As For Me and My House

Call me a libtard.
I will still care about you, although my feelings may be hurt.
Challenge my 'politics' - such that they are.
I will not stop being your friend.
Tell me I'm unpatriotic.
I will try to see things from your side, even while disagreeing.

But please, don't discount my gay and lesbian friends and their feelings.
Like my Nick who is working so hard to get in the best shape of his life
Or my Joshie who asks me questions about my favorite songs and tells me I'm beautiful
Or my Donna and Marie who live next door and are some of the best neighbors I've had
They don't think their lifestyle is a choice
They're just trying to live their lives.

Please remember the women that I love
Who have been abused and endured horrific trauma
And are still upright, still fighting, trying to learn to trust and raise a healthy family
They're just scared to see a man in power who may share qualities with the monsters under the bed.

Please consider my friends who need consistent and affordable healthcare
Like those fighting cancer
Those who just lost their mom
Those who need the meds to stay balanced.

I know it's easy to make sweeping generalized statements... I've done it. I probably still do it. I hope I do it less than I used to. To me, this political season reminds me of the humanity. You guys, the groups that you're angry at are just people like you. They may not look the same or talk the same or find the same gender attractive that you do... but they're someone's kid. Someone's mom. Someone's boss.

If you need a meal, come over. I'll feed you.
If you need a place to stay, my couch is always open.
If you need someone to listen as you sob out your fears, I will hug you and cry with you.
And I don't have to agree with you to offer you this.

Anger is a secondary emotion, friends. It is usually grown from fear. It's okay to be scared. But as for me and my house, we will Love in the face of fear. That is our Anchor around here. I can't stop the fighting and the rioting and the arguments on Facebook. But I can Love whoever I meet - because they're just a person like me. This is what I will continue to teach my son, and show by example. I probably won't change the world. But I can bless those with whom I come into contact.

In Love,

B

Dear 2013

Dear 2013,

We only have a few short hours left to spend together. A couple more ticks of the clock and you will only just be history. A memory. You will no longer be what I write at the top of my rent check, what I enter as an invoicing date on my spreadsheets. No longer the present.

I am good with this.

You brought a bunch of interesting things with you when you first arrived on the scene twelve months ago, 2013. I'm relieved that you didn't show me your entire bag of tricks right at the beginning. A little bit of a warning would have been nice, possibly; how about a "Heads up, sunshine! I'm gonna try to kick your ass this year!" or maybe "Warning! Get as many of your ducks in a row as you can, because you never know when the things you depend upon will be gone!" I know it would be too much to ask that you would have announced yourself as "The Hardest Year You Will Have Encountered Thus Far".

But I made it.

I will promise you one thing, 2013. I promise, promise, that the life lessons you have taught me in the last 365 days will stick around. I am convinced that because of you I am a better person.

More honest.
More compassionate.
Much, much more willing to extend grace.
More objective.

Man but I cried this year. Oh but I hurt. But you know what, 2013? Although there were times it seems you only came to wreak havoc, you brought some pretty amazing things with you as well. I'm getting older, 2013. And for some reason, I never really expected to make any more new friends that would stand up to the test of time the old friendships have. You really changed my perspective about that one. The friends you brought with you this year? Or the friends that 2012 just barely introduced to me? Whoa. Some of those dear ones are people I can't imagine this life without anymore. And you know who else you brought into my heart-circle? Some old acquaintances who have turned out to be the most kindred of spirits. The kind of friend that I can fly across states to sit on their couch and drink coffee with.. and be loved.

*you know who you are*

You really made me take a close look at myself, 2013. You were the despised teacher's red pen, circling all of my spelling errors and punctuation mishaps and run-on sentences. You didn't just point out my flaws and weaknesses, you yelled about them. And you really didn't offer much help as you flunked my rough draft. All of the things I thought I knew you crumpled up and flushed down the toilet. You were the boss that said, "Figure it out", as you walked away leaving me a project and a deadline, and I didn't realize for a long time it was because I was capable of figuring it out. But as we ready ourselves to part ways, I don't blame you for this, 2013. I am stronger because of you.

I am ready to say good-bye.

Thanks, 2013. I mean it. I have a feeling you will be the year that I look back on as one of the most beautiful, because of the struggle. Thanks for showing me the sun keeps coming up even after the darkest of nights.

It hasn't been a pleasure. But it's been an honor.

2014 is here?! Oh, I'm so happy to meet you...

Sincerely,

B

Karma.

I grew up in what I would classify as a rather strict, God-fearing and God-loving home. By the time I was in junior high, I attended "big church" (the regular church service on Sunday mornings), youth group for a second service Sunday morning, and the Wednesday night youth get-together, which was way more of social outing than a learning experience for me.

Church-y stuff. Three times a week.

In addition to all of this organized religion, I also attended a private Christian school through 9th grade. The entire junior high at this school in my 9th grade year was 81 kids... the largest number they had seen since the school began. One of our required classes was a Bible class, every year, every day, five days a week.

LOTS of Jesus in my formative years.

One of the interesting by-products in being raised in this environment was a lack of conversation about all things "worldly". As an almost-thirty-eight-year-old grown-ass female, I am not sure even now if I can describe what those things were, but I certainly have it ingrained in my head, even today. I think it's something like this...

Sex. Secular music. Disobedient and disrespectful children. Law-breaking. Drugs. Alcohol. Failing at school. Other religious viewpoints and beliefs. Not fitting in the mold. Not doing as you're told. 

My sister and I used to play a game when I was in high school (and we were both at public school for the first time) at the dinner table. It was loosely called, "Who Can Make Mom Leave the Table First". The rules were simple: the stories you told had to be true, and they had to be outrageous. We would relate a narrative of something that had happened at school that day or that week, attempting to use friends' names that Mom actually knew or knew of, and would fall over with laughter when we would make her so uncomfortable with Real Life Talk that she would excuse herself and go into the next room.

Sorry, Mom.

Karma was a non-Jesus-loving word in my adolescence: a New-Agey, World Religion concept that was sniffed at just like Yoga, The Dalai Lama, and Buddha. It alluded to higher planes of consciousness, spirit leaders, and reincarnation. The Golden Rule? Fine. Karma? You are entertaining other religious viewpoints... and I will pray for you.

Karma, according to the Google, is: "the sum of a person's actions in this and previous states of existence, viewed as deciding their fate in future existences". The Urban Dictionary says it this way: "the belief that all of your actions will have equal repercussions, affecting you". Or, "the basic theory of cause and effect".

Hmmm.

For the past two months I have been slowly drawing myself out of the worst depression I have ever experienced. It has caused me to question many of my beliefs, my values, and my character qualities. And while I've been on this journey, karma has become extremely interesting. Not in a past-life way, not in a "I don't deserve good things" way. But in a sense of there being a yin and a yang in life.

Is there something that I have done, or been, within my life that means in order for there to be balance, I must go through this difficult season? Is there a lesson that I am supposed to learn in order to be released from this pain? And is it because of some of my past actions? My thoughtlessness, my need for control, my selfishness? How can I take this heartache and become a better person?

As I look back on my years as a wife (which I no longer am), I can be grown-up enough to admit some a lot of mistakes.

A lot of mistakes.

And maaaaaybe, (go with me here for a minute), just maybe, I have an opportunity, when confronted with the same behavior I regret within my past relationships, to right a wrong within my little life. I can't change the past. I can't even apologize to the non-husband, since he wants no communication with me at.all.ever.again.please.go.away. I can't make those old mistakes better. But I can respond to this confusion and hurt the way I wish I experienced. I can say, "I love you and you suck and I get it and let's talk". And maybe, it's not about making the other person feel good or better or valued. Maybe it's about showing myself you can feel good and you are better and you are valued. I can understand what makes a person act this way, because I used to act this way. It is not right and it is not okay and it is not acceptable. But I get it.

Maybe by extending grace or understanding I am not the weaker party but the bigger person. And there is balance.

Karma.

The Fighter and the Runner. a fairy tale.

Once upon a time, in a village a long way from here, lived a Runner. The Runner was a well-liked, well-respected, strong man, and the villagers thought highly of him. He was such a runner in his spirit that he pursued running as a past-time, running for long ways, for long times, and even winning awards for his running. He displayed these awards in his home in the village, and could often be found showing pictures to the villagers of the many runs he had been on, the places he had seen, and the finish lines he had crossed.

The Runner was also a Warrior. He was skilled in combat and warfare, and was set apart in the village as belonging to an elite class. He honored faith, loyalty, and courage, and was held in the highest regard by the other Warriors with whom he identified. He was a champion, a gladiator. A hero. He was proud to be a part of this highly-esteemed group, and even when the village no longer required him to battle for their safety, he called himself a Warrior.

The Runner was all of the things that make up a Warrior. But in his heart, underneath it all, he was a Runner to his core.

In the next village, down a path and around three corners, there lived a Fighter. And Fighters are different than Warriors: Runners can be Warriors, and Fighters can be Warriors, but rarely is a Runner a Fighter. The Warriors could be counted on to do great things that influenced villages and villages; they would fling themselves into harm's way when there was battle without hesitation, because Warriors know it is easier to die for their village than it is to live for it. A Fighter fights on a much smaller scale, and rarely receives the accolades the Warriors are often given.

The Fighter had learned at a very young age that Dragons frequently came to the village, and threatened the peaceful lives of those who lived there. Sometimes, if the Warriors were home, they would scare off the Dragons; but oftentimes the Dragons knew when the Warriors were gone, and would wait in the forest for when the village was unprotected.

Because the Dragons had a way of showing up at the worst of times, the Fighter was not always prepared for the Dragons' arrival. If I am to tell the whole story, it is truthful to say that the Fighter was known to lock herself in her bedroom, in her house in the village, and weep when she saw another Dragon making it's way to the meeting-place in the village. Some of the Dragons were baby Dragons; they were easily vanquished by the Fighter. The babies didn't cause much damage, and they were the ones that would run when they saw the Fighter approach. Some of the Dragons, however, were fire-breathing monsters. They would level a house with a single sweep of a tail as they made their way into the village. They cared not for the wounds inflicted upon themselves as they tried to ruin and destroy the villagers' lives. In these times, (once the tears were dry), the Fighter would call on the other Fighters in the village. They would meet together, in the forest, and form a plan of how to destroy the monster. All of the Fighters had their own role to play.

One day, the Runner was visiting the Fighter's village, on his way to meet with the Warriors. He saw her, and spoke to her, and sensed something profound in her presence. Over the next weeks and months he found himself more and more at the neighboring village, visiting the Fighter, getting to know who she was.

The Fighter was concerned by this attention from the Runner. Because the Dragons could return at a moment's notice, she was used to the Dragons-- and her plans to vanquish them-- getting the majority of her energy. When the Runner would visit, she would forget about the Dragons right up until the moment she remembered, and she would leap from her seat at the table to peer out the window and make sure she was safe.

It didn't take long for the Runner to confess to the Fighter his new feelings for her. He told her all about how he was a Warrior, and that she didn't need to be a Fighter any longer. The Fighter didn't believe him; she had heard this song-and-dance before. There had been several times in the past when someone tried to convince her to lay down her Dragon-fighting weapons. She knew she was a Fighter. The only ones with whom she shared her responsibility to fight were the other Fighters. They had proven themselves, time and again. They were the only ones she had seen vanquish the Dragons by her side. The Runner was fascinated by the Fighter. To his reason, fighting is the last defense, and one should always try to run first. The Fighter would tell the Runner about the Dragons, elated after a success or wounded after a difficult battle, and the Runner often had no response. The Fighter knew the Runner only as a Warrior, and didn't yet realize he was, at heart-level, a Runner. She thought it was the years of him being a Warrior that made him reluctant to hear of her fights.

As summer turned to fall, and fall turned to winter, the Fighter began to trust the Runner. It is possible, she reasoned, for a non-Fighter to be trustworthy; just because she had not seen it before did not make it less feasible. The Runner took care of the Fighter; making sure she did not get so caught up in the Dragons as to neglect the important life-living there was to be done. The other Fighters whispered amongst themselves that they had never seen her so happy before. The Runner began making plans to move the Fighter to his village, the Fighter began preparing her village to succeed at the fighting in her absence.

It was a cold Monday night, after several difficult weeks, when the Runner began to show his runner's heart. He sat the Fighter down and explained that he was a Runner, and although this season of non-running had done his heart good, he needed to run. Running wasn't just what he did, it was who he was. Confused, the Fighter agreed, knowing that the worst thing to say to a Runner is "No, you cannot run". She, of course, had seen other Runners on the outskirts of the Village as they ran, she even knew a few by name. By now, she had given her heart to the Runner, and believed that he had given his heart to her. She told the Runner, "I've never meant to make you feel like you cannot or should not or must not run. If you need to run, run. But I will be here on your return."

And the Runner ran.

The Runner had been gone for more than a week when the Fighter first had a twinge that maybe this was no normal run. Maybe the Runner would not run home! Is that even possible? She began asking her Fighter friends what they knew of Runners. She asked other women in the village who had loved Runners. And a horrible truth was gleaned from the information she gathered: Runners do not always come back. Sometimes, they make a new home. Sometimes, they go back to a home from yesteryear. Sometimes, they are never heard of again.

The Fighter raced home and upstairs after her last meeting in the village. She dug out an old pair of shoes, bought with good intentions, rarely worn. She put them on, laced them up, and after just a moment's deliberation, started running. She ran to the places where the Runner had last been seen, sometimes just missing him. Several times she saw him; once or twice she was even within speaking distance. She asked, "Please! Will you stop running and talk for a moment? I just need to know if you're coming home, or if you will run for always." The Runner answered, "I will come home! Just not yet. And I don't know when. Please, no more questions." And then he would run.

The Fighter was not a Runner, and she would return after her runs dejected, discouraged. Because running was not in her heart it did not bring her satisfaction, even running after her Runner. She was not capable of running for long distances for long times. She took to writing letters to her Runner, and forwarded them to the places she thought he would be next. Half of the letters were returned, and half she never knew if they ever reached her Runner or not.

The weeks turned to months, and the Fighter slowly began to accept the Runner may not return. She would still go on her runs to find him, see him; but her tread was slower, her knees pained her, and now she began to be afraid of what she would find along the runs. When she first started running after the Runner, she remembered to bring all of her Dragon-fighting weapons; as time went on, she would run unarmed as to try to run faster for longer. One afternoon the Fighter realized she was putting her safety and the safety of the villagers at risk while she ran after a Runner who did not want someone to run with him. She took her shoes off and set them next to the chair. The next day she set them on the stairs. And three days later she put them away. As she wiped a tear from her cheek, she reasoned it is better to let the Runner run. And she laid plans to get back to fighting the Dragons. That, after all, was the life she knew. The other Fighters had been gracious about her uncommon runs, but she knew she was letting down her allies while she pursued a solitary, and unfruitful, quest.

Two weeks later the Fighter answered a knock at the door. She could hardly believe her eyes when she saw her beloved Runner standing in her doorway. He explained he had just needed to run, and that when he started running he hadn't known whether he was ever coming home, but now he had realized he missed his Fighter. At first he tried to tell the Fighter it was her fault that he ran, but the Fighter did not allow that. She had wrestled with that question in her own head when the Runner had been gone, and had realized it was not her fault. While the Runner spoke, the Fighter could barely look up from the floor. She had just begun training again with the Fighters, she had just started to accept the Runner was gone. How was she to handle this declaration? She told the Runner she had been honest when she said she would be waiting for him when he returned from running, but that she had had no idea he would run for so long, with no communication, away from her. She explained that he would need to help her believe in him again. And the Runner agreed.

It didn't take long before the Fighter knew in her heart something was wrong. She was dividing her time between training with the Fighters and taking care of her home in the village and being with the Runner, but things were not right. She had known, once the Runner came home, that it would not be the same as before he left; but although she saw glimpses of the Runner she knew, the time away had changed him. After a meeting in the village ended early on a sunny afternoon, the Fighter came home. And discovered the Runner was still running, almost daily. He was only coming back every night so he wouldn't have to tell the Fighter where he had been.

The Fighter had another urgent problem as well. There were more and more Dragons coming to the village, more than had ever been seen before. The Fighter was exhausted constantly. She would collapse into her bed every night, after fighting and fighting, and barely be able to keep her eyes open long enough to place her head on her pillow. The times she did spend with her Runner she wanted to talk about his running; what did he see while he was gone? What made him come home? And why was he still running, often without speaking of it? But the Runner would avoid her questions, and she would let him, figuring he would speak of his travels when he was ready, and wanting to enjoy the short times they had together.

Eventually the Dragons became such an overwhelming problem for the village a meeting was called. The terrified villagers tried to come up with solutions to help the Fighters in the crusade to keep the Dragons at bay. The Fighter kept looking around for the Runner, but he was nowhere to be seen in the crowd of people, and she was disappointed he was not there for something so important. Finally a villager loudly proclaimed, "Someone must be showing the Dragons the way to our village! There is no other logical reason for the numbers we've seen. Someone must be traveling on the Easy Path, and leading the Dragons back to our homes and our lives."

The Fighter's heart sank. She was afraid she knew whom the culprit was. And why her Runner was not at the meeting.

The Easy Path, dear Readers, is one that the villagers were warned of from the time they were young. It began on the far end of the village, and led to a destination unknown, as the ones who sojourned down this Path usually stayed away. The Easy Path was known to be treacherous, with poisonous vines growing alongside which would wrap around a traveler's ankle and, in a blink of an eye, pull the unsuspecting soul off the Path never to be seen again. Also, the Dragons made their homes here, hidden in the vines and the trees, and the folklore stories told of many who began a journey along the Easy Path and were overcome by the Dragons.

When the Fighter left the meeting, she found the Runner along the way to her home. He smiled when he saw her, but faltered when he recognized the look on her face. He tried to tell her he had things he needed to do, but the Fighter was not going to let him avoid her this time. The Fighter calmly, with tears in her voice, asked her Runner if he had been running on the Easy Path. She told him she knew of his running, and that it was okay; she wanted him to be able to run if he needed. But she also explained, in the quietest of voices, that she feared it was he who was leading the Dragons to her doorstep.

The Runner grew angry, and demanded an explanation. The Fighter told him of the meeting in the village, and how the explanation of an Easy Path-traveler resonated in her heart. The Runner denied playing a part in the Dragons attempting to take over the village; hadn't there always been Dragons since the beginning of time? How dare she, a Fighter, accuse him! The Fighter grew silent and waited. Then, the Runner agreed. Yes, he was running along the Easy Path; but he was a Warrior! No harm could befall him. He hadn't told the Fighter because he was smarter than the traps laid by the path, he knew how to avoid them. It was none of the Fighter's business where he ran, or how long he ran. No one would be hurt.

With a heart overflowing with sorrow, the Fighter told the Runner she would not tell him he could not run, or where to run; but if he continued to choose the Easy Path as his preferred road, he could no longer run home to her. The Dragons were too strong, and there were too many. She and her team of Fighters could not fight them all.

The Runner yelled, face flush with rage, "You hate that I run! You don't accept who I am! I've been explaining this since I first started running, it is your fault that you don't understand!" The Fighter let him finish, and replied, "It was never about the running. Not even the first, long time. Not even when I did not know if you would ever come home. Even when I really knew who you were, I chose you. But now, there is something of high value at risk. Your choice of running Path affects my home, my safety, and my loved ones. It is up to you: which is more important? The Fighter, or the Path?"

And the Runner chose the Path.

The Fighter hears of him on occasion; he has found a new village in which to rest his head after his runs, and is still held in high regard as a Warrior and a Runner. The Dragons continued to be overwhelming for a time once the Runner left the village for good, but the team of Fighters were strong and unwavering, and peace has, for the most part, been restored.

The Fighter still misses the Runner. But she has a new tranquil life, in the village of her youth, surrounded by the Fighters that know her and understand her best.

The End.

Not for the Faint of Heart.

"Oh, Gigi. You deserve so much better than all of this."

My best friend of twelve years sits across from me on top of the built-in bar in the backyard. Cross-legged, she tilts her head and tries to make eye contact. We are doing what we do best; drinking a vodka drink and smoking a cigarette and talking about the difficult hurdles in our lives. We've learned over the past twelve years that problems shared with each other mean half the load... we have built a solid relationship while we shoulder each other's burdens. We loan money. We show up even when the other says not to, because we know they're lying. We bring coffees and babysitters and a scrub brush. Spreadsheets and computer software. We scrape each other off the floor. Help move furniture and clean out Grandma's house. Say I love you and I'm here for you and you don't owe me a thing.

At the moment, we're discussing my life.

The last four months have kicked my ass. More than once I didn't know how I was going to make it. I've eaten Xanax. I've gone through boxes of Kleenex. I've sat at my desk at work with tears streaming down my cheeks, thankful that only two people can see me while I sit here and die. I've lost 15 pounds because I stopped caring about food. I've called people I haven't talked to in months or years, trying to get some perspective. I've asked people who love me to write a list of my flaws, so I can try to see myself from another set of eyes. I've cried every day for months. There have been several reprieves, times when it looks like the devastating circumstances I couldn't seem to handle were lessening... and then it turns out they weren't lessening and it's actually worse than I thought and it's even harder to handle because I thought it was getting better and I can't stand to be in my own skin anymore.

The beautiful souls who are closest to me had the agony of watching this, living this. I would show up at their houses, red swollen eyes, shaking as I tried not to sob. I would ask to stay for dinner, or to help clean the kitchen, just so I could be busy and surrounded by love. They wanted to help, they wanted to hurt the one who hurt me, they wanted to support me even when they didn't agree, and so I would take advantage of their kindness and stay as long as I could, in the safety of a house that wasn't mine.

I've always identified with being strong. My name means strength. I have the Hebrew word "chavil" tattooed on the inside of my right wrist (the word for strength used in Proverbs 31:25, which is the chapter that describes a woman of virtue). I tell my kids every day before they leave for work or school, "Be strong and courageous!". I have survived two divorces. Two restraining orders on a husband. Three bouts of single mama-ness. Yet, these last four months, I have been anything but strong. I did manage to go to the office every day, and for the most part keep my personal turmoil to myself; I did get out of bed every morning and get dressed, just to prove I still could... but I rarely did it with grace or dignity.

"Oh, Gigi. You deserve so much better than all of this."

I've been thinking about the ensuing conversation since it happened a week ago. My best friend meant those words to me with the most sincere of intentions. She was extending me love and kindness and grace and acceptance. She was telling me that this isn't right and it's horrible to watch.

But.

Do I deserve better than this?

I hurt my ex-husband. Cut him to the core. For the last several years we were together, he had a constant look of pain in his eyes, right up until the beer finally numbed enough of it. He loved me without abandon; and while there are many reasons why that relationship didn't last and he must own his fair share of responsibility, I hurt him. Devastated him.

I am sometimes too quick with my words, and my eyerolls. I am judgemental towards people I have no right to pass judgement upon. I dig my heels in and fight back for no reason, other than to prove that I can. (I'm independant! I'm self-reliant! I'm an adult! Don't tell me to get some rest or be more consistent or think of your feelings; I do what I want!) I sometimes care little for the consequences as long as I get what I want today. I make excuses. I hurt people too.

I am not justifying any actions, of my own or the other party in these last four months of agony. If there was wrongdoing, it was wrong. But there was a pause today, wondering if I have ever caused anyone to hurt like I am hurting.

The situation has finally come to a point where resolution is in sight; there will be a definite answer to all of this heartache soon. But at this crossroads, there is no clear intuition about which way I will travel. I have already thrown my chips on the table, laid down my cards, and am now sitting back biting my nails hoping for the best. And then, in the next moment, I wonder if I can survive the best. Can I forgive and move on from this brokenness? Can I be understanding and patient? Can I have conversations about horrible subjects without attacking and using my words as weapons? And what if I do, and then I'm vulnerable to pain all over? I cannot live this out again. Can I trust anyone anymore? Maybe it's best to remove myself, to shut the door, to close myself off.

But everything in me screams that's not the right thing to do.

This is obviously gonna be an AWESOME life lesson, whichever way it ends. Only the things that cut like knives really ever teach me anything. I have a feeling I will never be the same.

Stay tuned.

Dad- My Hero. A Tribute.

I had a conversation with the man whose DNA my daughter shares five years ago. It was when he lived in Colorado, and he had just driven to Washington to see me and our daughter. It was the third time he had seen her since she was two years old. She was 14 at the time.

Sperm donor: "The reason I don't come and see Cami more than I do is something you probably would never be able to understand."
Mama: "Okay, try me. I'm interested."
Sperm donor: "I travel across several states to see my daughter, and spend time with her for a weekend, and then I have to say goodbye and go home... You have no idea how heartbreaking that is. It is easier to stay away and not know her than it is to see her sporadically and have to say goodbye, not knowing when I'll see her next."
Mama: "You know what? I do understand that. It must be horrible. I can't imagine the heartbreak. Our daughter is a beautiful and amazing person, and to not be a part of her life must be overwhelming. Here's the part that I will never understand: why do you think it is an option to not be there for her? Or in her life, to whatever capacity you can be?"

Today is Father's Day. The day society celebrates and salutes the men who participated in the creation of the next generation. I have two children, who have different fathers. Cami's father is not a dad. Never has been. Cannot justify the sacrifice that would be required to be a part of her life. And it's not just that; he blames me for her struggles. Her fears. Her demons.

It is possible that he has a point. But since he has not been a part of her life, EVER, I don't really care about his opinion.

My son's father does participate in his life. Coaches baseball. Helps with homework. Teaches him how to train his dog, how to change brake pads, how to throw a curve ball. I don't like him (and I'm no longer married to him) but that is beside the point. He is an active part of my son's world. And because of that, even though I don't always agree with his methods, I sent him a "happy father's day" text today.

These are the men that gave me my beautiful and precious children.

And THEN...
There's my dad.

I am 37 years old, and my dad is still my hero. Not my hero now as an adult, not my hero now that I have kids of my own, but still. He always has been.

My dad was the financial provider for our family. It was important to my parents that my mom be able to stay at home with the kids, and so my dad's paycheck was the sole income. He's owned his own business, worked for both good companies and tyrannical bosses, and somehow managed to pay for my sister and I to go to private school for most of our education. He's loaned me money; sometimes requiring me to pay it back and sometimes calling it a gift. He gave me my first job, working at his office. He paid for my long-distance phone bill when my boyfriend was in the Army. He bought a new engine for my 1984 Honda Accord when I forgot to check the oil and it blew up on 405. He loaned me money when my business was struggling.

My dad used to take me on daddy-daughter dates. He took me to Lady and The Tramp when it came out in theaters when I was 5. We stood in a long line, and finally got tickets, and then when I was tired halfway through the movie, he left the theater and took me home. When my homecoming date senior year got cancelled, he made a reservation and was my date that night. He took me out to dinner, and felt horrible when we ran into my classmates that were at the same restaurant before the dance. He used to take me and my sis to the Science Center, and would always drive us home by the Fremont Troll when we would plead to go out of our way. He used to randomly ask me if I wanted to go watch baseball in Kirkland; we would drive downtown on a Friday night when I was in high school. He would buy me a hot dog and some Smarties and we would talk while we watched the high school boys play select ball. Some of my favorite talks with my dad were on those metal bleachers.

My dad was baffled when I got pregnant at 17. I'm sure he was scared, and mad, and confused. And then his Cami was born~ and he instantly had another princess for whom he was a hero. One of my favorite pictures of my dad is him sitting on the couch, reading to Cami while she's snuggled up against him in her jammies. I think she was three. I was 21 and still living at home. He is a grandpa who looooooooves his grandkids.

My dad yells at me when I'm wrong. I write this in present tense, because it still happens. Living 25 minutes away from my childhood home means he no longer has to know every single stupid decision I make or word that I say... but there are plenty of times that I tell him something and he rolls his eyes and shoots a sarcastic response my way. I know as a mama whose daughter is on the threshold of adulthood it is often hard to bite my tongue and let her make her own mistakes. I can only imagine how my dad feels seeing me wander and stumble and fall. He is much, much smarter than me.

Today we salute men who sacrifice for their children. Who play ball when they're tired from an endless day of meetings. Who go to football games to watch their daughter cheerlead for a losing team. Who get frustrated when kids don't pick up after themselves, are disrespectful to Mom, or who take too long to get ready to go run an errand.

I am unfathomably grateful that my children have a Grandpa like my dad. I may not have chosen the best of men to be their fathers, but I could not have hand-picked a better man as their grandparent.

I love you, Roger Alan Baer. You have given me an example of unconditional love that I can't imagine experiencing anywhere else this side of heaven. You are, and always have been my hero. Thank you for being my dad.



A postscript: for the last year I have dated a man who has shown me that men of my generation still have the capacity to be heroes for their children. To That Guy: Happy Father's Day, sweetheart. You're the best.

Facebook Musings

I checked my Facebook account on my laptop right before I was shutting everything down for the day at work. Now that I work in an office I don't seem to have the time to be on Facebook very much; when I was at the coffee stand I was constantly checking my status feed. I figured I'd spend a few minutes scrolling through, zoning out, looking at pictures and reading my friends' plans for the weekend.

I saw a status from my beautiful, amazing, outspoken girlfriend that said this:

"Happiness is...."

It had 34 comments.

When I clicked to read the comments, it was exactly what I expected. "My children". (Awwww. How sweet.) "The perfect cup of coffee first thing in the morning". (I can get behind that sentiment.) "Bacon". (Someone does Crossfit....) "Having you as a friend" (Agreed.) "Sunsets and rum". (Hehe.)

I wanted to post something, something that no one else had posted, something that would make the reader pause, and smile, and agree. Something profound but not wordy. Something without too much mushy bullshit.

And then I paused.  How do I define happiness? Is it in stuff? Is it in relationships? Is it family, is it a career path, is it spiritual?

I keep waiting for life to slow down. To not be so crazy. To have a system, a rhythm, an order. To make sense. But it hasn't, it doesn't. As soon as I have a handle on one part, another blows up. Yet I AM happy these days. I'm calmer than I remember ever being. I'm content. Even.... Joyful.

So, to my little world, happiness is....

*New paint for an old house; because it means we all have a bedroom and my son will live across the street from his best friend again. He will ride the bus to school and roam the streets with his buddies. And I will know my neighbors' names, and have friends close by (like walking two houses away close by). And I don't need to know how long we get to live there, because it will be at least 4 months and that's enough for now.

*The princess texting me that she only missed one problem on the first math test she's taken in a year-and-a-half; because it means she's following through and learning and remembering how good it feels to have your brain hurt with new information. Little successes can do so much for self-worth and learning about life, and she is accomplishing this.

*My mama baking cookies and making homemade chicken noodles, and emailing me to pick some up after work; because that person is my mom and sometimes in the last couple years it seemed like life had changed her from being my mom. I don't care how old you get, sometimes you need a mom. To bake you cookies and dinner and tell you you're awesome.

*Spending an unplanned afternoon in a hospital, saying goodbye to someone I didn't know very well but my best friend did; because this beautiful life holds a lot of sorrow and I was able to be there with my best friend while she walked through that sadness. And really, awful times like that are only manageable when you can be surrounded by love, as she has been this week by her friends.

*Bailey's in my coffee as I type this; because I can and I'm a grown-up and no one is looking over my shoulder condescendingly. I don't have to worry about alcohol in the house anymore, I don't have to remind myself not to count beer bottles or to bite my tongue when I take out the recycle.

So Many Things.

My sister made me a wall hanging several years ago for Christmas, and it is one of my most prized possessions. The sentiment reads:

Happiness is a journey, not a destination.

I'm enjoying every step.

Money. Only Awesome If You Have Some.

Whoa. It's been over a year since I wrote here.

There is a good reason for that, albeit a sad one. This has been a place for me to stretch myself, to try to better express myself through written word; and also to share funny antidotes from life, or new truths I've discovered.

For a time, there was someone very close to me who was uncomfortable with those things. Or, who I was uncomfortable knowing these things about me. For a time, the truths of which I was becoming aware were heartbreaking. To me and to others.

There have been some huge changes in the last year since I've visited this blog.

*my address is different (although still in the same town)

*my name will soon be different

*my job is totally different

*my children are different (18 and almost 13... sigh.)

*my finances are different.

My adorable, irritating, wildly entertaining son reminded me this weekend that he goes back to school on Thursday and I promised him some new clothes, and a backpack, and perhaps even a new hat. (Can you guess the part that he cared about?? Yup. Hat and backpack.) I reminded him that I needed to check my bank account and make a budget before we could shop.

Ugh. Budget.

When I say "budget", I no longer mean "my bills are all laid out in front of me neatly and my spreadsheet has macros enabled and Dave Ramsey would be so proud". These days, it looks more like, "writing the bills I can think of that I haven't paid for a while on a post-it and crossing my fingers while I check my account that we can still eat til next payday".

I procrastinated for a while, working on house projects that I've been putting off, justifying my unwillingness to look into my finances by reassuring myself I was getting things done that I haven't made a priority. Once the morning became afternoon, Joseph was asking approximately every eleven-and-a-half minutes when we could go to the mall.

Of course, it has to be the mall. This child is no longer content with clothes from Target or Fred Meyer. And I have yet to convince him that "consignment" means "trendy vintage". He hears "other people's crap".

Finally I gave myself a talking-to and sat down to check my bank account online. As I had suspected, the money I had to last til payday was not nearly enough to pay everything required. I crossed things out, made some phone calls, looked through the refrigerator and pantry to see what we could use this coming week... and then told my beautiful, charming, annoying child the amount of money we could spend that day.

To his credit, he didn't complain. But internally, I did.

We went to the mall, we bought him some clothes, we came home and shopped online for a backpack. We stayed in the budget. We ate leftovers for dinner, I gave up the idea of getting my nails done, we did not go out for ice cream. And all the while, mentally, I was a five-year-old who was just told she couldn't get another stuffed animal at the toy store. (By the way, it's extremely attractive for a grown-ass woman to throw a mental temper tantrum about having to act like an adult.)

The next morning, while on the phone with my beautiful, amazing rock-star goddess of a sister, I was laughing at myself to her. I was describing how juvenile my attitude had been the day before, and how frustrated I was at myself for it, and how tiresome it can be to be the only grown-up in the house. (Brilliant choice of a person to whom to vent; my sissy is raising six sons and is pregnant with her seventh baby. She was, I'm sure, terribly sympathetic). As we were talking, I was half-heartedly cleaning out some boxes of things I've brought in from the car or the coffee stand and never gone through. I filed some papers, found some school supplies, threw some junk away. And found

A check for $100. Truth.

This ALWAYS happens. And I know it does. When I begin to be responsible with little, ALWAYS more is given. I am humbled by this check. A hundred dollars doesn't go far; but it means an additional bill gets paid. It means I am being provided for... even though I am the only person that brings in an income for this household. My internal feet-stomping from Saturday is embarrassing today... but the life-truth is worth the embarrassment. I am being watched over. My family is being taken care of. And I just have to be a responsible steward of what I have been given.

Today, I feel blessed. And I am wishing you an unexpected blessing today, too.

just for today

i pray for a miracle.

a changing of this life.

wrongs to be made right.

an open heart, a willing spirit.

and then, the nudge~

am i all of these things?

how can i judge and condemn?

i ask for forgiveness.

clarity.

perspective.

truth.

a blinding instant~

overwhelmed by love.

"all will be okay. I know the path you're on."

such gratitude.

such safety.

my only job is to trust.

and listen.

He holds the answers.

a quick errand

I'm finally sick.

Not the "I'm gonna lie in bed under my blankets and wait for death" sick, just the "I can't justify not working but I feel like crap" sick. Thankfully, because of some dear friends, my 14 hour shift today was reduced to a mere 6 hours, and I only had to run two quick errands on my way home.

I stopped at Trader Joe's in Kirkland to grab rice milk for the coffee stand, and threw some Luna bars into my basket on my way to check out. (Good healthy snacks for munching on during long work days).

Purely for the sake of entertainment, I shall now recreate my experience with the checker I encountered..

(Brigitte's in line at Trader Joe's. She's next to pay. When it's her turn, she puts her basket on the appropriate counter. Her eyes are puffy from sinus pressure, she has coffee stains on her new jeans, and her hair is escaping from the loosely tied ponytail at the nape of her neck. She looks like she needs a makeover, or some hot tea, or a dose of Nyquil. Obviously, this is not our heroine at her best.)

Brig (trying to be friendly even though she's longing for her bed): "Hey, how's it going?"

Checker: "Oh, you like hiking?"

(Brigitte looks around, confused)

Checker: "The Luna bars. You take them hiking, right?"

Brig: "Oh...no. I take them to work, to have as a snack when I'm too busy to eat."

(Checker smiles brightly. Then looks uncertain.)

Checker: "So...you don't like hiking?"

(Brigitte doesn't know what to say to this, so she says nothing.)

Checker: "Sometimes I just feel like a cigarette!"

(Brigitte now notices the hot-pink bright smile may be a cover for a certain amount of medication. She tries again.)

Brig: "Yeah, you guys are really busy tonight! Is this normal for a Friday at this time?"

(Checker's smile falters. She again looks unsure, confused. Brigitte takes this opportunity to grab the receipt as it prints and take her grocery bag.)

Brig: "Thank you, have a good weekend..."

Checker (as Brig is starting to leave): "What are your girlfriends doing tonight?"

Brig: "Uh...I don't know...most of us are old and boring."

(Our heroine escapes the store, and barely makes it outside before she is caught up in a fit of hysterical laughter.)

Scene.

Happy Friday! ...and watch out for the checker with the hot-pink lipstick.

A New Beginning

I always loved back-to-school time.

It wasn't because I couldn't wait to see my friends after the social exile that made up my summer, it wasn't even for the new school clothes. It wasn't for new teachers, it wasn't for new learning.
It was for a new binder. And pens that had never been used. And brand-new pencils, with an attached eraser that erased and a fresh point on the other end. And as I got older, a fresh homework planner.

Oh, I loved homework planners.

I didn't often use said planners once...oh, November hit the calendar. But I adored a whole book with blank days, just waiting to be filled.

Unlimited potential, waiting to be discovered.

We have recently celebrated a New Year. If I am to write honestly I must admit I despised 2010. The past twelve months have been full of sadness and heartbreak for me and my loved ones. There has been great pain, financial burdens, and wrestling of monsters among me and mine. Within the circle of those dear to me, I have walked through drug addiction. Death. Depression. Medication. Abuse. Court systems. Restraining orders. Self-harm. Suicidal thoughts. Financial ruin. The loss of dreams. The loss of love. The loss of peace.

And yet, there is hope.

2011 is a new planner, with blank pages. And before I throw 2010 away with the sour milk rotting in my refrigerator, I thought a moment should be spent on the tragedy that was this last year, to glean any positives before I rejoice while looking ahead.

*This year, I became closer to my daughter than any year before. At a tender 16 years, she of course doesn't tell me everything. But she tells me a lot. And I tell her a lot. And we laugh at ridiculous things, and sometimes we cry. And although she has her own struggles and burdens, I am so very proud of her. She will go far in this life, in spite of her mama. I love her so much.
*This year, I learned I am very good at a lot of things. And not so good at some things too. It doesn't make me clutch at my chest anymore, at the ripe old age of 35, to admit that there are things that are not my strengths. I am wonderful with people...I am not so good at business. I will sacrifice business and profit when a relationship will be affected.
*This year, I learned I can only change me. I thought I knew this, after years of sitting on a therapist's couch. Apparently, although I was not trying to change or control people, I was trying to change and control my environment. My surroundings. Which, in case you didn't know, is the space within which other people reside. Whoops.
*This year, I felt God's love for me in a way I had never before experienced. I saw His hand moving in my insignificant life. I prayed more than I ever have. I grabbed on to Bible verses as a drowning person grabs on to a life raft.

That last one...well, to me, it makes 2010 worthwhile after all.

I'm closing the book on that tear-stained year, and looking forward to my fresh, clean, brand-new calendar for 2011. I have big expectations of these coming days!

"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."
Jeremiah 29:11

Happy New Year!

A Sacrifice

I'm giving up processed sugar because my brother is giving up drugs.

Let me explain.

By birth, through my family lines, I have a younger sister, Kimberly. We are two years, three months apart. She is one of my favorite people in the world, and I never feel like I get enough time with her and her amazing family which also includes her dear husband and her 5 (FIVE!) boys.

And then, God gave me a "brother". John.

I met John years ago because he was dating a friend of mine, and I loved everything about my buddy Kelly; therefore I loved John right when I met him. He grandfathered right in to my circle of friends. After they had been dating a few weeks, Kelly confided in me that John was an ex-heroin addict. I was shocked, and impressed, that he had transcended that life. And, if I'm honest, I was a little proud of myself for being so open-minded as to associate with an ex-IV drug user. Aren't I bold?!

Through a long, drawn-out, Dr. Phil-show-type story, here is the bottom line: John did not stay clean for long. And he played a part in introducing Kelly to opiates. And for a while they destroyed themselves together. And it was the saddest thing I had ever seen (the bits of it I did see; drug users are really good at disappearing if they think you'll see through their lies).

If we fast-forward a year or so, we get to the part where John and Kelly go to detox, separately, but still together. They struggle. They break up. And, for some reason, my dear husband and I let John into our home, and told him he could stay with us while looking for work and a place to live.

And so began six months or so of having a roommate. One who had demons I had previously only experienced on "Intervention". One who had such a shady past that he struggled finding a job. One who didn't know anything about a normal home life, with home-cooked dinners and bickering spouses and a budget. And we loved him.

Stash, my dear husband, and I have marveled plenty of times at the twists life can take. We believe God wanted John in our lives. That we are blessed to know, and love, this man. I began calling him my brother when he moved in; he referred to me as "sis". "Brother" was easier than "my friend's ex-boyfriend who's trying to clean up" when I was introducing him. Besides, who would actually CHOOSE to have this shady individual in their life? When I say he's my brother, people get an understanding look in their eye. It usually says something like, "Yeah, don't we all have a black sheep in the family? Don't worry Brigitte, the sketchy brother won't change the way I feel about YOU."

I was always the black sheep in the family. It was weird to transfer that onto someone else.

See, I believe that John becoming my brother was God teaching me a real and big lesson. Don't we all know God loves everyone? And yet don't we all stick our noses up at someone, thinking they're not good enough for us? God loves John. He loves the drug addicts, the dirty homeless people, the crazies that talk to themselves. He loves the girls looking for love in all the wrong places, the alcoholics that try to numb themselves with their booze, the liars, the cheaters, the faithless.

Everyone. Even me. Even John.

I have had an opportunity to show my brother the way that God loves us, as imperfectly and as humanly as I can. I am privileged to have John in my life. He has shown me so many truths...and I have experienced a humanity to the addiction story that I never expected.

I'd like you to meet someone. This is my brother, John. He's 26, with a receding hairline (shhh, don't mention that!). He always offers to help with the dishes. He loves baaaaad reality TV. He takes the garbage out at the coffee stand for me anytime he's there. He can giggle for hours with Joseph playing on YouTube. He yells at Cami for snuggling with her boyfriend. He loves Mike N Ikes. He sleeps with his mouth open. He never puts his t-shirts in the dryer. He should pull his pants up when he's walking (or maybe buy a damn belt!). And he's part of my family.

John slipped up, fell off the wagon, whatever cliche means he's getting high again. I took him to detox yesterday, and he'll be doing inpatient rehab for the first time once he's done. When I was driving him to the detox unit yesterday, I told him that since he had to give something up, I would too. I'm giving up candy, sweets, processed sugar. It's my heroin. He's lived with us on and off for over a year; he knows how much I love my candy. This meant something to him. And when I crave peanut m&m's, I'll remember my brother, kicking something even harder.

Will you pray for us?

I need to go buy some fruit.

Sixteen

May 24, 1994
11:00 pm

I head for my bed in the basement of my parents' house, hoping for some sleep. As I crawl under my twin-size covers and curl up as comfortably as I'm able, turning on the TV (muted, with the close-captioning on so as not to bother my parents upstairs sound asleep) I wonder how much longer I have before I will hold the baby I've been carrying for nine months. It is late Tuesday night; this is my first week not working, since my due dates were either May 23rd or May 27th...depending on whom you asked. The Friday before had been my last day in the Medical Records office of Lake Vue Gardens, a nursing home just up the street. My mom had worked there a while; I started half way through my pregnancy. There were five of us crammed into that little office that one could only access by walking through one of the four dining rooms; we were all friends, of a sort. They had all been kind to me, and supportive of my mom, who was becoming a grandmother much before she had expected.
The baby (who I had been told on Ultrasound Day had 75% chance of being a girl...is that helpful?!) squirms, making me wince. I lay in bed on my side, with one leg thrown over the other for support, and try to rest. It would be soon...please, I want it to be soon.
My boyfriend/fiance/baby-daddy/total-stranger was in town from Idaho for the Main Event. He was trying to be enthusiastic, but even on his best day his voice betrayed how scared he was. He hadn't been around for most of the pregnancy, choosing to move to Idaho shortly after I confided my baby news to him. The story was he moved there for work; I knew even then he didn't know what to do with the responsibility. He had the pager from the hospital by his side 24 hours a day, waiting for the buzz to let him know this was It.

May 25, 1994
3:00am

Back pains wake me. I'm not sure what time I dozed off, but I think I last remember some late night talk show monologue on the screen as I closed my eyes a few short hours before. I roll over, prop my pillows a bit differently, and try to go back to sleep.
It doesn't work.
Stupid lower back. I know she (?) doesn't have much room, but I'm tired! After about a half an hour, I give up. This sleep thing is gone for now. I turn on my light, prop myself up against my white wicker headboard as best I can, and reach for my counted cross stitch. I had picked out a pattern to make for my Grandma Baer a long time before, and even though she passed away in while I was a junior in high school, two years ago, I wanted to finish it in memory of her. It required a lot of concentration, and it wasn't until 4:30 am that I realize my back pains would be there, and then they wouldn't.
This can't be labor.
When my mom gets up to get ready for work around 5:30, I am puttering around in the kitchen, wiping things, organizing things, cleaning things.
Mom: "Morning, hon! What in the world are you doing up so early?"
Me: "Well, I think that maybe the baby is coming today. And if I'm having a baby, then in a day or two we will be having a bunch of people who want to come over to visit, so I'm cleaning the kitchen."
Mom almost falls over. I can tell that she doesn't quite know what to do. After I watch fear/excitement/indecision flash across her face, she says, "Oh! Okay. Well, I think I'm going to get ready for work...?"
I agree. Yes, definitely, you should go to work, Mom. So far my back just hurts. About every 5 to 8 minutes.

May 25, 1994
3:00pm

I'm on my way to the hospital. I talked to my doctor a bit ago, and she suggested I come in to "get checked" (every pregnant girl's favorite and worst phrase). My best friend is to be my Lamaze coach, and she is now part of "Team Baby", however that plays out today. I say out loud on my way to the hospital, "Oh yeah, these contractions hurt." No, dear; not yet they don't.
I have decided to attempt natural childbirth. One of the beautiful things about becoming a teenage mother is that you have no idea of most things of which you should be scared. I didn't know what the future would hold; but neither did my friends that were finishing up their freshman year of college! I didn't know what bills were like; neither did anyone with whom I associated. I knew childbirth hurt...but had no experience to which I could compare, and neither did my circle of confidantes.
Part of my decision to try labor and delivery without painkillers was "I'll prove...(something, I don't know what)". I already had shocked so many people (Pregnant! Seventeen/Eighteen! Unwed! Captain of the cheer squad! Church attender!) that I figured, why not have the last sentence of the story be "...and I did it without drugs." I'll show them.

May 25, 1994
5:00pm to 11:18pm

Things are hazy. I say to Stacy, "I'm so tired, I'm going to take a nap and have this baby tomorrow." All I know is I keep having to climb this mountain every minute or so, and then get a minute or two before I have to climb again. It seems like I will have to do this forever. Stacy says I'm doing great, but I don't know if I am. I am pretty sure now that I am not ready to have a baby.

May 25, 1994
11:18 pm

She cries. I'm holding her. I cry. I'm irritated; why is everybody talking to me? I want to talk to Camilla. That's the name I picked when they told me it was probably a girl. I'll call her Cami. I will teach her everything I know, I will give her the world, I will protect her from all the demons and the dragons. I will prove the naysayers wrong. I will be a GREAT mom. I will love her more than anything on this planet. She will be my princess Cami. I will do anything for her. We will learn together how to navigate life.

Happy sixteenth birthday, my precious daughter.
I love you more than you can ever know.

For the Mamas

I should be writing paychecks.

As I raced home on this beautiful Friday afternoon (with the master plan of printing paychecks, flying off to Trader Joe's, running back to the stand to write paychecks, then sluggishly driving back home in rush hour traffic), I realized for the 32nd time today that Mother's Day is Sunday. All morning long, customers were asking, "What are your Mother's Day plans?", or they were wishing me a Happy Mother's Day. Every time "Mother's Day" was spoken at my window, I was surprised. (Short term memory loss on a Friday morning, I guess.)

A confession: for Many Many Many years, I hated Mother's Day. What a sham of a holiday, I thought! For this to truly be MY day, I should be able to spend it the way I want. And the "way I want" does not translate to "mediating childrens' silly arguments, cleaning up diapers/spilled milk/dinner dishes, shopping for groceries, being woken up early so I can be wished a happy DAY".

Such selfishness.

Even when I hated this holiday, I felt bad. I knew I was probably wrong...but couldn't figure out how to feel better about it. I didn't tell anyone. I would joke, on occasion, with some of my mama friends that we should get pedicures and bloody marys for it to really be OUR day...but it was always said in jest.

But I meant it.

I actually don't have any plans for Mother's Day this year. My mom hasn't mentioned it, so she's probably busy (and she's already given me a beautiful potted hanging fushia, so I'm assuming she's not expected a visit on Sunday). My mother-in-law lives in South Carolina, so the card I'm sending out today will suffice. My sister will be busy with her family of seven, my sister-in-law also lives in Charleston...so, no plans. That I know of. And, I like that.

Apparently, somewhere in the last almost sixteen years of being a mama, I grew up and became a mama. In all honesty, there is now nothing that makes me feel so blessed as being able to spend time with my beautiful children. Oh, they haven't changed...they still fight, eat the last cookie, don't share...but now it's fighting over the computer, not sharing ipods or xboxes.

They haven't changed. I have.

So on this Mother's Day, I may be awakened early, with cards, and hugs, and some flowers. And I won't begrudgingly wake up, cranky that it's supposed to be my day to sleep in; instead I'll hug them extra and tell them how much they mean to me. And twelve minutes later when Joseph is whining and Cami is bitchy, I will smile because I know now they will not be home for many more years, and I will cherish all of the moments of the day called MINE, because my children will be with me. And when Cami asks to go get her hair cut...right NOW...and Joseph asks to play with the neighbors, I will say yes, because I don't want them to feel like they have to be stuck to my side ever in this life, even on Mother's Day. And when Joseph whispers in Stash's ear to go get Blizzards from Dairy Queen as a "surprise" for me after dinner, I will act shocked when they get back, and will not care about what flavor they brought me, and I will tell Joseph how proud I am that he is so thoughtful of his mama.

Pretty sure I really can call this day MINE, this year.

I better go write paychecks.

I don't like to write. I excuse this by saying I don't have time, or I'm not witty/intelligent/articulate enough, or there's no reason to preserve the crazy ramblings of my mind in a written format.

However.

Lately, I have been challenged by several loved ones to create a place for my written thoughts. Perhaps even online. And so, (mostly because I love a challenge), I am here.

I have no idea how to do this. Let's be honest. I am going to try it out, though, somewhat to see if I can save money on my therapist bills.

Do you ever wonder if you are the only sane one in a world full of madness?? Or...do you wonder are you the only insane one in a world that seems to make sense to everyone else?? Have you ever looked at your children and pondered how it happens that you can be full of frustration AND love at the same time?? Do you feel like you "should" be able to do it all (and that others are succeeding so why aren't you)??

These are things I feel regularly. If you understand any of the previous paragraph, welcome. If you have it all together in this life, you may want to find something else to read.

See you soon~