Being grounded and denied privileges, we'd not taken seriously. Lectures and tears were met with a barrage of self-defeating defenses. And sadly enough, we honestly had no idea what we were looking for, what we were trying to prove, or why. We simply insisted upon enjoying life, but our brand of fun had caused the sunrise of youth to disappear like the early darkness of the moon eclipsing the sun at noon.

    

We had been cast unknowingly into a changing society of revolution ~ drugs, sex, and demands for individual rights and freedoms which contradicted everything at home. Sure, they'd seen it all on the news, but our parents somehow believed it wasn't happening in our home town, not to their children. And they had griefs of their own, almost unbearable at times, and it was just easier to let us be, as long as we stayed out of their way. Marriage was somehow expected, being raised by the generation whose own high school years had varied little from their current home life. As female children of the last generation of chivalry, we certainly weren't prepped for college. We were taught well by our own faithful mothers; the silent partners of a dying age when honor and commitment were never questioned, but dutifully fulfilled. Marriage and motherhood was the only career girls were expected to have, which would have suited us fine, if only the young men of our generation had cooperated. But they were spoiled. We all were spoiled, by the loving desires of parents raised during the second world war and the great depression, who worked hard to give us more than they'd ever had. And we too, wanted more. We didn't know what, but the rich aroma of greener meadows filled our heads with visions of Utopia. We wanted to fill that barren yearning we sensed in our mothers' discontent. Appreciation, gratitude, and respect for who our parents were and all they sacrificed for us was never a consideration. We were takers of the "me" generation. Yet, when a well runs dry, you cannot replenish it from the outside.

    

Desperately, we clung to the illusion of re-capturing days gone by, while quickly learning about sacrifices of our own. Becoming a mother when we were barely more than children ourselves demanded more than we ever thought we could give. The real truth was, something had changed from within the maternal cradle, our bodies cuddling tiny heartbeats dependant upon our own lives. Holding a newborn for the first time began our journeys into maturity, though long and far away, while their fathers never batted an eye at a need to become caring adults. They were jealous of the infant at our breasts, yet lashed out against the dependance they felt towards us. We knew we were alone in this, though we tried with all our might to show them how it could be. We suddenly cried out for the lives of our parents, while the men of our choosing clung to us like their mothers amidst the contradictions of radical and hostile rebellions.

    

Tiny, innocent, trusting eyes pleaded for love and security, being the very comforts we still sought for ourselves. We had little rebellion remaining in tact. The infants we snuggled closely were like marshmallow knives swiftly penetrating the steaming cups of emotional incest we had doused upon anyone who tried to restrain us. Neither parent, nor friend, deprivation nor reward, threat of punishment nor sexual exploitations had broken our determination to self-destruct through our definitions of fun. Yet we were without defense against the tiniest of human beings -- our own infants. The fighting had to stop —- the abuse, the lawlessness, the day without end had suddenly reached the last road sign before sunset. This was adulthood demanding responsibility. This was pain and joy indescribable. And this meant starting over, growing up, unlearning and re-learning. The bottom line was, it meant somehow settling comfortably within our mothers' world of aprons, feather-dusters, and chocolate cakes in the oven every Sunday afternoon. And it meant giving up everything if need be, to hold on to our babies. We suddenly understood voluntary sacrifice.

    

The past was gone, slamming in our faces like the old wood-framed screen door of childhood. Being alone comes in many fashions, all the while it is but an illusion. Grandparents die, children grow up, spouses leave, either via divorce or death, and eventually, our own parents pass away. Yet we continue to breath in and out and life goes on regardless of the pain. The future furiously swarmed about our heads like hovering flies, quickly beating the slam of that old door to escape the early morning midst of maturity. It was the first moment of truth in growing up, as milkweeds had once danced wildly about our knees while mud pies baked in the rising summer sun. So lovely in the making, soft in our innocent hands — but drying hard as stone, without use, but to be crushed and crumbled into the raw material from which it came. Our lives had come full circle and it was time to start anew. A new day dawned and for the first time we saw the road ahead. Meaningless, void, abandoned, and threatening, if we chose to turn back. With the threat of losing our children, every lecture, every tear, every word spoken in the anger of betrayal, suddenly found meaning in our careless minds. These babies forced us to realize that others existed too, and that our every action and the content of all human life is magically and magnificently interwoven. Not one action escapes its impact on someone else, somewhere. The individuality we had struggled and fought so hard to achieve was exposed for the lie it has always been. In the death of selfish freedoms, isolations and abandonment also ceased. We learned that while we can never act completely independent of other people, it also means we are never alone.

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