There are days the bed beckons me.
I want to sleep and dream and drift for days.
I must fight the Darkness and stay awake...
There are days I will weep if that James Taylor song comes on.
The song about Carolina... I can feel the moonshine, even in December.
On those days I can hear the voice of ocean, it's been so long...
Not enough days of just us two,
Somedays I miss just us two, I want to be alone with him so I can accidently brush by...
Oops, sorry, did I touch? Please forgive...or don't. Oh no- did it again...
Days I just want to read a good book,
wearing clean pajammas and cozy socks,
while a movie is on cable that I am not watching.
There are days I want my Pap paw like no one else.
Days I ache for his conversation...his laugh...his bias love for me.
There are days I get lost on the way.
I hear that older boys voice in my head and can't shake it out.
Sometimes I sing really loud so not to hear him, angry songs.
There are days I witness our children get older.
Those days I give away the "now too small" clothes.
Days I pray to just hold on.
There are days I need a cigarette- and I don't smoke.
A drink- and I don't drink.
A joint- and I haven't smelled it in years now.
There are writing days, when I can't focus on conversation
for the words in my head.
Singing days, when I can't not at least hum.
And quiet days, when I hope to go unnoticed.
Planning days, phone calls, home work, paper work, checkbooks, bills,
School days, Work days, exhausted at the end of the day- actually before-
but can't do anything about that.
Life is what happens...
Monday, October 19, 2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Sweet Little Girl
When i look at her baby pictures i see all the wonder in those gorgeous little eyes. She still is full of wonder and full of delight and a magic imagination that seems to come from no where.
She was sick for the first three years of her life. in and out of the ER, constant fevers above 104 degrees. Throat, nose, eyes were always sick. her immune system so weak that three separate times I was told to keep her inside and that a common cold may kill her. I cloroxed everything. it was a common occurrence for her to throw up three or more times per week for absolutely no reason.
Many nights ilay awake and held her burning hot body praying that she'd survive the night. Once she blacked out and wet herself. The hospital gowns were so tiny they broke my heart. The first time I saw one I thought, "No, this cannot be something we need here in this world. That is for a toy doll, not my sweet, funny, loving child." Her perfect cheeks would turn red, her beautiful lips would blister up in these horrible bubbles from her fevers.
She weighed twenty pounds for about four years, never more and sometimes less. she wore impossibly small clothing and at times I thought to myself I should buy better quality clothes because they would have to last her more than 2 warm or hot seasons.
The doctors threw out words like -underweight, failure to thrive, and undernourished. I would never speak of home life, I left him while she was a baby, but he saw her still and I am positive in her lifetime she has witnessed some sort of abuse by her biological father on some part of my body. I never dreamed he could have that effect on her or I would've left sooner.
When school started and she began kindergarten there were issues. She can't remember things properly, she can't hold them as well as she should. Her writing is terrible and she does not care that she can't do these things.
I was made aware that all of her issues were related to the biological fathers drug use before i got pregnant. I was aware that he used but had no idea it happened so soon before conception. As with all addicts you never know when or what they use, or how much. I was in shock when the news settled in. I pretended to be ok, and took it like a trooper. I accepted the challenge of helping her after school everyday and told her teachers we would work on what we could. I was broken inside though, worried that he had given her this gift- this lovely package- great shiny box and huge perfect bow, helped make her beautiful. The only gift he has given her aside from the occasional visit and check. How nice of him to give her this- father of the year.
She doesn't care if the other kids are her friends or not. She doesn't care what they say about her, or if they don't say anything. She wears crazy clothes and wants her hair to be crazy and tells me they say she looks like an alien or a weirdo and she doesn't care. She is like me in those areas. If I make friends it's great and if I don't then I enjoy the personal quietness when they all talk to each other.
Then there is her Daddy- technically step father- whom earned "Daddy" and does a fantastic job at it. He knows my heart is broken about her little delay and has not said anything other than, "She'll come around, she is smarter than what everyone gives her credit for. She's amazing and we'll do our best to help her. She needs some extra, that's all." I could burst with love for this man who bathes, feeds, loves her. Who can just look at me and knows that I'm exhausted, I have a algebra test in the morning and I've been told that our daughter may be developmentally delayed.
This gift of her future from her genetic donor, this lovely package is all I can think of. I watch her sleep now, the undulating breath a miracle. Please, I beg God, do not let this package be empty, give us a shot. Please, let her be more than a pretty box.
Monday, August 31, 2009
House
I have this image of the previous owners of our "new" house- not yet a home because it is under construction. They were distant relatives and they sold to another family in between our time with the house- this signature of the family though sort of make me think of 75 years from now other people- possibly our kids tearing out things we did to the house and putting in new, if the house is still worth the saving that is. I am talkin to it when I work, "Hello house," as I enter, "Oh wow house you are looking good," and "we will fix it old house..." I have done some work to know if anyone gave birth or died in the house and no one had, seems they already had all the children they had when it was built and that everyone moved out just fine and all, I am a bit creeped out about that death thing. Yet I talk to the house and I know I can't keep that up once we move- Dave already worries about my very vocal relationship with our cats, but still I touch the house and give thanks frequently to God aloud so she can hear me, so she knows she is special.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Pappaw
He was rough on the face almost the entire time. He was nearly always sweaty and damp in the hollow of his back. Yet I could not resist a hug, not ever. His laughter was magic, His sneeze was dramatic and his mouth was brutaly honest.
He smelled of Old Spice and sawdust and tomatoe vines and rich earth. He always wore suspenders- fire engine red ones, and american flag ones. Later he coughed alot, also over dramatic.
He would give me ice cream money if I'd ask Mammaw for extra gingerbread and a cold Dr. Pepper. Then I'd sneak it to him in the greenhouse. Later he'd say the machine that took his blood for sugar readings was crazy and he knew better and then he'd wink a private wink in my direction and I'd wink back.
He held my hand alot and squeezed too much. He told corny jokes, and even cornier stories. I laughed anyway. We watched the discovery channel and jeopardy. He'd always say that I was special and I was gonna be somebody someday. He called me precious for a nickname and not as an adjective. I didn't believe him then.
He told all the others I was his favorite. I was so embarrassed and would hush him, then later kiss his sandpaper cheek and whisper that he was my favorite too. He left all the other grandkids nothing and he willed me the house that my Mammaw still lives in. Sometimes I wonder what he saw in me. Why me?
I followed him around, if it bothered him I never knew. He showed me things. Interesting bugs, big ripe blackberries, newborn kittens and puppies, how stubborn one man could be. How sweet and patient my Mammaw is.
He would've adored my baby girl. He would've said she had spunk. He would've loved my son, would've said he was too smart.
I miss him like a breeze. It comes from nowhere and envelopes me for a while, I cannot stop the flow. I visit his stone and sit on the ground in front of him for a while. I talk to him, I understand that he isn't there, it is for me and not him. I lean my body against that strong stone and often weep. I tell no one that I went, it is just for me and him. I stay until I stop rocking myself and heaving. Everyone else goes in groups and talks and laughs and sings songs about Jesus. That stone will last longer than my baby girl... I know that someday I will visit them both there and that breaks my heart even more.
There are times I can still hear him whistle...
He smelled of Old Spice and sawdust and tomatoe vines and rich earth. He always wore suspenders- fire engine red ones, and american flag ones. Later he coughed alot, also over dramatic.
He would give me ice cream money if I'd ask Mammaw for extra gingerbread and a cold Dr. Pepper. Then I'd sneak it to him in the greenhouse. Later he'd say the machine that took his blood for sugar readings was crazy and he knew better and then he'd wink a private wink in my direction and I'd wink back.
He held my hand alot and squeezed too much. He told corny jokes, and even cornier stories. I laughed anyway. We watched the discovery channel and jeopardy. He'd always say that I was special and I was gonna be somebody someday. He called me precious for a nickname and not as an adjective. I didn't believe him then.
He told all the others I was his favorite. I was so embarrassed and would hush him, then later kiss his sandpaper cheek and whisper that he was my favorite too. He left all the other grandkids nothing and he willed me the house that my Mammaw still lives in. Sometimes I wonder what he saw in me. Why me?
I followed him around, if it bothered him I never knew. He showed me things. Interesting bugs, big ripe blackberries, newborn kittens and puppies, how stubborn one man could be. How sweet and patient my Mammaw is.
He would've adored my baby girl. He would've said she had spunk. He would've loved my son, would've said he was too smart.
I miss him like a breeze. It comes from nowhere and envelopes me for a while, I cannot stop the flow. I visit his stone and sit on the ground in front of him for a while. I talk to him, I understand that he isn't there, it is for me and not him. I lean my body against that strong stone and often weep. I tell no one that I went, it is just for me and him. I stay until I stop rocking myself and heaving. Everyone else goes in groups and talks and laughs and sings songs about Jesus. That stone will last longer than my baby girl... I know that someday I will visit them both there and that breaks my heart even more.
There are times I can still hear him whistle...
Friday, August 21, 2009
What I've Overheard
"I told him to come on there are lots of cute girls and no one comes for any other reason... that and the extra cash from financial aid"
"Look at those tits..."
"I told him you can kiss my..."
"I don't care. I'm gonna park here, big deal"
"F*** my life"
"I was so wasted.... I was like Oh, sh*t, there was the cop..."
"My mom is such an idiot"
"I mean, come on, she knew there was no condom."
"What my husband doesn't know won't hurt him."
Going back to class for me is exciting and new. I enjoy knowing that this phase of my life is such an advantage that not every one gets. I have found a corner to "hide" in to eat and pass the 1 and one half hour lapses of time in my schedule, I can read and write and study. It also places me in a spot with a great echo, and my anthorpologist side is entertained, and somewhat disgusted.
"Look at those tits..."
"I told him you can kiss my..."
"I don't care. I'm gonna park here, big deal"
"F*** my life"
"I was so wasted.... I was like Oh, sh*t, there was the cop..."
"My mom is such an idiot"
"I mean, come on, she knew there was no condom."
"What my husband doesn't know won't hurt him."
Going back to class for me is exciting and new. I enjoy knowing that this phase of my life is such an advantage that not every one gets. I have found a corner to "hide" in to eat and pass the 1 and one half hour lapses of time in my schedule, I can read and write and study. It also places me in a spot with a great echo, and my anthorpologist side is entertained, and somewhat disgusted.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Missing
I have been given two of the most wonderful children available. I know that sounds hilarious and wierd- given and available- not terms to describe children or motherhood. I was not in the best situation for life when I became pregnant with my son. I was not the best person to have a child at all. Then God changed me. I got up out of the mess that was strewn about my life and took my son and myself to a new life, new lifestyle, and a whole new perspective. After he was here for about three weeks I discovered that I loved him more than myself. Most moms will not admit that it takes time to fall for your baby, but I will.
Then I married and although I was taking birth control and my son was 6 months old I became pregnant again. Once pregnant my husband became distant and soon enough I discovered his drug addiction. Gradually our marriage disolved and I was single for about 2 and a half years. I mourned him, I mourned me, I mourned what I thought we were and mourned the fact that I was so blindsided.
I brought up two children less than fifteen months apart in age with the help of my wonderful parents. They allowed me to stay home with then until they were able to go school. They took the downstairs of the house and me and the kids invaded the upstairs of the house. We were happy that way. I was content with the three of us- the kids and myself. My parents worked all the time and disappeared to thier quarters as soon as the kids were in bed. It was quiet and I read alot. I was fine.
I met David, I fell hard, still am.
Now I want a baby. Alhtough I am blessed with two I did not want at first- and now adore, I want one for the first time in my life. This is a hard situation for me. We just bought a house- about 80 years old and will need to add another bedroom and a bath for the parents before we can have another- not to mention we need to triple our income. He is the Daddy now and they know no other way of life, won't remember before him, without him, or anyone else, no one ever took the role of Daddy for them until David.
I see babies in grocery carts and smile at them. I see my pregnant family members and I radiate the desire for a child. I hate pregnancy- not being gifted in the weight loss area- but I loved the feel of a baby in my arms. People laugh when I tell them and I think I have never actually WANTED a child before and I cannot say that aloud.
I know I have to finish school and I know I need my mom to retire first and me be working full time and have all this done to the house. But then I think of how sweet they are and how David missed out sort of on the two of ours and I get a little bit lonely....
Then I married and although I was taking birth control and my son was 6 months old I became pregnant again. Once pregnant my husband became distant and soon enough I discovered his drug addiction. Gradually our marriage disolved and I was single for about 2 and a half years. I mourned him, I mourned me, I mourned what I thought we were and mourned the fact that I was so blindsided.
I brought up two children less than fifteen months apart in age with the help of my wonderful parents. They allowed me to stay home with then until they were able to go school. They took the downstairs of the house and me and the kids invaded the upstairs of the house. We were happy that way. I was content with the three of us- the kids and myself. My parents worked all the time and disappeared to thier quarters as soon as the kids were in bed. It was quiet and I read alot. I was fine.
I met David, I fell hard, still am.
Now I want a baby. Alhtough I am blessed with two I did not want at first- and now adore, I want one for the first time in my life. This is a hard situation for me. We just bought a house- about 80 years old and will need to add another bedroom and a bath for the parents before we can have another- not to mention we need to triple our income. He is the Daddy now and they know no other way of life, won't remember before him, without him, or anyone else, no one ever took the role of Daddy for them until David.
I see babies in grocery carts and smile at them. I see my pregnant family members and I radiate the desire for a child. I hate pregnancy- not being gifted in the weight loss area- but I loved the feel of a baby in my arms. People laugh when I tell them and I think I have never actually WANTED a child before and I cannot say that aloud.
I know I have to finish school and I know I need my mom to retire first and me be working full time and have all this done to the house. But then I think of how sweet they are and how David missed out sort of on the two of ours and I get a little bit lonely....
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Joy
Sometimes I just want to be Joy,
not momma,
not the negotiator between brother/sister,
the deciding choice between Wendy's or Mcdonalds,
not bathroom scrubber,
nor laundry doer
nor taxi driver
nor bed maker
I want to be where someone can enjoy my presence
my voice
my thoughts
my laughter
I want to lay down with someone who just wants to be next to me
not for sex
not for safety from nightmares
Somedays Joy is never there
all day long
Somedays I get time with her
just minutes
Somedays I need to see her
and I don't
Somedays I get her
and don't need her
Somedays it flows
perfectly
This summer I have craved Joy
not momma,
not the negotiator between brother/sister,
the deciding choice between Wendy's or Mcdonalds,
not bathroom scrubber,
nor laundry doer
nor taxi driver
nor bed maker
I want to be where someone can enjoy my presence
my voice
my thoughts
my laughter
I want to lay down with someone who just wants to be next to me
not for sex
not for safety from nightmares
Somedays Joy is never there
all day long
Somedays I get time with her
just minutes
Somedays I need to see her
and I don't
Somedays I get her
and don't need her
Somedays it flows
perfectly
This summer I have craved Joy
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Self
Self diagnosed eclectic gatherer of things,
holder of the universe in our children,
gardener, writer, only his vixen,
obsessed with radiant placing of all objects,
acceptive of others.
Self inflicted scars from years past,
sleepiness, size, stress, scrapbooker,
organized chaotic mess,
must balence the weigh, time, work, play,
checkbook, kisses between boy and girl, myself.
Self healing wounds deep within,
corners I can hide things in until able-
to bring them to light and let them scab, new pink skin,
aching muscles I should have excersized yesterday,
the want for another child.
Self satisfying warmth from his body in our bed,
the sound of the pool when you are under, deep water,
Our sons hair brushing my face, our daughters kisses,
sand in my sheets, chocolate, writing, the sun on my skin,
peace within me, growth, serenity.
holder of the universe in our children,
gardener, writer, only his vixen,
obsessed with radiant placing of all objects,
acceptive of others.
Self inflicted scars from years past,
sleepiness, size, stress, scrapbooker,
organized chaotic mess,
must balence the weigh, time, work, play,
checkbook, kisses between boy and girl, myself.
Self healing wounds deep within,
corners I can hide things in until able-
to bring them to light and let them scab, new pink skin,
aching muscles I should have excersized yesterday,
the want for another child.
Self satisfying warmth from his body in our bed,
the sound of the pool when you are under, deep water,
Our sons hair brushing my face, our daughters kisses,
sand in my sheets, chocolate, writing, the sun on my skin,
peace within me, growth, serenity.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Art
It is the curve of her hair along the nape.
His shaggy hippy hair
My toes painted
His smile, not the one for other people,
The one I am gifted with.
The curve of his ear,
That freckle
It is the 75 year old pine floors we found,
under the rubble
A tree, with prayers lifted
Light in all sorts of ways
It is a rock
It is the growth of moss
The pattern of ivy
The shore spread out for miles
Seashells of nearly every sort
Every first and last sun and moon of every day,
From the beginning to the end
It displays itself in words and in paint
In me
I am mearly a grateful vessel
Holding
Until prompted to pour
His shaggy hippy hair
My toes painted
His smile, not the one for other people,
The one I am gifted with.
The curve of his ear,
That freckle
It is the 75 year old pine floors we found,
under the rubble
A tree, with prayers lifted
Light in all sorts of ways
It is a rock
It is the growth of moss
The pattern of ivy
The shore spread out for miles
Seashells of nearly every sort
Every first and last sun and moon of every day,
From the beginning to the end
It displays itself in words and in paint
In me
I am mearly a grateful vessel
Holding
Until prompted to pour
Friday, June 19, 2009
the order of things
paint-so i don't ruin the hardwood
van-tek and wall
ceiling cover
tub
we have worked so hard
cabinets and sink
bigger sink
i get a lump in my throat
stove
removal of old chimney
some dry wall repair
hardwood
windows
without him i couldn't have done any of this
more paint
maybe by christmas we'll be there
maybe not
new door
furniture
rugs
lamps
curtains
us
van-tek and wall
ceiling cover
tub
we have worked so hard
cabinets and sink
bigger sink
i get a lump in my throat
stove
removal of old chimney
some dry wall repair
hardwood
windows
without him i couldn't have done any of this
more paint
maybe by christmas we'll be there
maybe not
new door
furniture
rugs
lamps
curtains
us
Monday, June 8, 2009
payin your dues
Sunday at chuch our daughter, Drew, who is recently 5 years old takes an interest in the offering plate. To me this is lesson, I love this lesson and take ecery oppurtunity to teach it.
I am "pay it forwarder". My mom does not understand this term and no matter how many times I explain it to her she doesn't grasp it. When I use this term I have no auto-definition it to her. Goes like this:
Me- Yeah, and I told him to pay it forward and it will work out.
Her- Pay it forward, I've heard you say that before, what does it mean again?
Me- To do the right thing, to give someone more tahn they deserve so that they may make the world a better place, it's like a positive triangle scheme.
Her- Joy, really you just make this stuff up.
Me- Mom, No there was a movie, you should watch it. Then it will all click.
Mom- There you go again- click, what does that mean?
Ok, I have to give her credit, she is a teacher after all.
Anyway, i've interuppted myself.
Drew wants a dollar to put in the offering plate on this particular Sunday, the first one I remember her wanting to participate. So we give her a dollar and I lean down to whisper that when the plate goes by she needs to put in her dollar.
Her face goes to pout mode and she says, "But it's mine."
I tell her if you give it to God he will give you more than that back. I tell her God works like that, all you have to do is show God you have faith that he will bless you and trust him to do it.
She watched the plate and places her precious dollar inside.
Once the men are gone carrying the plate she looks up at me and says, "He didn't even give me nothing back and I am mad at him."
Sunday, June 7, 2009
wierd neighbors
We finally bought the house. "The House" is named this because it took us a battle of red tape to buy. Being a foreclosure brought us alot of hardship, six months worth to be exact. We know that we would be absolutley the most blessed humans alive if we are able to be in the house by december of this year, it needs alot of work and effort and time invested in it and LOTS of money. So the house has been nicknamed this because it has been such a hurdle to us.
Today while raking up piles and piles of cut jungle strewn about the "yard" ( and by yard I mean total and utter caos)the neighbor comes out of her house and says she has a leaf blower we can use if we need to. This niceness is so odd to me because this is a lady that has not spoken to us. She nor her husband even bothered to wave at us while we sat on the porch for hours while inspection after inspection occured. They have had this silent approach that I do not understand. Our nature is different than thiers. As in we are Andy Griffeth and they are Rosanne Bar.
I say thanks and ask about the property line. She says that it has always been a "community yard" ( does this term even exsist?), they have mowed it even though it wasn't thiers and in return have used it as thier own when they wanted to. I told her we wanted to fence it in, she says "Do what you want but that is kinda silly cause then you'd have all this to mow..."
I have a feeling these people and us will not mix well. I am from the land where you stay on yours and we stay on ours and no one gets hurt. They tend to party here and there and we tend to go to bed at 8pm here and there. Two kids-full time student-full time job-newlyweds-and lots of home improvement makes us very tired. We will not appreciate being woke up at 2 am to a yard full of drunken bafoons.
I hate this sorta situation, it was one reason we bought instead of rented.
Today while raking up piles and piles of cut jungle strewn about the "yard" ( and by yard I mean total and utter caos)the neighbor comes out of her house and says she has a leaf blower we can use if we need to. This niceness is so odd to me because this is a lady that has not spoken to us. She nor her husband even bothered to wave at us while we sat on the porch for hours while inspection after inspection occured. They have had this silent approach that I do not understand. Our nature is different than thiers. As in we are Andy Griffeth and they are Rosanne Bar.
I say thanks and ask about the property line. She says that it has always been a "community yard" ( does this term even exsist?), they have mowed it even though it wasn't thiers and in return have used it as thier own when they wanted to. I told her we wanted to fence it in, she says "Do what you want but that is kinda silly cause then you'd have all this to mow..."
I have a feeling these people and us will not mix well. I am from the land where you stay on yours and we stay on ours and no one gets hurt. They tend to party here and there and we tend to go to bed at 8pm here and there. Two kids-full time student-full time job-newlyweds-and lots of home improvement makes us very tired. We will not appreciate being woke up at 2 am to a yard full of drunken bafoons.
I hate this sorta situation, it was one reason we bought instead of rented.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
enough already
He was, at one time a nice guy. Some may have considered him a catch. I am watching him self destruct from a safe distance. I am in a bomb shelter- protected- nothing he does will harm me.
Yet I witmess his slow and painful downfall.
He is no longer permitted to see our- and by our I mean my husbands and mine- daughter. He helped in her creation yet he will never be her Daddy. As of this week and rumors of track marks emerge and suicide treats, he is no longer going to see her. As long as I can help it. She will forget him.
His mother is upset. His sisters are going to be angry that I will not interview to win him a free stay in rehab. I married him for the second time after his first stint in rehab. I thought he had changed. I personaly helped him through 3 other programs, two he lived in, one outpatient. I had two children in diapers to take care of while he dissappeared for days on end, after these supposed rehabilitations.
I just can't help anymore. I had held the towel to his nose when it bled rivers from his torment. I have forced him to eat. I went to the gym when he could no longer sexually maintain, thinking it was because I was too fat to stimulate him. I have protected my children from him- using my body as a shield. I have watched him induce wars on his own body that I cannot imagine ever waging on my own. I refuse to help anymore, he is not worth my effort.
I will not feel guilty about my decision. My husband, who had spent days repairing damage the first man did to me, says it is my choice. I tell him it is not just my choice. It is our choice, she is our daughter now, we are in this together. He agrees and hangs his head and tells me he never wants her to go there, he wishes we had kept her away sooner.
Yet I ask myself, am I being fair?
He is her genetic donor, should she know him for better or for worse? Do all parents ask themselves are they making the right choice for thier child?
Yet I witmess his slow and painful downfall.
He is no longer permitted to see our- and by our I mean my husbands and mine- daughter. He helped in her creation yet he will never be her Daddy. As of this week and rumors of track marks emerge and suicide treats, he is no longer going to see her. As long as I can help it. She will forget him.
His mother is upset. His sisters are going to be angry that I will not interview to win him a free stay in rehab. I married him for the second time after his first stint in rehab. I thought he had changed. I personaly helped him through 3 other programs, two he lived in, one outpatient. I had two children in diapers to take care of while he dissappeared for days on end, after these supposed rehabilitations.
I just can't help anymore. I had held the towel to his nose when it bled rivers from his torment. I have forced him to eat. I went to the gym when he could no longer sexually maintain, thinking it was because I was too fat to stimulate him. I have protected my children from him- using my body as a shield. I have watched him induce wars on his own body that I cannot imagine ever waging on my own. I refuse to help anymore, he is not worth my effort.
I will not feel guilty about my decision. My husband, who had spent days repairing damage the first man did to me, says it is my choice. I tell him it is not just my choice. It is our choice, she is our daughter now, we are in this together. He agrees and hangs his head and tells me he never wants her to go there, he wishes we had kept her away sooner.
Yet I ask myself, am I being fair?
He is her genetic donor, should she know him for better or for worse? Do all parents ask themselves are they making the right choice for thier child?
Monday, June 1, 2009
that mom
Ok, I realize that at some point I have probably been "that" mom to someone, let's start off by saying that.
There is this mother of three at our church. She is younge, maybe 29-30, slender, shiny brown hair perfectly curled. None of this tight kinky curly, do what it wants to crap. I mean curly as in smooth curls- root to tip. Does she spend hours in the bathroom with a curling iron? What is her secret? I have personaly made my peace with my slightly abarigian do, it took alot of teasing- and not the comb to scalp stuff- from other kids growing up. Only in my mid twenties did I accept it was never gonna be straight or smooth.
But that is not the point.
Her makeup is seamless and perfect. Her outfits are all lovely and well thought out. She has shoes that match...match her purse even. How does one do this? How does one manage to do all the laundry in order to piece together a matching outfit?
Her husband works at a decent, but not decadent, job. She stays home with the kids. Two are school aged, this fall, and one will not be for two more years. They behave themselves. They look clean and dress nice. Let us put it this way, while I am telling my two to be quiet and licking the sticky sucker off of thier face and wiping snot and trying to find the crayons they dumped into the floor (even the ones under the next two seats back), She is singing hyms and holding thier smallest in her arms.
Some days I stare in amazement at her slim build, her flat tummy that doesn't look like she ever eats ice cream instead of dinner, right from the carton. I glare at her across the church, thinking that her house must be a wreck, surely she spent thirty minutes on her face, she couldn't possibly have time to sweep and dust and send them to school with thier homework.
Two summers ago after someone was baptisted I struck up a conversation with her hoping some of her "Cleaverness" would rub off onto me. She had a Vera Bradley Diaper Bag on her shoulder. I was a single mother at the time.
Me- I love your bag
Her- Thanks, he (insinuating husband) gets me a special gift for every child. -Here is also where they look at each other like a disney princess and prince, I look for birds to land on thier fingers.
Me- How nice.
Her- You know something silly and expensive- something I'd never buy for myself.
Me- Yeah...
Her- He's like that.
I was at church with my parents, I couldn't handle both of my kids alone during a service and they were both too small for the kid services provided.
Now I am married and he is great. He does as much work and play with our two kids as I do and we are crazy for each other. His job rarely allows a church service though. I still go with my folks and although now our kids are in childrens services nearly every sunday I still look at her and think....
Does make me wonder how she gets there- on time, none the less,- looking like she does.
Does anyone have suggestions on how to do this?
There is this mother of three at our church. She is younge, maybe 29-30, slender, shiny brown hair perfectly curled. None of this tight kinky curly, do what it wants to crap. I mean curly as in smooth curls- root to tip. Does she spend hours in the bathroom with a curling iron? What is her secret? I have personaly made my peace with my slightly abarigian do, it took alot of teasing- and not the comb to scalp stuff- from other kids growing up. Only in my mid twenties did I accept it was never gonna be straight or smooth.
But that is not the point.
Her makeup is seamless and perfect. Her outfits are all lovely and well thought out. She has shoes that match...match her purse even. How does one do this? How does one manage to do all the laundry in order to piece together a matching outfit?
Her husband works at a decent, but not decadent, job. She stays home with the kids. Two are school aged, this fall, and one will not be for two more years. They behave themselves. They look clean and dress nice. Let us put it this way, while I am telling my two to be quiet and licking the sticky sucker off of thier face and wiping snot and trying to find the crayons they dumped into the floor (even the ones under the next two seats back), She is singing hyms and holding thier smallest in her arms.
Some days I stare in amazement at her slim build, her flat tummy that doesn't look like she ever eats ice cream instead of dinner, right from the carton. I glare at her across the church, thinking that her house must be a wreck, surely she spent thirty minutes on her face, she couldn't possibly have time to sweep and dust and send them to school with thier homework.
Two summers ago after someone was baptisted I struck up a conversation with her hoping some of her "Cleaverness" would rub off onto me. She had a Vera Bradley Diaper Bag on her shoulder. I was a single mother at the time.
Me- I love your bag
Her- Thanks, he (insinuating husband) gets me a special gift for every child. -Here is also where they look at each other like a disney princess and prince, I look for birds to land on thier fingers.
Me- How nice.
Her- You know something silly and expensive- something I'd never buy for myself.
Me- Yeah...
Her- He's like that.
I was at church with my parents, I couldn't handle both of my kids alone during a service and they were both too small for the kid services provided.
Now I am married and he is great. He does as much work and play with our two kids as I do and we are crazy for each other. His job rarely allows a church service though. I still go with my folks and although now our kids are in childrens services nearly every sunday I still look at her and think....
Does make me wonder how she gets there- on time, none the less,- looking like she does.
Does anyone have suggestions on how to do this?
Saturday, May 30, 2009
vent
I went to the house we are buying today and witnessed the neighbors drinking and partying and playing loud music. Is it age that makes me cringe? Is it the thought that my children will see them doing these things? Is it that I too lived that life and grew out of it? Is it my salvation? Religion? What makes me sick of the sight of these people?
Whatever it is it makes me also plan the inside shutters for all windows facing them. I visualize our fence going up and trees planted in the median yard. I have no desire to speak to them and no desire to even smile or wave. I will not dress like Donna Reed and offer them a plate of freshly baked cookies, "Why welcome to the neighborhood- Neighbor!"I do not want them there, which is not nice of me, BAD JOY, slap my wrist.
I am no better or worse than anyone- right? I feel better than drug addicts and alcoholics though- really, I feel like I am a better person. Yet I am a food addict, I adore chocolate and love diet soda. But you have to eat to live, not as much as I would like to eat, but you have to eat to survive.
I was with a drug addict for most of my life, at this point, and I am not tolerant to thier behavior. I was co-dependant and I suffered post tramatic stress due to his abuse and his neglect. I took anti-depressants and saw doctors because he had me convinced it was my issue-not his. I made him do it.
Then a head doctor told me something that stuck, she said, "it's all in your head."
I thought- IN MY HEAD- it's not a disease, not a physical burden, although it made me sick like cancer, it is not an issue of reality. IT'S IN MY CURLY HEAD.
I decided it- HE- would no longer be in my head, nor my heart and I spent a year or so mourning loss. Loss of him, loss of who I was, loss for the kids, loss of his health, our dreams together, loss of his truth, loss of his morals and his standards, just loss. I no longer took the meds, I wanted to feel sadness and loss and anger and hurt, I wanted to feel so I would know what it is and never even consider being with him again.
And I grew from mourning. I grew very much. It HURT, it hurt like childbirth. It throbbed, ached, and nearly took me a few times.
And now that sight- of people out on the lawn on a lovely day getting messed up makes me ill.
I should pray that they change, that they grow, I should pray that I can accept. I will so do that while I put up shutters and peek on them and thank God that I am not getting in that car with someone who is intoxicated, and I am not being yelled at when he comes down, and I am safe and warm in a bed with a man that only slept with me today and would never hit me.
I am so grateful.
Whatever it is it makes me also plan the inside shutters for all windows facing them. I visualize our fence going up and trees planted in the median yard. I have no desire to speak to them and no desire to even smile or wave. I will not dress like Donna Reed and offer them a plate of freshly baked cookies, "Why welcome to the neighborhood- Neighbor!"I do not want them there, which is not nice of me, BAD JOY, slap my wrist.
I am no better or worse than anyone- right? I feel better than drug addicts and alcoholics though- really, I feel like I am a better person. Yet I am a food addict, I adore chocolate and love diet soda. But you have to eat to live, not as much as I would like to eat, but you have to eat to survive.
I was with a drug addict for most of my life, at this point, and I am not tolerant to thier behavior. I was co-dependant and I suffered post tramatic stress due to his abuse and his neglect. I took anti-depressants and saw doctors because he had me convinced it was my issue-not his. I made him do it.
Then a head doctor told me something that stuck, she said, "it's all in your head."
I thought- IN MY HEAD- it's not a disease, not a physical burden, although it made me sick like cancer, it is not an issue of reality. IT'S IN MY CURLY HEAD.
I decided it- HE- would no longer be in my head, nor my heart and I spent a year or so mourning loss. Loss of him, loss of who I was, loss for the kids, loss of his health, our dreams together, loss of his truth, loss of his morals and his standards, just loss. I no longer took the meds, I wanted to feel sadness and loss and anger and hurt, I wanted to feel so I would know what it is and never even consider being with him again.
And I grew from mourning. I grew very much. It HURT, it hurt like childbirth. It throbbed, ached, and nearly took me a few times.
And now that sight- of people out on the lawn on a lovely day getting messed up makes me ill.
I should pray that they change, that they grow, I should pray that I can accept. I will so do that while I put up shutters and peek on them and thank God that I am not getting in that car with someone who is intoxicated, and I am not being yelled at when he comes down, and I am safe and warm in a bed with a man that only slept with me today and would never hit me.
I am so grateful.
Friday, May 22, 2009
On the dark days
he is there
On the bright ones
he makes things brighter
On the bleak and lonely
he is comfort
On the sick
he is my chicken soup
On the angry at him days
He does not yell
On the pull my hair out
I hate everybody
I want to go to bed
and never rise again
He sticks around-
says this is the good part
When I tell him to run,
fast,
in the opposite direction,
He stays strong
in my direction
He is the milk to my cookies.
he is there
On the bright ones
he makes things brighter
On the bleak and lonely
he is comfort
On the sick
he is my chicken soup
On the angry at him days
He does not yell
On the pull my hair out
I hate everybody
I want to go to bed
and never rise again
He sticks around-
says this is the good part
When I tell him to run,
fast,
in the opposite direction,
He stays strong
in my direction
He is the milk to my cookies.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Depression
Hello old friend
I thought I had lost you
But here you are
Older and wiser
More tiresome
Before you were fashionable
Now not so much
Yet I cannot lose you
Even when stable
and safe
You are there
In that corner
Hiding
I welcome you at times
You are a luxury of sorts
I will sleep all day
when no one sees
I will wear my sweats
for three days
Yet you are never satisfied
Not until I am dead
I hate you at times
I pray for your departure
longing to be normal
I'd rather be on a roller coaster
of emotion
than not moving at all
So I will try to bid you
farewell,
until we meet again
I thought I had lost you
But here you are
Older and wiser
More tiresome
Before you were fashionable
Now not so much
Yet I cannot lose you
Even when stable
and safe
You are there
In that corner
Hiding
I welcome you at times
You are a luxury of sorts
I will sleep all day
when no one sees
I will wear my sweats
for three days
Yet you are never satisfied
Not until I am dead
I hate you at times
I pray for your departure
longing to be normal
I'd rather be on a roller coaster
of emotion
than not moving at all
So I will try to bid you
farewell,
until we meet again
sadness
sadness finds
on the loveliest days
the tiny crack
crawls inside
sets up housekeeping
invites friends
to a sad gathering
they eliminate hope
destroy faith
keep joy at bay
I must find a sealant
for the crack
on the loveliest days
the tiny crack
crawls inside
sets up housekeeping
invites friends
to a sad gathering
they eliminate hope
destroy faith
keep joy at bay
I must find a sealant
for the crack
Thursday, May 14, 2009
men
Ok, here goes.
Why is it that when a woman gets home she doesn't stop work? A woman has just began her day of things to do and chores that no one else wants but that have to be done. I find it odd that men just automatically sit-rest-relax and women just go ahead and pick up shoes and inforce homework and the work load of the kids. Women let themselves play the part, we want to nurture and care as much as possible yet we end up becoming a work horse martyer without meaning to.
How do I stop this behavior? What can I do to end it now? I hate this part of me right now at 12:44am. I want to tell her to shut up and take it and realize that he is a wonderful man and they are wonderful kids and they love her and she loves them. There are mcuh worse things than not being appreciated at times, like an affair or drug use or being abused.
Yet i say-"No honey let me get that..." "I'm happy to do it for you...." "Sure go play golf/hunt/fish/whatever you would just love to fill your free time with. I'll be right here folding everyones laundry just as I have been everyday for three weeks straight without so much as a thanks" And deep down, here is the sad part- I mean it. I do want his happiness even in exchange for my own- if necessary. Even when it has been a terrible day and I am trying to wait to breath or cry or fall apart the instant they are asleep- he can call and say,"Hey just wanted to see if you had plans for the evening?" I answer no because I know he wants to go play and I am flattered he called to inform me. (My ex did some damage huh?) When inside I want to whisper, "Yes dear. I need you to come home and rescue me from these two small persons who have invaded my personal space all day long, and I think my cell phone may be in the potty as we speak."
I cannot bring myself to ruin his good time
Sometimes women make me sick, or is it just that I make me sick? Because deep down I'm just tired and if given the oppurtunity to go/see/do I would not be able to think of anywhere I could go, or anything to do or see. I would just like to take a nap, and the best place to do that is in my own bed, on top of a pile of freshly folded laundry that no one is grateful for and on a good day they say, "By the way(when it wasn't part of the conversation) I'm out of socks."
Why is it that when a woman gets home she doesn't stop work? A woman has just began her day of things to do and chores that no one else wants but that have to be done. I find it odd that men just automatically sit-rest-relax and women just go ahead and pick up shoes and inforce homework and the work load of the kids. Women let themselves play the part, we want to nurture and care as much as possible yet we end up becoming a work horse martyer without meaning to.
How do I stop this behavior? What can I do to end it now? I hate this part of me right now at 12:44am. I want to tell her to shut up and take it and realize that he is a wonderful man and they are wonderful kids and they love her and she loves them. There are mcuh worse things than not being appreciated at times, like an affair or drug use or being abused.
Yet i say-"No honey let me get that..." "I'm happy to do it for you...." "Sure go play golf/hunt/fish/whatever you would just love to fill your free time with. I'll be right here folding everyones laundry just as I have been everyday for three weeks straight without so much as a thanks" And deep down, here is the sad part- I mean it. I do want his happiness even in exchange for my own- if necessary. Even when it has been a terrible day and I am trying to wait to breath or cry or fall apart the instant they are asleep- he can call and say,"Hey just wanted to see if you had plans for the evening?" I answer no because I know he wants to go play and I am flattered he called to inform me. (My ex did some damage huh?) When inside I want to whisper, "Yes dear. I need you to come home and rescue me from these two small persons who have invaded my personal space all day long, and I think my cell phone may be in the potty as we speak."
I cannot bring myself to ruin his good time
Sometimes women make me sick, or is it just that I make me sick? Because deep down I'm just tired and if given the oppurtunity to go/see/do I would not be able to think of anywhere I could go, or anything to do or see. I would just like to take a nap, and the best place to do that is in my own bed, on top of a pile of freshly folded laundry that no one is grateful for and on a good day they say, "By the way(when it wasn't part of the conversation) I'm out of socks."
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Stress
The recent storm activity has reflected my mood. since my classes are over for the semester I am left with gaping holes in my weeks now that I thought I would enjoy and somehow can't fill. I did not realize that the adult converstion in these classes (just two) was vital.
Once "Revolutionary Road" was read and "The Curious Village" conquered, I am useless.
What did I do before I went to school?
There is also recent stresses in my life, trying to buy an old house has proved difficult. Due to it being a foreclosure the red tape has been an unbelievable amount to cut through. It also needs a lot of work and I lay awake at night and make lists internally of things that need to be done.
My husband and I are saving for this old house and therefore I cannot go shopping for real or online.
I want to stay inside and eat until I burst. I am not sure what this emotion is but I cannot tolerate it longer.
Once "Revolutionary Road" was read and "The Curious Village" conquered, I am useless.
What did I do before I went to school?
There is also recent stresses in my life, trying to buy an old house has proved difficult. Due to it being a foreclosure the red tape has been an unbelievable amount to cut through. It also needs a lot of work and I lay awake at night and make lists internally of things that need to be done.
My husband and I are saving for this old house and therefore I cannot go shopping for real or online.
I want to stay inside and eat until I burst. I am not sure what this emotion is but I cannot tolerate it longer.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Jessie
We celebrate, not Halloween, but Pumpkin Party. The pumpkins being what the holiday is about anyway. We carve and clean and make delicate cuts in the orange flesh.
We celebrate Gingerbread, not Christmas, the food and time spent together is what it's about.
We celebrate I'm never gonna leave you day, not Valentines. Somewhere along the way we were both single on the 14th and cried on the phone to each other, "You are never gonna leave me are you?"
"No?" sob, snot, sob.
"OK I'm never gonna leave you either."
So we buy gifts and go to the movies and always but some Roche chocolates. That being because one year I took my significant other, at the times, Valentines candy, Roche chocolates, with us to a chick flick and we ate the whole box because he didn't deserve them.
We read the same books so we can talk about them with each other. We have our own way of talking so no one elese seems to get what we say. (We don't care if they do get it.)
She once told my husband she didn't care if he was okay with her being there or not, jokingly, because she has been there longer than him. I actually called her boyfriend "That boy" for months because I wasn't OK with the time she spent with him.
We were born four days apart. We grew up in the same class. Our father were both coal miners and both of our mothers went back to school while we went to grade school. Due to these factors if we grew up in Japan, about a hundred or so years ago, we would have been sworn sisters, or Loatong. After reading "Snowflower and the Secret Fan" and "Memoirs of a Geisha" we chose to be Laotong.
No men come between that, no circumstance, or money, or sickness. She was there before him, and I before the boy. When she falls I will be there whether he is or not. And vise versa. That is how love is.
She is more than a friend, she is my loatong.
Superheroes
What makes a superhero?
Can they fly?
Can they run exceptionally well?
Are they supernaturally gifted?
OR
Do superheroes come in the guise of children?
I'm not sure who once said that mother is the name for God on the lips of all children. It is true. Mothers are given a wonderful, amazing gift. We are chosen to take another human being and mold it into a member of society. We are trusted by a higher power to instill proper care and education- not the college kind- the manner and appropriate actions kind. We teach the most inportant lessons, how to love, how to cope, and and how to treat others. And we do most of this by example. We are all blessed with an entire person.
But in my case my son is the hero. He thinks BIG, He understands BIG, He learns BIG, and he teaches BIG.
In his six year old world a kindergarten bully can ruin his life, yet he has been strong enough to carry me through many ordeals that I myself, could not have gotten through with out him. There were times before he was born I thought about suicide, considered it. My life was a mess and my mind was even worse. I know everyone has lows but these were serious thoughts. I was alone I life, his father having left me at 6 months pregnant, for another girl. I am well aware that my situation was a choice and my choices paved my path. I am also well aware that the birth control pill isn't always effective and that people can pretend to be someone else until they have you where they want you and then they can choose to leave. I was divorced and self employed in a job that I hated and made very little money at.
After he was about three weeks old I am not sure what overcame me. He smiled and I just knew I had to change.
Since then I have stabilized my thoughts, I have survived a lot worse than my son's father walking out and I have realized if not for Seth I may have never gotten myself up and out and happy. I would not have seen how unfit I was as a human being.
So in my world, superheroes snuggle at bedtime, and they believe in Santa, and love to be tickled, and want to eat corn dogs. They always tell the truth even if it hurts, they want to play video games constantly and they are no taller than 4 feet.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Finding Home
Once upon a time I was a girl who liked to investigate old houses. I liked to see what people left behind, what was not worth the efforts of packing up and taking. I liked the blood pumping of opening doors and saying quietly at first , "Hello?" What a question to ask, it locates yourself to others so that they know where you are if they want to greet and/or attack you. But it is the most common question that is asked in that situation.
No one ever greeted and or attacked me in those endeavors. I saw many things though. old windows with bubbles in them due to imperfect glass. Yhe glass lasting way longer than the wood frame and plaster. I saw beautiful doors that I wanted to hang on my wall as art. Elaborate carving away of wood. I saw the electric wires on the outside of the wall because the walls came before the electricity. I stood in the outhouses to see how scary it would be at night. I witnessed the spray paint from teens on thirty year old newspaper turned wall paper.
I saw a momma cat who sought refuge. I knew the feeling to just want to belong somewhere. I needed to be where I was the only one too. I completely understood the cats nesting instinct.
I loved the "Frigidaire" ice box left behind and the old stove with a place for actual fire.
Sometimes in these homes i could feel the love there, lingering, though the inhabitants long gone. Sometimes i could feel their spirit of happiness, or sadness. Sometimes I felt them there, themselves, still seemingly trapped in time. Welcoming me or hating my presence, depending in the situation. Either way it was very educational for me.
I know that someday someone will walk through my home and say, "Look, she must have packed the kids lunches right here a hundred times before school" or "Right here the sun must have streamed in every morning on his face. I'll bet she loved seeing the light on his skin."
it was what i did in my head the first time I saw the old house.
There were no ghosts there, just lots of memories lingering. as though someone forgot to pack them, as though they weren't really wanted after all. There were photos left behind, and a hat that was his favorite, and a trophy. There were old stickers and a bible and there was lots of damage to the house. Wut we saw the potential and now it will be ours.
We will love it and make God the head of our house. We will thank
Him for the opportunity to call it home. I am grateful to be a girl who still loves to explore abandoned houses or this experience may have never been ours.
No one ever greeted and or attacked me in those endeavors. I saw many things though. old windows with bubbles in them due to imperfect glass. Yhe glass lasting way longer than the wood frame and plaster. I saw beautiful doors that I wanted to hang on my wall as art. Elaborate carving away of wood. I saw the electric wires on the outside of the wall because the walls came before the electricity. I stood in the outhouses to see how scary it would be at night. I witnessed the spray paint from teens on thirty year old newspaper turned wall paper.
I saw a momma cat who sought refuge. I knew the feeling to just want to belong somewhere. I needed to be where I was the only one too. I completely understood the cats nesting instinct.
I loved the "Frigidaire" ice box left behind and the old stove with a place for actual fire.
Sometimes in these homes i could feel the love there, lingering, though the inhabitants long gone. Sometimes i could feel their spirit of happiness, or sadness. Sometimes I felt them there, themselves, still seemingly trapped in time. Welcoming me or hating my presence, depending in the situation. Either way it was very educational for me.
I know that someday someone will walk through my home and say, "Look, she must have packed the kids lunches right here a hundred times before school" or "Right here the sun must have streamed in every morning on his face. I'll bet she loved seeing the light on his skin."
it was what i did in my head the first time I saw the old house.
There were no ghosts there, just lots of memories lingering. as though someone forgot to pack them, as though they weren't really wanted after all. There were photos left behind, and a hat that was his favorite, and a trophy. There were old stickers and a bible and there was lots of damage to the house. Wut we saw the potential and now it will be ours.
We will love it and make God the head of our house. We will thank
Him for the opportunity to call it home. I am grateful to be a girl who still loves to explore abandoned houses or this experience may have never been ours.
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