December 30th, 2007 at Saint Mary’s Hospital. The snow wasn’t slowing down for anybody, not even the cars passing and rushing to turn to their destination. At 1:30pm, just about half time during the Packers game, I was born. My new soul and body in the loving yet tired hands of my mother. Looking down on me like I was one of the first gifts she’s ever received. Like I was a light that came in a time of darkness. That afternoon, she never let me go. Her heart wanted to be right next to mine, and that’s all that mattered. Just us against the world, against all odds, against the cold winds and harsh snowfalls of December. 

Sometimes, some things just can’t be shared. Like two children being presented with a new doll, the two will do anything to get it in their hands. Fight, scream, yell, anything to get that toy in their possession to say, “Hey! This is mine!” 

My parents each had ideals of what they wanted to be. They didn’t agree with what each other had to say, it’d be shut down by words like “How do you know what’s good for her?” or “You’d never be able to take good care of her like I could.” 

Of course, at the time, I didn’t know what would happen between my mother and father. The fights that they’ve had the night I was asleep, the harsh arguments that would happen while I played with my newly opened toys. How would a one year old be able to know, anyway?  Even when I stopped seeing one parent after a certain amount of time, my little mind adapted to it. There’s a beauty to adapting, it gives you a feeling  of ignorance. But as young as one, you have no choice but to be ignorant to the things around you. I didn’t want to know what having one parent gone meant. That was just my world.

Kari’s world where she would get all the kisses from her family from being the new baby. 

Kari’s world where all you had to focus on was when The Backyardagain’s was about to come on the bright television screen.

Kari’s world where even when things changed, she didn’t pay no mind. Because that’s how things were supposed to be. Right?

I never really knew what life was supposed to be like other than having split parents. In my family, it seemed to be a natural thing to have or the other out of the picture. Why would I question it? Parent Days at preschool would be confusing, however. Of course I was happy to have my mother by my side and to look at the colorful play area of my kindergarten classroom,  but I would look at other kids that had two parents, not just one. A mother and a father catering to their son and daughter’s every possible need or request. But why should young Kari question? She had her mother, she had her toys, she had her colorful imagination that would carry her throughout the dreaded long days, that’s all she needed. 

What left me even more lost in thought was how my mother reacted on these days. 

 Becky, my mom, is a nurturing soul at heart, dark brown hair that flows down her back. Her glasses would always glare at my reflection as I looked at her deep brown eyes. Her voice was always enough to calm my nerves, it was gentle like silk. When days like this happened, I remember her always crying. I just stared. Being three, you only understood being sad in one of the few ways: You didn’t get something you wanted, you got hurt, or someone hurt your feelings. I didn’t see any of that happening. So I was lost. I would ask her what was wrong, she would just reassure me that she was happy and that  I should continue to play with the many other kids that were at the preschool. 

But at night, I was starting to figure out what was really the problem. In my bed, I would hear my mom sobbing through the phone to my abuela. Crying out, “She’ll be confused. What if the other kids start to make fun of her?” 

She was desperate for any sort of reassurance or comfort. Comfort that a three year old couldn’t give. Comfort that what happened two years ago wasn’t a mistake, and shouldn’t be kept property in her mind. Comfort that would get her to stop swimming in the dreading thoughts that haunted her every night. But nothing ever seemed clear. Not for her. Not for me. 

Many times I wanted to get out of my bed and ask the daring question, “Why are you crying mama?” But that wasn’t Kari’s place.

Ken, My Father, his face is a blur in all my older memories. He will talk about times of him seeing me in the place he so desperately wanted to get out of. The place that put a clear window between us, only a phone on a white surface being the thing that helped us communicate our words. But everything just remains a blur for me. Those memories, no matter how hard I want to search, are not able to resurface. Not being able to see his hazel eyes staring into mine, not being able to remember his dark skin that he passed on to me, not even remembering the small curls that rested on top of his head. Our cards weren’t meant to be aligned together. He fought hard to be able to see me. To be able to fix those wrong doings all those years ago, but nothing brought us that close together. Only the four days out of the month that was settled for me to be shared with him. The four days that he’d be taking care of me. The four days he would show my face to the world that he “had his daughter back.” 

At the age of seven, I was slowly realizing what this all meant. Why I would hear the sobs of my mother, why my dad was so proud to have me all to himself when those four days came. 

 It meant that I wasn’t like my friends, I wasn’t like the kids you’d see on TV. I wasn’t a part of a “normal” family. It shattered my world. Kari’s world wasn’t supposed to change. It was supposed to be the same. Kari’s world was supposed to be a world where she could be happy and not worry about all of the “adult” things I was told not to be a part of. Then why. Why did everything feel like it was falling apart? Like I was an item that was meant to be shared between two people. Like my purpose would forever be determined by my parents never ending arguments of who was fit or better for me. The feeling of piecing it all together felt like an anchor in my heart, one that I couldn’t pull back up to the surface. My world wasn’t becoming carefree and magical anymore like I once saw it to be. It was getting serious, unknowing, and scary. All three things that a seven year old like me couldn't comprehend at all, not one bit.

Ken and Becky loved me. They always made that well known. My mind was always at peace knowing that fact. That they loved me like a little girl who loved her first doll, fed me like they were the mama bird and I was the chick, helped me feel secure like a tight hug you never want to leave. Everything they did was just right. But the anchor of guilt, shame, and fear I created only sank deeper and deeper in my chest. Kari’s world didn’t feel like her world anymore. 

Kari’s world wasn’t about worrying about the kisses she received anymore. 

It was about who “made her the happiest.”

Kari’s world wasn’t about being content with the colorful children cartoons that kept her entertained all throughout the day.

It was about piecing the unknown story together in my own mind.

Kari’s world wasn’t about feeling happy anymore. 

It was about realizing this is what her true reality was. That her reality was in the hands of an old man in a dark robe and a wooden hammer in his hands. 

 Kari’s future was already set in stone for her. A never ending loop that lasts for generations upon generations, it was bound to happen to her someday just like it did to her own parents.

No. 

That won’t be me, it never will, it should never have to be. Little Kari already had her mind made up that her life would depend on her parents' life choices compared to her own, but it doesn’t have to be that way. That’s what I’ve come to learn, anyway.

Kari from years ago would’ve looked at myself now and be so confused, so lost. Her mind can’t comprehend how much change happened to.. well, her own self.  I’d imagine she’d say “I thought things couldn't get better for us.” or “How did your feelings change so easily? Tell me how you did it!”

She would scream and demand for an answer. But if I saw little Kari right now, I'd smile, not bothered by the screaming or confusion.  I would walk up to her and give her a big hug and wipe those tears away. After all, we have the same faucet in our eyes that pour the same tears. 

I’d look her right in her hazel eyes and say,
“I still get scared. Those feelings of being anxious, the nights of crying, they never went away. But, one day you’ll learn that you can change whatever you want in your life. Nobody has settled anything for you. Not mom, not dad, not your family, nobody. What happened to you, don’t just stand and only regret it. The only one who can really make a change is you. Don’t waste your youth on something that you couldn’t control. No more chasing the future, stay in the present. Everything will be okay.” 

She’d look at me up and down, her big eyes analyzing the figure that stood in front of her. Those beautiful dark curls bouncing up and down from her head as she thinks. Little Kari would smile at me, even though some of her baby teeth were missing, she’d give me a big toothy grin and run to hug me back.

“I’ll try my best.” She’d say. Very simple words. I wouldn’t expect her to say much, nor do I need her to. What her little mind thought was appropriate to say at the time would be enough for me. 

Little Kari would go back to her little home and waved back at me, giggling with glee and feeling empowered by the words spoken to her. “I wanna see you again!” 

She’d shout out, sounding as excited and cheerful just as I remember her to be. But I wouldn’t respond. I’d just smile and nod. 

Little Kari still lives within my heart, everyday her little heart growing stronger and stronger each day. No matter what type of day she has, no matter the wounds that get inflicted on her sensitive heart, no matter how much the faucet in her eyes pour endless tears, she knows that things will get better. And that she can still be her parents' sunshine in the cold nights of December