#2 Is Not Always for Poo

In elementary school, I remember having a favorite number - number 2. I highly favored it over any other number. Something about Jesus and the right hand side, and easier math solutions, too, with 2. Us young folk would randomly ask those around us, hey, what's your favorite color, and then favorite number was next.

Sean Houghton's favorite number was 3. I don't remember anyone else's favorite digit(s). I do remember that Mike Clark had a cutoff tshirt that had a symbol that looked to me like the '76' oil company logo with the orange ball and the navy blue 76 centered inside, but his shirt had the numbers 69 in the center of the circle. I think the teachers made him put duct tape over the numbers.

That was the year we dated for a school week, which for he and I meant that during some of our 9th grade 'recesses,' instead of wandering the 1 short hall of the high school wing in the K-12 school we attended (Less than 100 students in the entire K-12) alone, sometimes we sat very close to each other on the floor and discreetly held hands (Public Displays of Affection, or "PDA," was against the rules). I distinctly remember holding his hand - it was a hot hand with sweaty palms, the clean kind of sweat, though. Our pointer fingers and thumbs took turns stroking the soft, sweaty hand of the other. I don't think we ever even kissed.

The hand holding lasted until my mom found out that I was Mike Clark's girlfriend. Mike had been a KNOWN pothead in our town since he moved there from Vashon Island during the 6th grade year. He was a person I shouldn't have even spoken to, and I was found out to be romantically involved with the devil worshipper! I was in class about mid-morning and it was announced over the intercom that I was to report to the school office. I gathered my school things and nervously hurried to the office, clueless as to what was going on. My mom had called the school; she was on hold and wanted to speak with me.

The secretary pushed the big flashing button on the mauve colored, spiral corded phone to make the hold line active and gave me the phone. "Hello?" I cautiously spoke. My mom immediately began screaming at me, tearing me a new one. I don't remember a word she said, but the volume of her Asian Anger (or "AA") had me holding the phone away from my ear, cringing. I was terrified of my mom, and still am. During our phone call, I actually became so upset that I began to hyperventilate, which is impossible to stop until you do the brown bag trick. You will never stop hyperventilating until you breathe into the bag. And hyperventilating is awful - kind of like shallow dry heaving, but really fast - so fast that you can't keep up breathing, but your body makes you keep trying to, because you'll die otherwise. It's very uncomfortable.

I was devastated - I'd have to break up with Mike! And I was terrified of what my mom would do to make me regret what I'd done - my punishments were, without fail, so much more extreme than what my peers experienced, even when the exact same offense had been committed. SO much more extreme. For example, as punishment for toilet papering a random neighbor's tree around 10pm in 6th grade, my partner in crime, Brandi Van Dusen, was grounded for three days, but that didn't even last 1 day. Her parents decided it was a silly thing to be in trouble for; after all, we had cleaned up the mess and apologized to the neighbor. In contrast, I was strictly grounded for a full 2 weeks, meaning I wasn't allowed to watch any movies, play outside, make or receive any phone calls, go to the library, or get the #2 McDonald's meal I always got when the family drove across the bridge to Astoria, OR to go grocery shopping. I wouldn't get any McDonald's at all. F*****g b*ll***t, man. I'm getting kind of mad thinking about it. But hey, that led up to the #2 McDonald's meal! That's really what my brother and I both ordered every time we went to McDonald's - the 2 cheeseburger, 2 small fries, 1 medium drink value meal deal. And THAT'S relevant because this post is about the number 2. See the way the Lord works? It's a beautiful mystery, like the spiral, and the ostrich egg.

So. Number two. My very very favorite number. I remember long, torturous nights in bed as a kid. Of course, I had a strict bedtime that was at least a few hours earlier than the time my peers were scheduled for bed, and despite a lot of outdoor time, I rarely fell asleep without hours spent in a drawn-out, anxiety ridden (sometimes to the point of actual panic), fantasy session, my imagination plaguing me with imaginary, dark shadowed demons straight from Hell, Christian-murdering, soul-stealing demonic entities inspired by what I had learned in church and from the music videos of religious musical groups. Specifically, "Carman" videos really freaked me out. I have spent countless nights rigid and sweaty in fear of the demons sure to get me, laying as still as possible, and breathing as shallow as I could. I imagined if I didn't move, maybe they wouldn't notice me.

Anyways. Number two. On some of the more peaceful nights, maybe a warmer summer night with its late sunset and the window blinds in my room open, I do actually remember pondering the number two and why it was significant to me. It was very much tied to the right hand of God. And that's all I was trying to say there.

My point is that I was never. I was so fear-stricken and unpopular as a young child and an older one, too, that I never really developed a personality, I think. I was socially retarded; that part of me was never allowed to exist. I didn't have an identity because I didn't want one, because I didn't want to be me. And if I had to be me, I wanted to be someone that was accepted by those others immediately surrounding. I was so f***** up from being singled out at the K-12, that when I reached my sophomore year and was exposed to high schoolers that were friendly and, like, welcoming to me - the new kid, I was absolutely convinced these people were all playing a trick on me. In my head, I was sure they knew who I was, that it was not cool to hang out with me, it wasn't acceptable for me to sit with the "cool kids" or even the middle-ranked popularity clique kids. I was supposed to sit at a table with the obvious rejects, 1 or 2 of us to a bench/2-4 of us per table, or less if we could help it - we didn't want to be seen with each other, either.

I still battle this issue every day. Even with my family members, my daughter and my son, I have to tell myself that they don't wish I would go away because I'm a reject, they're not completely ashamed of me because I'm a retarded reject loser. And maybe they do think that, though - and that's the daily fight. Is to get to the place every day where I have to stop caring if my kids think that about me, if strangers or old acquaintances or anyone thinks that about me, or worse, or whatever. It's the only way to win. I have to stop caring, and I have to love them anyways. I have to be nice, and I have to stay open to the people that I love, instead of hiding and letting fear paralyze my actions, my life, and keep me from doing what my dramatic, dreaming heart demands of me.

So I never developed a distinct personality, I never have had a style, I've never excelled or really done well at anything enough to make me feel like I identified as that person, as that kind of person. Like, THIS IS WHO I AM, you know.

And so number 2 was very specific, you understand? And I got pregnant at age 16 and that was confusing. I don't think I was even like 1/2 way self aware yet. Like, I would look in the mirror, but didn't recognize myself as one of the people around me, I didn't relate or connect or something - there was something missing in that connection somewhere.

I was pregnant and I found out early. Very, very early because I was on probation. I had been on probation since I was 15 and I was still on probation and I had to do UA submissions for my probation officer. I think it was my first UA in Alaska, and I don't remember why, but the staff tested for pregnancy, and it was positive. Both my test results were positive, but due to the circumstances, they were most concerned about my pregnancy and getting me sober so I could have a healthy baby, so they decided to not punish me and dismiss my case.

My due date was February 14 but the pregnancy lasted forever. My baby came early and she was HUGE at 9 lbs. 6 oz. or something (my son weighed 6 lbs. 4 oz.). She got stuck or something and they had to perform a C-section after hours and hours in labor, with her head like ready to come out of my vagina baby time place; they were showing me her head in a mirror thinking that it would motivate me to do better at having a baby or something. The Anchorage. AK medical people used metal forceps and a toilet plunger device to try and pull the large infant from her resting place inside of my 17 year old sumo stomach, without success.

Child #1 was born February 2, 2002. 02/02/2002.

And she made me alive. Do you know, I never cried as a kid. Except when my first cat died - I saw Orangie get hit by a truck speeding down Knappton Road in front of our house shortly after we moved from San Diego. And I shed a tear or two to Benji, the Hunted - a movie where Benji acts as surrogate mommy and loyal protector for three dewy-eyed mountain cougar cubs.

My kid made me cry. Everything was beautiful, everything was horrible and I had to protect her from it. I had a reason to be and I wanted so badly to do well for her, to do her right. To give her what I never had, but in a bigger-picture way; I wanted to give her self-confidence, social skills, hobbies - socially-acceptable things she was good and practiced at and that she also enjoyed. I wanted her to be exposed to all walks of life; I didn't want to shelter her or hide reality. I didn't want to lie. I was so idealistic and delusional and young. And so full of love and I had no credit, but that's so much better than bad credit, I tell you what.

She was born 2/2/2002. My favorite number. I developed some kind of a personality that seems a little unique, I have a form of self-confidence that wanes and then crashes back down on the best days, but it's something and it gives me the capability of speaking to cashiers at the grocery store, saying hi to the bus driver as I board, and even doing my best to participate in an awkward conversation with a cab driver.

Anyways, She was born at 4:23am. Which reduces to 9. Not sure what that means.

Of note; she and my son both have Libra moon signs. 2 Libra moon signs. Number 2 is the number of the moon.

I am a Libra rising.

My son is a Taurus, which is the SECOND astrological sign of the zodiac.

Taurus occupies my 8th house. Frankie's life path number is 8 (numerology calculated using birth date & year).

Candlemas is celebrated February 2nd. Candlemas is 40 days after the birth of Jesus. According to the Jewish laws a woman was impure for 40 days after giving birth to a son.

In Islam two angels follow each human and write down their good and bad deeds. Sura 50:16-17

In Norse mythology, the goddess Freya was a stunningly beautiful goddess.

Freya rode across the sky in a carriage pulled by two cats. She mastered spells and magic.

Odin, also often "Allfather," was the main god in Norse mythology.

He owned two ravens. Their names were Hugin and Munin. Hugin means “thought” and Munin means “memory”. The two ravens flew from Asgard (the home of the gods) every morning and returned each evening to tell Odin all they had seen and heard.

Odin also had two wolves named Freki and Geri.