange to taste one’s own breastmilk. I ask you people this, what’s stranger, drinking a bodily fluid from a source with which you are quite familiar, or drinking a bodily fluid from some random animal that could be out whoring around with HIV BIV positive bulls or doing intravenous bovine herione on her off days? Yeah, whatchu gotta say ’bout that?! Besides, it doesn’t taste bad.

Anyway, I sipped.

And I gagged. My Lord, did I gag. I also may have vomited a little in my mouth. Anyone who says soapy-smelling breastmilk is “just stronger” is insane. Not only did it smell like a bottle of Dawn but it tasted like a bottle of Dawn mixed with the essence of chicken bottom. It was that bad.

Needless to say, we’ll be stocking up on avocados come my all day meeting at the end of the month because there is no way Ben’s ever going to get chicken ass and dish soap in a bottle again. Until, of course, he hits that toddler “Mama, I won’t eat anything but chicken butt and Dawn…or tomato and pea salad” phase. And no child of mine is going to eat tomato and pea salad. No, sir. Not in this house.

Me: Wow. Charmed sure is a crap show.
Eric: Yeah.
Me: Still better than Angel, though.
Eric: *steely stare*

Apparently, them’s fightin’ words.