my life {part one}

In honor of my thirtieth birthday, which is in eleven short days, 

I am writing the (somewhat) condensed version of my life story, broken into decades.  

{Part One: birth-ten years; Part Two: ten-twenty years; Part Three: twenty-thirty years}

I came to this world as a surprise. I don’t think that my arrival as a surprise is rare, many children are “accidents”, but I was raised believing that I came with purpose, as a gift to my mother.  My mom’s mom, my Grandma Beverly, died of lung cancer that spread to her brain, in February 1982, after just turning 48 the previous October.  A short while later, my mom’s older sister (there are three girls in their family, my mom being the middle sister) found out she was unexpectedly pregnant. My mom laughed to her younger sister about how she just couldn’t believe it!  When my dad heard about the surprise pregnancy, he told my mom he was going to take Arnie (my aunt’s boyfriend) a box of Kleenex… My mom told my dad, “Take two!”, her way to informing him that they, too, were unexpectedly expecting.  

I was born Thursday November 18, 1982 weighing 8 pounds, 14 and a half ounces, measuring 21 inches long.  Rochelle Beverly Raatz was the name my parents chose for me, and  I joined a brother, Dalton Jay, nearly three, who was from my mom's first marriage to her high school sweetheart. 

My mom and Aunt Barb gave birth eleven days apart (although to hear my cousin say it, we are only ten and a half days apart). November 29^th, Kimberly Leann Johnson, also weighing 8 pounds, 14 and a half ounces and also measuring 21 inches long, became the youngest of my Aunt Barb’s three children.  Both mothers couldn’t believe we were exactly the same size and our names had exactly the same number of letters.  Kimmy and Shelly, as we were later known, became inseparable.  Raised as twins, sharing birthday parties and identical Christmas presents, we loved telling people we were fraternal (non-identical) twins.  Often we did so with fake Australian accents.

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When I was two years old, my parents bought a house.  It was serious fixer-upper, but it was in a great neighborhood and had a huge yard.  I think every house we ever lived in after that house on 93^rd Avenue never quite measured up in my mind.  That house was home.  From the extra large family room, with a pot belly stove to heat it, to the bedrooms with their cadet heaters; no place has ever felt so good to me as that house.  Our backyard in particular was awesome.  We had a dog run, a garden, a paved basketball court, a swing set, a trampoline, a pool, a hot tub and a playhouse my grandfather built us.  The backyard was ideal for a household with four kids whose mom also did in-home daycare.  

It is in that neighborhood that I got to know other families, other children, other moms. I saw what I now recognize as motherhood upon the faces of these women, the moms I grew up around.  I saw it on the face of Kerry Vick when her son, Cody, for days couldn’t take a full breath because of his severe asthma.  I saw it on Stacey’s face as she tried to get Corey to ride the bus to kindergarten.  I saw it on Susan Crawford’s face as she walked to the car for church, five beautiful daughters marching along behind her.  They were looks of fear, of failure, of triumph. I saw motherhood on the face of my own mom years later when, at sixteen, my brother got his girlfriend pregnant. 

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When I was four, my sister, Roxanne Renee joined the ranks as baby sister, and two short years later, Dallas Adam joined the fray.  The three of us grew up very close.  I was especially close to Dallas, being seven years older, and loved changing his diaper, playing with him and teaching him things.  He was loud, funny and in constant motion.  Much like my own children are now.  He liked to play “guys”, jump on the trampoline and pretend to shoot guns at visitors when they came.  He was a riot.

Other than my siblings, my best friends growing up were Maggie, Amy & Ann.   Maggie and I played together a lot, but we also fought a lot when we were little.  Amy & Ann were identical twins in our neighborhood who were my closest friends.  I could always very easily tell them apart, even though most adults could not.  They had the most amazing collection of My Little Ponies and their mom was the one who introduced me to “Pick Night” for dinner. Theirs was the first sleepover I stayed up all night at.  We watched the sun rise through the front window of their living room, walls plastered in photographs of white tigers.  When I was very little I used to get out of the house and wander the neighborhood.  Eventually my parents had to get a chain lock to keep me in the house. (Remind you of Jack much?)

 I grew up across the street from Kerry, who had more Disney movies than an eight year old girl could dream of, and who had, in her youngest son, the cutest kid on the block.  I had  total crush on Cody and would take my boom box, with my Dirty Dancing cassette tape inside, out to the curb in front of our house and would dance, just like Baby, hoping Cody would catch a glimpse.  This, of course, mortified Dalton, who was friends with Cody and completely embarrassed of my crush on him.

In addition to crushing Cody, I also fell for Dalton's best friend Adam.  Whenever our family went anywhere, Adam came along.  I remember thinking that  my head banging skills were pretty awesome, and telling Adam as much, as I demonstrated said abilities while he watched on. I mean, who doesn't love a nine year old who can head bang?

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My dad, Barry, is an outdoor kind of guy, despite his desk job at Freightliner in Portland, Oregon.  He absolutely loves to hike, fish and camp. Because of this, my main form of vacationing was the weeklong camping trip we would spend every summer in August in Cougar, Washington on the Yale Reservoir with my cousin Kimmy.  We would spend nights around the campfire roasting smores and counting mosquito bites like it was some kind of competition.  In the mornings we would compare “sandal tans”, seeing who had gotten more sun.  It was unfair, of course, as Kimmy is a quarter Indian, and I am about as pasty white as they come.  But compete we would.  I can still close my eyes and feel the heavy, wet Washington air around me, cool in the mornings as we awoke, surrounded by trees and water. That place is sacred ground.  I have since camped there with my own children, and see just how much work camping with four children must have been for my mom for an entire week.  But we did it. Arms tanned, legs bit, and memories made.

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 Diet Coke and M&M’s always remind me of my mom, as does watermelon, Scottie dogs and Peacocks. Marilynn loves movies, reading, sewing and all things children. Growing up I thought my mom knew everything, and was always so proud to be seen with her.  I thought she was so beautiful, and I always felt lucky that she was my mom.  When I was in 8th grade she was able to accompany my first field trip with me.  All my friends were jealous that she was my mom.  And I was beside myself that she got to join us.

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You know when you're little and you can rattle off every sibling you have, pet you own and injury you've survived? Well, I always had quite the list when it came to injuries. I was such a klutz.  I broke my wrist three times before I was ten.  Once was at a playground, another while dancing on the curb while walking home with my dad from the neighbors' house and the third I don't remember.  I also suffered a black eye when I attempted a flip on the Johnson's trampoline while it was positioned next to the fence. I landed the flip, but it bounced me, face first, into the fence, where I got the worst shiner of my life.  While racing one of our daycare boys, Michael, to the sandbox in the back yard before lunch one day, I slid into the sand box and a huge nail ripped my knee wide open. It was disgusting. And I still have quite the scar from it.  The biggest medical happening in my young life, though was hernia surgery at age six. I remember not being able to walk for days, and having my dad carry me to use the restroom. 

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I was a pretty good kid, but I was not always a nice girl. I got in trouble with the principal at school for flinging a spoonful of peas at Steven Sampson.  Granted, he had said my best friend at the time looked like a scarecrow, but my behavior was still naughty, and I knew better!  I also told Michael that we had a ghost in our attic. After that he was always afraid to go in the garage! 

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When I was 8, I started going with my neighborhood friend, Maggie, to church.  I became part of the kids’ choir and earned the solo in “God Has a Plan For My Life.” To this day, I still know all the words.  “He knew just how special, I’d turn out to be…”  I was so proud to be up on stage, singing my heart out for God.  At this point my life went from being half of KimmyandShelly to being half of MaggieandShelly.  We spent years at church, singing duets, praying together, and sharing all our secrets.  As an adult, I look back on the friendships of my childhood and I miss the ease with which I shared everything.  The way friends touch, talk, giggle with such minimal effort. I miss that.

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I grew up loving a pillow I called simply my little blue pillow, whose “corners” (it was shaped like a stop sign) I would run between my fingers as I fell asleep.  The pillow even accompanied me on my honeymoon, but was retired soon after that, replaced by a stuffed bear that Josh calls Brian (from Family Guy) that he bought me for Valentine's Day our first year married.  

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 As a little girl loved playing dolls in my pink mini Graco double stroller, squeezing as many Cabbage Patch dolls as would fit in it, even stuffing some into the storage underneath.  Mary Rose, my first and favorite Cabbage Patch doll, had scuff marks on her face from falling out of my Cabbage Patch Big Wheel out on the road in front of our house.  My mom sewed matching clothes for Mary Rose and I, and I loved that.  My love of matching clothes may have started then.

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I simply can't write about my first ten years on the planet without mentioning school, and two teachers in particular, whom I credit with my love of writing.

 My second grade teacher Mrs. Biggs introduced me to my love of writing.  She entered me in The Young Authors' Conference, and helped me write, illustrate and bind my very first novel.  It was about my family living on an island, and may or may not mention surviving on Capri Suns and Doritos.  It was then that I realized I could be an author.  That I could spend my life writing stories for people to enjoy.  I absolutely adored Mrs. Biggs, writing notes to her everyday on my DOL that said things like, "I love your earrings," or "You are so pretty."  I think of her often, and am so grateful she saw my potential.

I also must mention Mr. Boyle, my fourth grade teacher.  He was an inspiration in his own right.  When he was born, his parents were told he would never walk, and never amount to much of anything.  He set right out to prove his doctors wrong.  He used a wheelchair, then a walker, and eventually walked completely upright with only the help of one crutch.  He also, obviously, went to college and made something of himself.  In his class we wrote stories each week.  It was then I discovered I loved the entire writing process.  I loved writing the rough draft, just getting my thoughts onto paper, and feeling my way through a story.  I equally loved writing my final draft, checking spelling and punctuation, and using my best penmanship on a thick stack of fresh wide ruled paper.

I still love that feeling as I sit down to write a blog post.  The initial rush of ideas, all piling on top of each other, wrestling for my attention.

Then the slow sorting of thoughts into coherent paragraphs, complete with coordinating pictures and quotes, and the beautiful finality of hitting "publish" and letting my thoughts out into the world.

"There is always one moment in childhood when the door opens and lets the future in."

-Deepak Chopra