The 15-year-old girl from a nice Catholic family and her 18-year-old handsome knight didn’t need the help of a shotgun to declare their love and commitment in front of family, friends and God; they’d decided on their own to consummate the pregnancy with wedding vows and a priest, but her mother’s insistence that white was for virgins and a ceremony initiated by shameful acts didn’t justify too much joy or celebration left sadness lingering in the young bride’s heart.

Their love was young but honest, simple and enduring, and although their hearts were quite pure, their families’ intent to hush whispers and brand a fallen daughter enveloped the young couple’s promise in strife and dishonor.

After a small ceremony in July, 1971 the newlyweds put the beginning to rest and focused on creating a future. With the baby’s outline no longer hidden behind figureless clothing, the pregnant child was forced to abandon her honor roll status, drop out of school, and take to task the pending glory of motherhood. Only 33 days after her sixteenth birthday she did indeed birth her very own family, a baby to love-a daughter to share and dream and hope with.

She only allowed herself random moments to look toward the past and instead of letting sorrow linger for long, she busied herself with the present. As her family grew, this mother of daughters and a son found certain delights she’d never been allowed. While her children skipped through their own rites of passage-proms and weddings-moments when girls wear flowing dresses and stand with shoulders poised amidst declarations of beauty, she basked in her commitment to give her girls their moments. But sometimes, even when she tried to swallow hard, she accidentally tapped into that long ago sadness and wondered what it would feel like to have had a moment of her own.

For 38 years she’s raised her first child and her second and third. She’s welcomed a grandchild from each of her children while she and my father countered the odds and proved false the projections for failure when starting so young; still holding hands everywhere they saunter, their eyes gleam and dance at the sight of each other. It’s a romance of endurance and lives entwined, of history and memory and dreams fulfilled and let go, of youth turned middle age and the strength to be humble in a lover’s arms.

Now with clarity and the perspective of half a century rather than only a decade plus five, the bride’s life is enough pleasantly seasoned that she’s realized her moment long gone and wondered about didn’t have to be dictated by a family’s false values and fear of public scrutiny. The shame was not hers or his; it was handed to them by people proposing to love yet really only self enamored.

When my phone rang Monday night I’m sure my mother was wearing a small smile I can only imagine when she asked if I’d stand at her side together with my siblings while she and my father marry. My satirical tongue acted before my mind could engage, but immune to my sarcasm she chuckled and explained, it’s never too late.

She’ll choose her own garb absent any yellow sashes or embroidered disgrace. She’ll stand with her children and their children at the side of her husband to declare once again to love and honor the path they’ve traveled and the one they’ve yet to explore while we’ll rejoice and eat and dance and proudly witness her moment.

The media does a wonderful job of shocking us, repulsing us, and when we read about these types of atrocities, we ache. We also turn our heads in a different direction because the gut-level insanity is too much to wallow in for long; it affects our psyche and leaves us feeling helpless. The inundation of abuse stories in every publication and broadcast easily creates a sense of hopelessness where we don’t know where to turn, or how to help.

Reporting the stories, feeling the shock and horror is important, but so is our ability to collectively move toward helping create families free from abuse, and the media is not doing a good job in that regard. Simply gorging on the atrocities doesn’t provide any type of real-life solutions or empower us as a society of people who really do care.

It only takes a second, a tiny click inside the exhausted and frustrated mind of a parent to make the leap into child abuse. It may start with a parent yelling, trying desperately to demand compliance from a child who is simply hell bent on screaming, or throwing his food, or stomping her feet. As the frustration mounts and the struggle for control escalates, a parent without coping skills could all too easily lay violent hands and voice on the one person they’re duty-bound to protect and nurture.

If you’re a parent or caregiver, I feel pretty confident to assume you’ve been in these situations. You’re tired. You’re trying to keep it together. You’re stressed and anxious for a variety of reasons and your child has decided he or she is going to take your last ounce of sanity and throw it in your face. In that instant when you feel the rage and helplessness begin to grow, you make a choice. You choose to yell and scream. You choose to spank or slap or kick, or you choose something else, some way to cope that doesn’t include verbal or physical retribution toward a child so much smaller and weaker than you. It’s always a choice.

The stories of child abuse reported in our media are justifiably shocking and I understand all too well how much more comforting it is to turn the page or the channel and to think the statistics so overwhelming that there’s nothing I can do. It’s not true though. There is a lot I can do, and that you can do. We don’t have to imagine ourselves riding white horses into rings of fire. We can start simply, where roots begin to grow. Rather than feeling shocked and overwhelmed, we can reach out into our daily interactions and share a nugget of wisdom, a lesson learned hard.

What coping mechanisms do you use? When you feel like you’re about to slip over the edge, when you’re in that instant where you have to make a choice, what do you do? What tips can you share with other parents?

The hardest part of our work with these teens was trying to redefine their idea of normal, my friend explained. You can provide the education, the tools and resources, but we’re working to overcome a multi-generational value system and set of expectations.

For generations, my own family lived a rather warped version of normal and redefining ourselves and our legacy continues to be both glorious and harrowing. Some of us are further in our journey and some of us are still stagnating in a shallow pool of denial.

My grandmother, a victim of untold atrocities as a child, married a man who sexually abused eight children that we know of. Living with secrets, hers and her husband’s, defined a normal that served as a shroud for continued abuse and allowed it to weave its way through another two generations…my mother’s and mine.

There are so many organizations working to build awareness and stop the abuse that runs rampant through families. People that are diligently, tirelessly, striving to change our society’s normal, but every six hours a child in this country dies from abuse, and 1 in 4 girls and 1 in 6 boys are sexually assaulted before they reach 18. We still seem unable to redefine that normal.

I know reading and talking about child abuse and domestic violence isn’t how we’d all like to spend our time. The stories are ugly, the emotions volcanic, and it feels safer, easier, to turn our heads or look away. Perhaps if we can’t see it, it’ll never become our own normal. Yet we all know there is more strength in a line of people holding hands while facing a storm than there is when we try to stand alone. Redefining normal requires we all take part in the conversations.

One of my aunts believed all fathers molested their daughters. It wasn’t until she was 12-years-old and asked a friend if her father also molested his children that my aunt began to redefine her own normal.

It’s not only that we need to continue efforts to raise awareness, lobby our legislatures to impose harsher punishment for convicted abusers, but in addition to these important, vital initiatives, we need to create a comfort level where talking about abuse, eliminating cloaks of darkness where abusers thrive, is not an activity where voices collapse in whispers.

After a family blow out in which a sixth victim pointed her finger at my grandfather, he was forced to attend psychological counseling. His doctor eventually closed the file, labeled a pedophile cured and assured our family this would never happen again.

We still didn’t talk about it. My family’s not-so-unique ability to envelope ourselves in denial opened the door for at least two more children to be molested.  As insane as it sounds, we were unable to redefine our family’s normal until much later. Everyone was still seated at the table gorging on platefuls of shame and while we allowed denial to distend our souls like the bellies of Vikings feasting, he was free to satisfy his own hunger.

Conversations about what should and what should not be normal could have catapulted insanity from our lives. Developing a collective conscience requires the steady elimination of shame that surrounds each story of abuse and that requires talking, listening and more talking. We can help redefine normal for victims of domestic and sexual abuse by simply having conversations. If you have a story to tell, please do. Have the conversations at your dinner table, in your classrooms, with your friends and with your children. If you have minutes to spare, take the pledge at Violence UnSilenced.

My grandfather was not the only person who molested me when I was a child, but it was his betrayal that finally gave me a voice. Days before my grandfather decided it was time for my initiation I overheard my mother and her sister discussing something in soft voices. My aunt was upset, trembling and crying. I could feel her sadness and her rage and when I asked why, she sucked in enough air to baloon her bravery and she exhaled the words that my grandfather had molested all of his daughters while they were growing up. It was the first time she and my mom had mentioned their shared history to me or to each other. The conversation ended quickly. They weren’t ready to redefine their normal, but that exchange opened a door for me to walk through only a few days later when my grandfather decided I’d be the sixth little girl he’d enjoy. I knew I wasn’t alone and I knew my parents would believe me. I knew this didn’t have to be my normal.

Last Week…

Aaron: (looking at our wedding rings) Are you going to wear those rings forever?

Me: Yes, forever!

Aaron: Even when you’re dead?

Me: Yes. Forever is forever.

Aaron: I don’t think you should wear them when you’re dead. You should just give them to me before you die and I’ll keep them safe for you.

===================================================

Last Night…

Aaron: Daddy, when you’re dead can I have all your clothes?

And ya’ll thought he looked so sweet and innocent, didn’t you. If you don’t hear from me, please tell the investigators to look for a child wearing oversized clothes and a diamond ring.

My husband, being the retired corporate executive that he is, and whose mind is trained to create strategy, keeps prompting me to stop spending time in the how and to give myself up to the what…traveling without a destination…all you do is continue to travel. I know, I know.

I’m unsure why this is like forcing my mind to give birth, but it is, and I’m still laboring.

First, I simply insisted I wanted to continue using my writing and communication skills to help clients achieve their business goals, and to be able to make a significant financial contribution to my family in the process. I’ve been doing this for several years and although I’ve been successful and enjoy my work, it doesn’t fulfill me.

I started writing a book about the three generations of women in my family who are survivors of child abuse and I realized the pot simmering on the back burner of my mind could provide a purpose if I’d turn off the fire long enough to spoon out a serving.

So of course I decided I wanted to be Oprah. Since I’m a white, married woman with a child and I’m not fond of being in front of a camera, this seemed just a little unlikely.

Knocking it back a notch, I realized what the people closest to me have known all along. I want to use my writing skills and experiences to become a defining voice in the fight against domestic violence and child abuse.

Purpose…I think I’m getting closer.

For this week’s topic, WickedStepMom asked people to answer the question…

What event or time did you feel your most beautiful?  How did this event shape your view of yourself? Do your family, friends and children know about this event and how important it was?

I’ve written several times that I feel more confident when I’m in better physical shape than I am right now, but this question from WickedStepMom provides an opportunity for deeper self reflection. In all honesty, I feel the most beautiful when I feel smart.

When I land a new client, provide a solution to a problem, have an intelligent conversation with someone, break down an obstacle or absorb new information and insights, I feel the most beautiful. I seem to have more of these “beautiful moments” as I grow older. Perhaps it’s the essence of building blocks creating new foundations for extending knowledge, or it’s the realization that my brain is a lot more important than the size of my hips.

I can’t think of one moment in time when I’ve felt the most beautiful, but instead there are several moments when I’ve felt brilliant. Here are the first few that come to mind…

• The day I graduated from college, which I didn’t do until I was 28-years-old. The first in my family to earn a college degree, Magna Cum Laude, I felt incredibly beautiful in that shapeless black gown.
• The moment a nurse put Aaron in my arms and the ecstasy of realizing I was finally a mom. My path to motherhood was a direct result of thinking outside the box, and the intersection of all you can accomplish through friendship, love and a refusal to only play the cards you’re dealt.
• The night I finally decided to end my first marriage and to reclaim my life and my dignity.
• Last night when my husband put his arms around me and said, “You were just a baby when I met you, and now you’re quite the woman.” His comment had absolutely nothing to do with the number of gray hairs or wrinkles I’ve accumulated in the 14 years we’ve been together.

The second part of WickedStepMom’s question… Do your family, friends and children know about this event and how important it was?

I’m sure on some level they do. We talk a lot in our house about the importance of education, intellect and critical thinking, and these are life pursuits my own father made a point to discuss at my childhood dinner table. Do they know I think my brain is the most important feature to exercise and nurture and that it’s the one thing that gives me the most pleasure…well, we’d have to ask them.

People participating this week…

• WickedStepMom
• Amy @ Six Flower Mom
• Lisa P @ Use Your Wisdom
• Momma Miler @ Miller Memories

What about you? Is there a moment, a place in your life when you’ve felt the most beautiful?

In addition to other Beautiful Like Me participants blogging today, there are a couple of articles from around the blog world that are definitely worth a click through.

Vered’s recent articles: 10 Ways to Love Yourself As A Woman and 10 Ways to Hate Yourself As A Woman

From Skirt! magazine…A touching and inspiring letter written by a young woman, just barely out of her teens, that she sent to every teen girl she knows, Beauty or the Beast

He took the bait but not three minutes into the conversation he was already frustrated with my position and was about to end his opposition by ending the conversation.

“Listen,” I said. “I really need to have brain sex with you right now, so just calm down and have a nice argument with me.”

Which he did, and being the compassionate lover that he is, the ensuing debate included him grabbing a pad of paper, illustrating his stance with graphs and diagrams and suavely countering each point I scored.

Thanks, Dear! I hope it was as good for you as it was for me.

I’ve been incredibly fortunate over the last academic year to have clicked with two other moms from my son’s school. Between the three of us we have five 5-year-old boys. Getting together is crazy amounts of fun that normally includes at least one skinned knee, pockets full of insects and half a truck of watermelon.

Since these friendships are relatively new, we’re still learning about what makes each other tick—our hot buttons, philosophies, experiences and passions. Ironically, Facebook has provided insights that in a previous unwired generation would have taken years to gather.

One of us routinely posts links to articles with specific political ideologies and current events. One of us gathers and shares a mother load of information about health and nutrition, and one of us randomly posts links and information about domestic violence and child abuse (guess who). We all throw items up on the walls related to education, and since all five boys will be in the same Montessori kindergarten next year, it’s fair to say our ideas about education jingle and jive. These women are funny, politically-up-to-date, well-read and intelligent, and the absolutely critical component—they share my penchant for sarcasm and sangria. We can go on and on for hours discussing everything kid related, or nothing kid related at all. It’s like intellectual lesbianism.

Why am I telling you about these new, budding friendships? Well, in many ways these two women have really made me think and provided an opportunity for a change of heart (No, it has nothing to do with the fact that one of them lovingly referred to me as a Starbucks whore on Facebook). Both women are stay-at-home moms. Like many well-educated Gen X women, they’ve opted out of the workforce to raise their children and focus on their families. Their SAHM status would normally make them unlikely friendship candidates, but somehow, for some reason, there’s simply none of that cranky condensation from either side of the fence. And you know what, I love it.

I love that we can support each other’s choices, lend an ear or a hand, and not require we share the same working status. We can empathize without an expectation to walk in the other’s shoes and in those moments when they get it and I get it and we share it, they’re restoring my faith in what women can bring to each other’s lives…one glass of sangria at a time.

Straight from the pool— a nice, big, wet hug just for you.

You’re very welcome!

The site was recently nominated for SocialLuxe Lounge’s Most Inspiring Blog. Winning means recognition at Blogher and can help bring even more voices, ears and recognition to a cause that we all care about.

You can help make this happen. All you have to do is click through to vote, and it only takes a minute.

click this button

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Click on the blue banner that reads, Most Inspiring Blog

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You can vote once a day until July 6th.

If you have two minutes to spare over the weekend, won’t you help make this happen, please?

“Violence UnSilenced? was created with the sole intention of shedding light on the epidemics of domestic violence and sexual assault by giving their survivors a voice. I believe one of the last hurdles to eradicating abuse is the culture of silence and shame that exists yet today. I believe that you have people in your life that are being abused, you just don’t realize it. I believe victims are led to believe they are alone, that no one will believe them, and that people will think less of them. I believe every situation is complicated and unique. I believe that every single survivor of abuse is different from his or her comrades, and that by sharing stories here we can educate the public as to just how pervasive domestic violence and sexual assault is, and how it crosses all cultural, racial, gender, sexual orientation, and socioeconomic lines. I believe this is society’s collective problem, not simply a problem of those directly impacted. I believe there are 70 million blogs out there, and that one in four women will experience abuse in her lifetime. I believe we who are active in the blogosphere have a responsibility to listen to our friends and to spread the word, so that we can strip abusers of this critical power.”