I want to put down the sword

When I found out I was pregnant with my deeply desire daughter, I was 16.

I remember the day that I knew I was pregnant.

I was at the fairgrounds with her dad, we were sitting in the Grandstand waiting for some country music artist to bless us with his vocal chords. I was elated. He...was not. I looked off to the east and saw this MASSIVE dark cloud rolling in.

Queue sirens.

I popped up and I could have outrun the best sprinter in the land. I was jumping over tent ropes, dodging people and as I ran towards our car - which was in the direction of the storm - trees started to bend and tents were collapsing, people were screaming and I turned around and ran even faster towards an old historical church building.

I entered and crouched down in the corner, crying, breathless and clinging to the hope that I would survive.

A sweet old woman walked over to me asking me if I was okay. I looked at her and started bawling and out of my mouth came "I'm pregnant". No test had been taken yet. I just knew.

The next day I went to Birth Right and told them my name was April.

The nurse called me back after I had been staring off listening to the President babble on about something that bore no consequence to my tribulation.

She called me back and I sat there answering all of her questions about abortion and my faith diligently.

My car was parked outside of the building, light blue, cloth seats, exterior COVERED in "it's a child not a choice" stickers. I knew where I stood at that moment. I was a billboard for the children. I was a fighter.

She said "you're test came back positive. You are pregnant".

I dont remember walking out of that office. I called her dad and told him, he said we should go for a walk and promised we would do this together. We had already talked about marriage and the future and I loved him more than I can say I loved almost anyone to date. My family was growing. I was terrified and happier than one can imagine.

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Fast forward to about 10 weeks gestation and our parents found out. Not in the traditional "awww....congratulations" but rather my friend that lived across the country told her mom, who then told my mom, who then confronted me in the mall parking lot.

His parents had a different reaction. "She has to have an abortion".

In fact, his dad - who was Mennonite was so abhorrently disgusted that he refused to tell his family that I was pregnant and that year when I attended their family Christmas I was shunned and mortified that they had not been told. I was VERY pregnant at that time (6 months) and it wasn't something that was easily hidden, even in my small frame.

His dad held onto that sentiment through the pregnancy.

I ended up with preeclampsia, bed rest and the whole bit. My sweet daughters dad wasn't allowed to see me but once a week and we could talk for 30 minutes a day (I guess to prevent me from getting MORE pregnant).

After my sweet girl was born, I was in heaven. She was born so early, so small and so tiny. She was my good shining star. Named after a star that her dad had named after me on Valentine's day. Madisyn Lyra was my joy. And I fought. HARD. The entire pregnancy. I fought HARD for her the entire delivery. And I didn't stop fighting HARD for her through her infancy when the dad had asked me to move away and birth the baby, give the baby up for adoption -- it was a never ending battle to fight for my sweet girl. And I did. Relentlessly.

I feel that to an extent I still fight for her -- 21 years later, I fight for her to see my heart, see the truth and see the extent of the love I have for her. How proud I will always be. How brilliant she is, with a heart of gold and just genuine loving kindness. She is an amazing girl....

Three months passed by and the stress of life was weighing on me. My mom tooks me to Florida to visit family and get away for a moment. Maddy (now Lyra) came with me, of course. I found a renewed sense of peace, of happiness, of contentment and was ready to start my future with my (now) fiance'.

I came home and he broke up with me after the plane landed. I was devastated. Like 1940's fainting couch devastated. Like break down crying wearing my great grandmothers flowing dress, overly romantic devastated. He died in a war. We died in the war that was his parents.

Three more months passed and I passed out at work. My boss told me to get to the doctor and not to come back until I had answers. I was a coffee shop liability.

Laying on the table in the pediatric office I had visited 900 times since childhood, her heart so sweet. She said "well, your uterus is either swollen or you're pregnant". "That is IMPOSSIBLE! I have had sex. My boyfriend broke up with me months ago"

"Let's take a test, sweetheart"

I KNEW it was going to be negative. It was literally impossible.

Unless....I was 6 months pregnant and had only gained 5 pounds and I had roughly 2.5 months to wrap my head around another daughter entering my universe.

She was born. My precious gem. My Jada Mae. My sweet second. Her due date was 6/6/06. NOPE! I FOUGHT to hold her little body inside me until 6/7/06. And I did. And she came and was perfect. Perfectly perfect.

Her dad didn't want to believe she was his. She was. I fought for labs, I fought for him to see her and her be loved. I fought for her to have the family. He was gone. Lost in partying and drugs and alcohol. He lost his dad. He lost a lot. My heart broke for everything that was lost.

The boyfriend that I had following Jada's birth was a horrible person, disguised in "let's go to church together and pray". I had to fight. A lot. Fight to keep my kids safe. Fight restraining orders. Fight being chased with guns and knives and the three of us being kidnapped. I fought hard. I finally got away. Glorious days. My girls were safe. I was safe but scarred.

I went through a horrible moment. Terrible moment. A life-changing, move away and change your name terrible moment. A moment so terrible it made the rest of my life previously look like a fairy tale. And I did. I moved away. I changed my name. I fought to stay alive for my girls. I fought for sanity and for autonomy. I fought for peace. And I made it. I came home. Met my (then)husband. And had babies. Two more daughters.

I had to keep fighting. He had a son, a nasty, mean, vile son. A son who chose to do terrible things to my daughters. Wanting to extinguish their light and the breath from their lungs because he "didn't want sisters" He "didn't want to hear them talk" he "didn't want a baby in the family" he "only wanted him and his dad". I was on high alert with sword drawn 100% of my marriage from year 2-9. Constant sword drawn and constant shields protecting the girls.

I finally left. After being told it was me, my fault, my imagination, my mental health that was the cause. Nothing was wrong. The smoke detectors were going off, the house was filled with smoke, but it was just my imagination, I created the faulty detector. I left! I thought the fighting would finally be over. I imagined myself as Miss Honey at the end of Matilda. Deleriously happy and rolling around on the carpet. Having picnics in the back yard and hula hooping contests. Yards full of flowers and gardens and butterflies.

Then came the war of wars. I agreed to 50/50 custody because he agreed to keep the monster on an alternate schedule. He lied. Our children have certain medical considerations - he had it court ordered to negate them without consulting their pediatrician. I was able to save two because of their age. But the daughters we had together were thrown into a narcisistic battle of epic proportions. I remain consistent, I remain above repraoch. Constantly keeping my i's dotted and t's crossed. No room for failure or letting my guard down. He came at me after a massive surgery to take the girls from me because after the surgery I needed recovery time and that made me an "unfit mother". I showed up in a wheelchair, bleeding and definitely not okay to be out of bed to fight in a court to keep my children. And I won.

Now, I have my sweet son and the conception was a lost fight. His birth was a fight for life for both of us. And his infancy and toddlerhood has been a fight for answers and a fight for safety.

I am done.

I am done fighting.

I am done having to have a sword at all.

I dont want to have a shield anymore.

I dont want to look over my shoulder anymore.

I want to advocate for my children from a place of utter peace and not from a fierce battle to stay above water.

I am drowning.

My head is below water, I think I have a snorkel somewhere, probably buried underneath court documents filed away; or maybe someone just told me about a snorkel once. Regardless, I'm done fighting.

My children are so beautiful and so glorious and I am ready for fields of flowers and rolling in the grass. For delicious picnics of fruits and chocolates. But no more war.

I am ready for the shift. I also know what I am capable of, but I need the reminder that when there isn't a battle, I can put away my weapon, I dont need it drawn and on my chest.

Time to rest in the beauty that is my family. I choose only paths that lead to peace, beauty and safety. No exceptions.