I want more wild – more freedom – in my life. I long for more room to expand and grow. I want to be generous and selfless with love and be loved in my natural form.
It was the beginning of May. Mark made French toast for breakfast. I told him, French toast was one of the things I first learned to make. But I don’t remember the first time I made it or who taught me how. It might have been my mother.
I made coffee with the French press. I drink my coffee with coconut milk and honey. Mark prefers half-and-half and sugar. That day, we didn’t have either milk or half-and-half. So Mark walked to his parents’ house across the street and brought home Lactaid and pan de sol. I hadn’t had Lactaid in years. Over the past ten years Mark and I went from drinking whole milk to 2%, then Lactaid to Soy, and more recently, Almond to coconut milk. The Lactaid lacked flavor which worked because it didn’t hinder the taste of our coffee or toast. The French toast was delicious. The coffee was strong. And, most likely, we drank it out of a pair of big red mugs.
Later on, we watched La La Land at home with the kids and everyone seemed distracted. I was annoyed. I tried my best to absorb the magic happening on screen but there was so much noise around me. At some point, my family finally engaged. And by the end of the film Mark, Alana and I were crying. The girls and I knew how it ended (their grandparents spoiled it for us) but Mark was unaware. All he knew was it had a sad ending. “I thought someone was going to die.” He said. “This ending was worse.”
It felt like a death had occurred. The two stars made their dreams come true, but in their pursuit they lost something precious.
The next day, I felt hungover with sadness and the song “City of Stars” would not stop playing in my head. I would repeatedly sing the words while pretending to cry.
Mark and I had a few hours to ourselves that night. Normally, we would go out to dinner but I didn’t feel like going anywhere because I felt so down. We stayed in and lied in bed. I clung to him and cried in his chest. “I don’t want us to drift apart.” I said. “I want us to grow closer together.”
In the past year, we had another baby and Mark was promoted at work. We both took on more responsibilities. Mark worked to revive a golf course that had suffered through a drought and a summer brushfire. And I focused on being mom while developing an idea for a book and learning more about writing. We both worked to make our dreams come true but I felt disconnected. I felt like he didn’t see me any more: the person behind the roles of mother and wife. And I had trouble seeing him beyond the face of father, provider and husband.
We both agreed to work on our relationship. We understood what we have is precious. This is a huge part of the dream: our love story. I wanted us to continue falling in love over and over again, and never stop learning about one another and inspiring each other to become better people.
Mark said he’d seen how much I changed. I was a stronger person and willing to take more risks. He said our daughter changed because of me.
Mia, our middle child, was timid and a bit of a recluse. We worried about how she would react to no longer being the youngest child. But when she became a big sister, she grew. She blossomed into a more confident and vocal person. She performed in a talent show and formed a basketball team at school. She surprised us all.
But it was Mark who gave her the extra attention she needed. He took her on a date to a Lakers game. They wore jerseys and Lakers hats. And they’d regularly run errands together, just the two of them. Their bond grew stronger. Mark told Mia she was the cream of the Oreo. “The middle is the best part.” He said. She loved that.
However, I accepted the compliment. I pushed myself to grow as a person because I knew they’re growing along with me. I understood that we set the example for our children. We showed them how to love, how to live and be happy. And they will follow our lead. I want to set them on a path with a strong foundation that might crack at times but never will it shatter.
It was June. The fog was thick, parts of the road were barely visible. I felt nervous. The road we traveled down was narrow and winding around the edge of a cliff.
We arrived at Paradise Cove in Malibu. The beach air was crisp and it felt good to breathe in. We were escorted to a big round table on the patio of Paradise Cove Beach Café. Our chairs sunk into the sand as we sat down. We all wore flip-flops and let cool sand run through our toes. Alana sat quietly and appeared to be in a trance. “Are you okay?” I asked. She said something about digging her feet in the sand. The sensation seemed to sedate her.
Mark and I drank IPA’s. We ate family style and shared calamari, French fries, mini crab cakes with corn coleslaw, a baked potato wrapped in rosemary bread and coconut shrimp.
After lunch we walked on the beach. Mark held Abe. Alana and Mia ran up to the ocean. And I stood back and watched. As Alana inched out a little further into the water, I told her to come back. I didn’t want her to get her clothes wet and her pink sandals were adrift on the shore. I needed her to be dry with shoes on her feet; we had somewhere to be. The girls each had a role in their aunt’s wedding. Alana was the ring bearer and Mia was a flower girl. And we didn’t have much time between lunch and the wedding rehearsal at Calamigos Ranch.
The fog cleared as we drove to the rehearsal. Beautiful wildflowers were now visible on the side of the winding road. The girls pointed to them and Mark said, “Your mom is a wildflower and I picked her.”
I smiled and gazed out the window. I let his words linger. I liked how it felt to be called a “wildflower.” I wasn’t sure what it meant but I felt like Mark found something in me that longed to be seen.
There were a lot of trees as we entered Calamigos Ranch. In the trees were several glowing chandeliers. The wedding party and family gathered in the main entrance. Many of us watched as a stalky tan colored French bulldog struggled to walk up a slight stone slope. The small dog peed everywhere. His back legs were stiff and spread far apart behind him. He reminded me of Bubba (our beloved pug who passed away last year) and a bowling ball. I imagined him rolling down another slope and knocking over the people at the bottom.
We walked in a large group to the wedding site. We passed by a large wagon and a creek with a canopy of branches and leaves. The creek reminded me of Bouquet Falls, a local creek I used to visit as a child. Alana asked, “Is a creek like a small river?”
“Yes.” I answered.
I thought of how I’d like to take the kids there.
In my mind, I picture children attempting to catch fish with plastic grocery bags in the shallow water. Was I one of them? I vaguely remember my mother taking us to have picnics there. But I do remember a picture of us at the falls. The photo was developed in black and white. My mother and I sat on a blanket in front of the creek. We wore black tops and blue jeans and leaned toward one other.
A little further up, on the opposite side of the creek, was an old carousel. The animals on the poles were faded; the paint had chipped and worn off. And at the front of the carousel was a white rooster with its legs stretched in a run. It reminded me of the story I’m writing about a young boy who tries to out run his emotions and finds a wild rooster on the loose in the suburbs.
Near the carousel were cows in a stall and then rows of vines growing grapes for wine. And at the end of the trail was a large grassy field with a Ferris wheel. Beside it was a tall wooden structure with a ladder and a small platform on top. It looked like a high dive, but there was nothing to dive into but earth.
Finally, we approached the wedding site surrounded by little cottages and more trees with hanging rope lights. The girls gathered with the wedding party. Mark left to fetch us some coffee. And I sat down with Abe on the foe grass. I watched as he wobbled about and we listened to the birds sing.
We spent the night at a hotel near the wedding venue. The next morning Mark searched online for local breakfast spots. He found a place called “Wildflour Bakery.”
The restaurant was not too far from the hotel. We pulled into the shopping center and parked next to an old Ford truck. It was all white and had a hand painted umbrella on the side of the driver’s door. It was for sale. My husband might have joked about purchasing it, even though he had just acquired an old Ford truck of his own.
The bakery had a country feel to it. In the middle of the seating area was a big wooden table with bench seats. We sat there with the kids, Mark’s cousin and his friend. We ate pan de sol sliders with eggs, cheese, tomatoes and a chipotle mayo, eggs over easy on top of sliced bread with marinara sauce and arugula drizzled with a balsamic vinegar glaze and big fluffy pieces of French toast covered with bananas and berries. Mark and I drank coffee out of big red mugs and I was reminded of home.
The foundation of my home was built from a broken road. I am a childhood survivor of divorce (I endured three). Along the way, I acquired one biological brother, four step brothers and five half siblings. I am the eldest: the first born of the first marriage and the first test of a child’s resilience.
I am a wildflower.