Ruffle Butts and Villages

The old adage is that it takes a village to raise a child.

Silly.

It takes two parents, a lot of soap and a bunch of band aids.

Right?

I've prided myself on being self-sufficient, independent and not really needing anyone. Mr. J and I would raise Livi based on all the books we've read, all the Google searches, all the late night conversations.

And then my friends sat on the floor of my nursery the day after the epic shower. Amber had gone on a coffee run and everyone was in pj's, having met at the top of the stairs, yawns and tired Good Mornings. Kylie folded burp cloths and we swapped stories about growing up as I hung Livi's dresses and ruffle butt undies. Amie crawled in from my room, Mr. J having offered her his side of the bed when he took the couch at 2 a.m. as the party finally wound down. Deven curled into a Boppy pillow and I smiled as I realized that this was my village; my happiest memory.

A week later we prepped for Mag's baby shower and once again I found myself on the floor of a nursery, this time Chloe's. Mag's mom was making sense of all of the baskets, hair bands and well wishes while I stretched, trying to pull Livi's toes out of my ribs and smiled at the generations before me; Mag's village.

Mr. J was on the couch when I got home and I found the words slowly making their way out of my mouth, "I'm a little jealous. Not in a bad way, but in a sad way."

"Why, Little?"

"Well, I have my girls and I love them, but I spent time with Mags and her mom today and it made me sad that I don't have someone like that to share this with, a mom to sit on the floor and tell me where things go."

He nodded his head, "I've thought about that. I'm sorry. It sucks."

I shook it off, wave of the hand, "It's nothing," embarrassed that I was being such a girl, such a needy little thing.

I shyly mentioned it to Mags over lunch this week and she smiled, "Matt mentioned it. He noticed you looking at all the stuff our mom's had gotten for us and hanging out with mine. He said it sucked you didn't have a mom to do this stuff with."

And like a big freaking girl I started crying. Over my salad.

I don't find myself wanting to repair a damaged relationship or search my heart for forgiveness. The emails I receive weekly burn into my retinas as I see her name in my inbox. Somedays they are understanding of the silence, the pictures and one word sentences that I muster enough courage to send once every three months or so. Somedays they are a clear indication that rehab hasn't worked and the steps have gotten too hard. Somedays they are full of accusations, words to inspire guilt or retribution.

Mr. J asked me what relationship our daughter will have with her grandmother.

"None."

"How do we explain it?"

"I haven't gotten that far yet."

The image of her being wheeled out of my sister's house on a stretcher is burned into my brain, although I wasn't there. I could picture it from Jenn's emails and phone calls, mom's BAC a .32, Elise crying, "Mommy, grandma fell down the stairs and I had to take care of her," and Jenn ending with the sentence, "I want to vomit."

That was enough.

I will hold my village tight and surround my daughter with strong women, women who choose each other over their demons and will fly from New York, drive in from Scottsdale, leave their husbands for a night and pull up a patch of carpet to support one another on a sleepy morning.

I will also promise her that I will be there for every momentous occasion, come the lead in a school play, graduation or the day she calls to tell me I'll be a grandmother. I will fold my stiff knees in on themselves, sit on a nursery floor and fold ruffle-butted undies until my fingers fall off.

And I will be that strong women, I will constitute a village and she will never, ever wonder where I am or where I went.

Or why I never chose her.