I left Facebook for Lent and by and large, stayed away. I snuck on a couple of times to wish and later, congratulate the ever wonderful Danny White but didn't look at one status, not even my own while doing so. I had hoped that by not being on Facebook, a place that often becomes a hate infested cesspool of ignorance and intolerance, I would find a little more peace in my day. I would refrain from posting my own ignorance and intolerance and would refrain from judging others on theirs. I would stop playing over and over someone's comment in my mind, trying to decide if it was passive aggressive, innocent or if they were just a complete moron. I had hoped that I would spare my feelings when I realized that someone had unfriended me. I had hoped that I would not become so disillusioned with the world.
I did find more peace in my day. I found that my fingers and wrist did not ache as much from using my phone. I read two books and four months worth of National Geographic. I was not bombarded with negative even though I continued to read the news, I only read the news, no comments. Danny shared all the important items like vacation photos, house buying, test passing, diploma receiving and job acquiring. I still received text messages and Snapchats so I always knew what Emmitt was up to.
And this morning, before I jumped back on, I debated. What would I lose and what would I gain by deleting this account. What I would lose was the daily contact with people I love dearly that live too far away for a phone call. I would lose all the photos of faces that I love. I would lose seeing the milestones, the babies, the puppies, the heartbreaks, the healing. I don't want to lose those connections.
Moving forward I have to be my filter. I have to pick what is necessary. For me that means no more biased news, a lot more yoga with baby goats. No more bashing (even Tom Brady). No more all encompassing derogatory statuses, comments or shares. I am not going to change opinions with my opinion, I just alienate people or will be alienated by them.
I can't be responsible for the way you feel and you are not responsible for the way I feel. Posting passive aggressive memes directed at people that probably don't even follow me (but haven't unfriended me yet) is really not the way for me to unpack my emotional baggage. It's time I grow up. From here on out it's a lot of Snoopy, Pistols photos and long, rambling posts about the hi jinks of Hattie. If that doesn't interest you, and honestly, I can see why it wouldn't, save us the hassle and press the button. No feelings hurt, I probably wouldn't even know.
I am learning how to have more peace in my life. And it starts with me. That reminds me of a song.
Sunday, April 16, 2017
Wednesday, January 18, 2017
1941 Park Ave
As for me, I think I just wanted it sold because I don't believe I can ever go home again and why should I expect to? I spent my entire adult life leaving home. I have no call or claim to Park Avenue. My initial feeling was to sell it outright. But my children, who are wiser and perhaps, kinder than me, pointed out that by keeping the house in the family, my siblings could go home again and that may something they need. Our conversation reminded me of one I had had with my own mom shortly before her childhood home was sold to be torn down. She told me that she always wanted to be able to go home. And she wouldn't be able to any longer. Her expression was filled with sorrow. I guess I don't want to be responsible for that feeling in someone else.
When my dad first told me that he had transferred the house to two of my siblings so the the house could stay in the family, I thought two things. First, its funny how he is being so delicate with his words like he is breaking bad news. I think he was expecting me to be upset or hurt. He explained how he wanted us to still gather for Christmas and cook outs. Second, I remembered the way going out to Grandma Martin's didn't feel the same after the extended family started renting her house out to the grandchildren. It was full of someone else's stuff. It wasn't bad or wrong, just different. And even now, with my nephew renting 1941, it doesn't feel like going home. I call before I come over and I knock before I come in. Our family photos are down and his Packer posters and Game of Thrones banners are up. I cannot rummage through the Christmas cards or refrigerator. I am a visitor in a house that was once my home.
My pull to Park Avenue is gone. I have let it go. I suppose it went in the Coral Sea as well. It is time for me to collect my spoils and go home. It is time for new voices to swear as they begin the transformation into making it their home. It is time for someone else to stub their toe on the corner, sleep at the register, tell themselves that the nightly creaks are just that and not the boogie man coming up the stairs.
The new voices will be familiar voices as one of the family would like to buy it and make it their own. A grand undertaking as 1941 is nearly 100 years old and though the bones are solid, needs much elbow grease, as he so eloquently stated.
I was going to take a set of door knobs from 1941. Almost all of the doors have glass knobs on them, including the front door and the inside of the attic door. When I was little they were made of diamonds. Now they are just made of memories. I had always wanted a knob, my part of my past. But as I was driving to Cedar Rapids this past Saturday, I made the decision to not take a pair. They belong to 1941, not to me. I walked around the house alone. I took my time in the work room, remembering the smell of gun oil and saw dust and model paint. I sat on the landing like I used to when my mom would have circle at our house and she would use the luncheon trays. You know those little glass plates that had the raised circle for the cup to rest in. I have those luncheon sets now in my basement just waiting for grandkids to use with chocolate milk and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I stood in my old bedroom remembering the years that I covered one wall with aluminum foil. The bedroom where I decided to become a tortured writer, the bedroom that heard too many songs from The Doors. I dug around the mostly cleaned out attic and hauled home two big boxes of old records. I did not open the old garment bags though, in fear of bats. I went through drawers searching for letters and photos that came from me. My mom saved everything and my dad saved nearly everything. I found a few letters from my years in Germany and many school photos of my gang. It was in the rummage of drawers that I found two sets of glass door knobs. I don't know where they came from because all the doors were accounted for. I took a set. I don't know if they originated from 1941, I guess that really doesn't matter. I took them just the same.
There is a lot to sort through when a parent dies. Especially the surviving parent. Not just the physical stuff, but the emotional stuff as well. Now that someone has declared the desire to own 1941, I am ready to be through the house. I am eager to get it cleaned out. It is how I process the letting go, I suppose. Whereas most of my siblings can go through the house any time they like, I have to schedule it in. I have weather and weekends to work around. I am ready to be through the house. I am ready to take my fondness of 1941, romanticize it and tuck it away in my heart. I think this is the last that I will grieve for for a very long time. This house, this home.
When my dad first told me that he had transferred the house to two of my siblings so the the house could stay in the family, I thought two things. First, its funny how he is being so delicate with his words like he is breaking bad news. I think he was expecting me to be upset or hurt. He explained how he wanted us to still gather for Christmas and cook outs. Second, I remembered the way going out to Grandma Martin's didn't feel the same after the extended family started renting her house out to the grandchildren. It was full of someone else's stuff. It wasn't bad or wrong, just different. And even now, with my nephew renting 1941, it doesn't feel like going home. I call before I come over and I knock before I come in. Our family photos are down and his Packer posters and Game of Thrones banners are up. I cannot rummage through the Christmas cards or refrigerator. I am a visitor in a house that was once my home.
My pull to Park Avenue is gone. I have let it go. I suppose it went in the Coral Sea as well. It is time for me to collect my spoils and go home. It is time for new voices to swear as they begin the transformation into making it their home. It is time for someone else to stub their toe on the corner, sleep at the register, tell themselves that the nightly creaks are just that and not the boogie man coming up the stairs.
The new voices will be familiar voices as one of the family would like to buy it and make it their own. A grand undertaking as 1941 is nearly 100 years old and though the bones are solid, needs much elbow grease, as he so eloquently stated.
I was going to take a set of door knobs from 1941. Almost all of the doors have glass knobs on them, including the front door and the inside of the attic door. When I was little they were made of diamonds. Now they are just made of memories. I had always wanted a knob, my part of my past. But as I was driving to Cedar Rapids this past Saturday, I made the decision to not take a pair. They belong to 1941, not to me. I walked around the house alone. I took my time in the work room, remembering the smell of gun oil and saw dust and model paint. I sat on the landing like I used to when my mom would have circle at our house and she would use the luncheon trays. You know those little glass plates that had the raised circle for the cup to rest in. I have those luncheon sets now in my basement just waiting for grandkids to use with chocolate milk and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I stood in my old bedroom remembering the years that I covered one wall with aluminum foil. The bedroom where I decided to become a tortured writer, the bedroom that heard too many songs from The Doors. I dug around the mostly cleaned out attic and hauled home two big boxes of old records. I did not open the old garment bags though, in fear of bats. I went through drawers searching for letters and photos that came from me. My mom saved everything and my dad saved nearly everything. I found a few letters from my years in Germany and many school photos of my gang. It was in the rummage of drawers that I found two sets of glass door knobs. I don't know where they came from because all the doors were accounted for. I took a set. I don't know if they originated from 1941, I guess that really doesn't matter. I took them just the same.
There is a lot to sort through when a parent dies. Especially the surviving parent. Not just the physical stuff, but the emotional stuff as well. Now that someone has declared the desire to own 1941, I am ready to be through the house. I am eager to get it cleaned out. It is how I process the letting go, I suppose. Whereas most of my siblings can go through the house any time they like, I have to schedule it in. I have weather and weekends to work around. I am ready to be through the house. I am ready to take my fondness of 1941, romanticize it and tuck it away in my heart. I think this is the last that I will grieve for for a very long time. This house, this home.
Saturday, December 31, 2016
An End of Year Review
I just read what I wrote at the end of 2015 and I could easily change the year and it would be pretty dead on for 2016. Sadly, it doesn't appear that we had approved much as a nation in terms of lives that matter, civility in politics and truth in posting.
2016 seemed to be nothing but death. So many famous people that did marvelous things. So many not so famous people that did even more marvelous things. And one particular man that was neither famous or did marvelous things. At least not marvelous to most, but the most marvelous to a few.
When a public figure like David Bowie, John Glenn, Carrie Fisher or Debbie Reynolds dies, as a nation, we mourn. I think we mourn for what these people represented and the memories we have attached to them. David Bowie was to most, an incredibly gifted singer and songwriter but I associate him most with his role as Jareth in Labyrinth. A Jim Henson movie that was introduced to me by my husband and one that we shared with our kinder. We are still mesmerized by the Goblin King, we still quote the movie and some of us take a trip to Atlanta to see the movie memorabilia. Though I was not a Star Wars fan, I completely understand how millions feel at Carrie Fisher's passing. They have lost their princess. One of the first really kick ass women that didn't need to be rescued. Carrie Fisher's personal life was shared by her without excuses or embarrassment. She helped a lot of people who had their own struggles with mental illness. And Debbie Reynolds will forever be the woman that held her own brilliantly with the brilliant Donald O"Conner and Gene Kelly. My dad introduced me to these three with Singing in the Rain.
I did not know any of these people personally, but they helped shape some of me. that is why I mourn them. I think that is why we mourn them as a community, they touched us as we went to the concerts, movies and to outerspace.
What this nation endured more than the lost of the famous was the loss of the heroes. Far too many police officers died in the line of duty, particularly through ambush style murders and full on attacks on departments. That should scare the hell out of everyone. Our metro lost five officers, one in an accident, two by a drunk driver and two in a ambush murder. It scares the hell out of me. But in all that tragedy, our cities and national agencies have seen that we do back the blue. We do understand the immense battle they are up against. Now it is time we show that support through electing officials that will make sure that cities and states have the funds to support our schools and support mental health treatment. We need to be vocal about responsible immigration reform that does not send every illegal back which would drain our coffers and exhaust our law enforcement.
This family endured the loss of a dad and grandpa. I could (and have) spend paragraphs describing this man. He was funny and talented and loved us fiercely. He has left a fine legacy.
It was the grief that marked this year for me. My dad died in July, but the grief began long before that. It was ugly and I allowed it to fester within me making me ugly and horrid and unhappy and unhealthy. I have already written about the bow of the boat and that is where it all unfestered. Not long after that, I came to the realization that I was not broken. Combine that with a revelation at work and a ten week fitness program, I leave 2016 in healthy form.
2016 was not all bad. It could not have been with new babies coming in to this world and souls going home. Most joyfully, this year brought Brett into our family a little more officially as he asked Hayley to marry him. It could not have been completely void of love and friendship and happy, I have too many smiles in my heart for that to be true.
I do look forward to the new year. A new day, week, month and year all at once! I don't know that I truly have a resolution, I just want to keep doing what I am doing. I love me, want me to be healthy, happy and always moving forward with a heart full. I will continue to improve my relationship with those that want one with me, primarily the Lord. I will continue to do right by the earth, my pocketbook and those around me. I will continue to be the quiet warrior that I try to be. I will look to the hopeful, the truth seekers, the kind.
Happy New Year to us all!
2016 seemed to be nothing but death. So many famous people that did marvelous things. So many not so famous people that did even more marvelous things. And one particular man that was neither famous or did marvelous things. At least not marvelous to most, but the most marvelous to a few.
When a public figure like David Bowie, John Glenn, Carrie Fisher or Debbie Reynolds dies, as a nation, we mourn. I think we mourn for what these people represented and the memories we have attached to them. David Bowie was to most, an incredibly gifted singer and songwriter but I associate him most with his role as Jareth in Labyrinth. A Jim Henson movie that was introduced to me by my husband and one that we shared with our kinder. We are still mesmerized by the Goblin King, we still quote the movie and some of us take a trip to Atlanta to see the movie memorabilia. Though I was not a Star Wars fan, I completely understand how millions feel at Carrie Fisher's passing. They have lost their princess. One of the first really kick ass women that didn't need to be rescued. Carrie Fisher's personal life was shared by her without excuses or embarrassment. She helped a lot of people who had their own struggles with mental illness. And Debbie Reynolds will forever be the woman that held her own brilliantly with the brilliant Donald O"Conner and Gene Kelly. My dad introduced me to these three with Singing in the Rain.
I did not know any of these people personally, but they helped shape some of me. that is why I mourn them. I think that is why we mourn them as a community, they touched us as we went to the concerts, movies and to outerspace.
What this nation endured more than the lost of the famous was the loss of the heroes. Far too many police officers died in the line of duty, particularly through ambush style murders and full on attacks on departments. That should scare the hell out of everyone. Our metro lost five officers, one in an accident, two by a drunk driver and two in a ambush murder. It scares the hell out of me. But in all that tragedy, our cities and national agencies have seen that we do back the blue. We do understand the immense battle they are up against. Now it is time we show that support through electing officials that will make sure that cities and states have the funds to support our schools and support mental health treatment. We need to be vocal about responsible immigration reform that does not send every illegal back which would drain our coffers and exhaust our law enforcement.
This family endured the loss of a dad and grandpa. I could (and have) spend paragraphs describing this man. He was funny and talented and loved us fiercely. He has left a fine legacy.
It was the grief that marked this year for me. My dad died in July, but the grief began long before that. It was ugly and I allowed it to fester within me making me ugly and horrid and unhappy and unhealthy. I have already written about the bow of the boat and that is where it all unfestered. Not long after that, I came to the realization that I was not broken. Combine that with a revelation at work and a ten week fitness program, I leave 2016 in healthy form.
2016 was not all bad. It could not have been with new babies coming in to this world and souls going home. Most joyfully, this year brought Brett into our family a little more officially as he asked Hayley to marry him. It could not have been completely void of love and friendship and happy, I have too many smiles in my heart for that to be true.
I do look forward to the new year. A new day, week, month and year all at once! I don't know that I truly have a resolution, I just want to keep doing what I am doing. I love me, want me to be healthy, happy and always moving forward with a heart full. I will continue to improve my relationship with those that want one with me, primarily the Lord. I will continue to do right by the earth, my pocketbook and those around me. I will continue to be the quiet warrior that I try to be. I will look to the hopeful, the truth seekers, the kind.
Happy New Year to us all!
Wednesday, December 14, 2016
Ten Week Program
Sometimes it just isn't pretty. I am alright with that because whatever this body of mine is is because of my own doing.
Right now I am really, really, really proud of what I am doing. I am getting up and putting some serious effort into 45 minutes of whatever they have to offer me. I am finding the solutions to my body's problems. I am pushing myself a little and a lot harder. I am loving me and what I can do.
I am no longer listening to the voices that say words like
when I am skinnier
I used to be skinnier
I will be happy when I don't have this fat
I am speaking louder with words like
I am getting healthier
I am pretty strong
I am happy with this work in progress
I am no longer participating in the body shaming club. I love me. I hope you love you and if you don't love you, please find the why and think about all that you do in a day that makes you and your body so very, very lovable.
Attached are my before and after stats and photos for a ten week session of cardio kickboxing and band strength training. With the exercise program, I ate moderately healthy. I ate five meals of carbs and protein the size of my fist and palm respectively. I ate a sixth meal before bed of just protein. I added 96 ounces of water a day to my diet as well.
I did not win the ten week challenge. I did not come home with $1000, in fact, I came home with $699 less as I continued with the program. That is $2.25 a session. I am so worth that. I am worth a positive and healthy environment where I can push myself and not feel like I have to compare myself. I am worth getting stronger and more flexible. I am worth knowing that I can throw a right jab and then knock a mother out with my left cross. I am worth leaving whatever I need to leave on the mat, sweat for sure, sometimes tears and always the day's hurt and anger and disappointment.
There are a lot of hokey sayings in the exercise class world. Things like "you can do anything for 30 seconds. Give it your level ten. You got this!" In fact, I cannot do anything for 30 seconds, but a plank, squats, burn outs, those I can do now. Level ten is the max, pushing through and finding the new level of success. And I do, I got this.
Saturday, December 3, 2016
Finding Its Place
We recently were very fortunate to get away. After the long and winding journey that we all took with my dad, going on another journey was just the thing. I didn't realize how much I needed it until I was sitting on the bow of a boat that was cruising over the inky black water of the Coral Sea. Terrified of the water, I stayed there with the wind and the waves and the took in every splash of salt. I had boarded this craft with a hurt and heavy heart. A hardness had settled in many months ago and no matter the number of prayers said or punches landed on the bag, I insisted on keeping the burden. But in that wind and chop, it left. It had no call to stay any longer.
My dad was always a swimmer. A self described river rat. He told me a story about how he worked on an underwater project while in the Sea Bees because he could hold is breath for so long.
I am terrified of water. Even with many years of swimming lessons, I still cannot swim properly. The ocean and its unlimited expanse, well, I really didn't want any part of it. When the tide was out, we were able to walk out to the small reef off the shore near our hotel. I was able to practice snorkling. At first, I could not figure it out, face in, feet under me and panic. Repeat. Then I figured out that if I got my feet out from under me, I could just roll my face into the water. Panic subsided and I was able to do it. Snorkling in waist deep water was relatively calm compared to my emotions the following day.
The next day we took the boat trip out to the Great Barrier Reef. Danny was going to dive and I was left to snorkle with a group of strangers. On the second snorkle, I found my rythym and was able to just take it all in. I thought about my grandma seeing this world with me. A world I am sure neither of us could ever imagine seeing. And then silently, I thanked my mom for those early morning Bever pool swimming lessons.
The sensation came over me and I knew that my dad was there. I could have looked to my left and seen him swimming with me. The dad of my late teens and early twenties. When he still had dark in his hair and a lively step. I could see him in those white shorts and just a mask because after all, he could hold his breath. I didn't look. But sure as the coral and the zebra fish, he was there. I had to come up out of the water. It is hard to have tears in a snorkle mask.
This was my secret. That he was there.
It was on the trip back to the island that I let it all go. Danny, always my staunchest protector and friend, let me be. He brought me snacks and hugs and silent support. He was fiercely proud of me getting in the ocean but even more so, that I was able to let go and come to terms with a great many emotions.
I have to be at peace with my relationships. I cannot do a damn thing about my relationship with my parents. I don't know if my dad ever truly forgave me for moving away so many times. I don't know that he could accept that taking a job in Des Moines was a better move for our family than waiting for a job in Cedar Rapids. I don't know that I could ever get over that he couldn't get over the path I followed. None of that matters now. The coral sea has those feelings now. There is no going back.
The title of this is Finding Its Place. As I continue to write this (having started several months ago) I am figuring out what Its is. And Its is many different emotions. Its the five stages of grief. Grief for my dad. Grief for ever altered relationships. I read about the five stages and realized that I did not follow the order and experienced several of the stages before my dad ever died. In fact, with his long, roller coaster journey, the five stages were revisited over and over. I had come to terms with his death many times before he died but when he did, it was such a shock that I could not process it at all. I remember Sheila and I sitting in his room at the care center after he had his stroke. We were neck deep in denial. The timing was so unfair. Our anger, I don't know who it was directed at for anyone else, but I was so pissed at God. It was such a son of a bitch move on His part. I had no bargain to make. Ashlyn was not able to come home for a week so I knew that there was no hope in her seeing him alive again. Isaac was on his way home and it tore my heart open that he could make it and Ashlyn could not. I could not process that jealousy that I was feeling, nearly the rage at the injustice of it. That jealousy was one of the Its. I tucked that jealousy in my heart. It wanted to fester. I don't know that I went through a depression stage, I think that darkness came and went while Dad was in the hospital during those awful days of February and March.
The final stage is acceptance. I think I found acceptance earlier than expected and easier as well. The moment we shared at the Great Barrier Reef was indescribable. And all mine. I didn't want to leave that water, that moment. I tucked it in my heart and it immediately began to grow to push out the jealousy, the hurt and the hard. I am grateful for that moment with Dad in the ocean and that moment with God on the bow of the boat. My dads continually letting me know that its alright.
My dad was always a swimmer. A self described river rat. He told me a story about how he worked on an underwater project while in the Sea Bees because he could hold is breath for so long.
I am terrified of water. Even with many years of swimming lessons, I still cannot swim properly. The ocean and its unlimited expanse, well, I really didn't want any part of it. When the tide was out, we were able to walk out to the small reef off the shore near our hotel. I was able to practice snorkling. At first, I could not figure it out, face in, feet under me and panic. Repeat. Then I figured out that if I got my feet out from under me, I could just roll my face into the water. Panic subsided and I was able to do it. Snorkling in waist deep water was relatively calm compared to my emotions the following day.
The next day we took the boat trip out to the Great Barrier Reef. Danny was going to dive and I was left to snorkle with a group of strangers. On the second snorkle, I found my rythym and was able to just take it all in. I thought about my grandma seeing this world with me. A world I am sure neither of us could ever imagine seeing. And then silently, I thanked my mom for those early morning Bever pool swimming lessons.
The sensation came over me and I knew that my dad was there. I could have looked to my left and seen him swimming with me. The dad of my late teens and early twenties. When he still had dark in his hair and a lively step. I could see him in those white shorts and just a mask because after all, he could hold his breath. I didn't look. But sure as the coral and the zebra fish, he was there. I had to come up out of the water. It is hard to have tears in a snorkle mask.
This was my secret. That he was there.
It was on the trip back to the island that I let it all go. Danny, always my staunchest protector and friend, let me be. He brought me snacks and hugs and silent support. He was fiercely proud of me getting in the ocean but even more so, that I was able to let go and come to terms with a great many emotions.
I have to be at peace with my relationships. I cannot do a damn thing about my relationship with my parents. I don't know if my dad ever truly forgave me for moving away so many times. I don't know that he could accept that taking a job in Des Moines was a better move for our family than waiting for a job in Cedar Rapids. I don't know that I could ever get over that he couldn't get over the path I followed. None of that matters now. The coral sea has those feelings now. There is no going back.
The title of this is Finding Its Place. As I continue to write this (having started several months ago) I am figuring out what Its is. And Its is many different emotions. Its the five stages of grief. Grief for my dad. Grief for ever altered relationships. I read about the five stages and realized that I did not follow the order and experienced several of the stages before my dad ever died. In fact, with his long, roller coaster journey, the five stages were revisited over and over. I had come to terms with his death many times before he died but when he did, it was such a shock that I could not process it at all. I remember Sheila and I sitting in his room at the care center after he had his stroke. We were neck deep in denial. The timing was so unfair. Our anger, I don't know who it was directed at for anyone else, but I was so pissed at God. It was such a son of a bitch move on His part. I had no bargain to make. Ashlyn was not able to come home for a week so I knew that there was no hope in her seeing him alive again. Isaac was on his way home and it tore my heart open that he could make it and Ashlyn could not. I could not process that jealousy that I was feeling, nearly the rage at the injustice of it. That jealousy was one of the Its. I tucked that jealousy in my heart. It wanted to fester. I don't know that I went through a depression stage, I think that darkness came and went while Dad was in the hospital during those awful days of February and March.
The final stage is acceptance. I think I found acceptance earlier than expected and easier as well. The moment we shared at the Great Barrier Reef was indescribable. And all mine. I didn't want to leave that water, that moment. I tucked it in my heart and it immediately began to grow to push out the jealousy, the hurt and the hard. I am grateful for that moment with Dad in the ocean and that moment with God on the bow of the boat. My dads continually letting me know that its alright.
Wednesday, August 24, 2016
I got another camera speeding ticket from Crapids. This one was taken the weekend I went back to scan photos and write thank you notes at my dad's house. The other two were gotten when he was still alive. The first in the winter when he was still at St. Lukes and was so terribly sick that we didn't know. The second when he was at the nursing home and again, terribly sick, and we knew. And now I think there may be no more. My trips to my home town will be spread out even further than they were in the past. My need to be there quickly will be over. I don't care to give another $75 to the city of my birth that I now just think of as somewhere I am from.
This Saturday marks the sixth week that my dad has been dead, five since I last saw his face. Today marks the sixth week since I was last almost bit by my dad, I won that one, he didn't bite me, but maybe I should have let him. Of course I knew it was that last time he'd bite me, the last ornery thing he would do on this earth. The last in the longest line of many bites and whisker rubs and cuffs and knee pinches.
And I am not at peace with he's in a better place or he was ready or any of the other words that people string together to offer some comfort. I know that heaven is far better than earth, but I will never appreciate the Lord's timing. My dad still had people to see and a party to go to the following weekend. He wasn't ready and the Lord knew his plans. Sometimes I think the Lord is a jerk for taking people too soon as most people are. I will be angry for a long time at His timing. His very shitty timing.
Internet memes say that cardinals and dragonflies are those that you love visiting you. My yard has always been a haven for dragonflies so to see one now doesn't seem any more special. I find my dad in the things we shared. Like Ashlyn and her OKLAHOMA album, my tears come when Dean Martin sings with Ricky Nelson in the jail in RIO BRAVO. Or when I wake up far too early and stand at the front door watching those paper carrier moments when the sun is neither down nor up and am radio plays in my mind.
I miss all that I missed out on because of miles and life choices and being too dumb to ask the questions that I will never know the answers to now. I miss my dad's laugh and the way he said dumb ass (and he said it a lot). I miss
I am grateful that my dad lived such the life that he did! I am glad that he was ornery. I am glad that he knows what his grandchildren are doing with their lives. I am glad that he is home with Mom and his brothers and sister and mom. I hope that he comes to us in the songs we hear and the people we spend time with. I pray that he knows how fiercely we loved him and were (are) proud to be his kids.
Sunday, May 8, 2016
Happy Mother's Day
Happy Mother's Day!
Obviously (bo, bissly) I wish my own mom a happy day, but she is in Heaven so her days can be no happier. I assume that she is very happy with the way her charges turned out and even more so, the next generation. My mom was a good mom. I can't speak for my older siblings, but I know I gave my mom plenty of trouble and she continued to love me through it. She looked to others to help her mother me when things got tough and at the time, I resented that because truth be told, I only wanted her attention. I wanted her to love me in the way I thought she loved Sheila. And she very well may have loved Sheila more though she claimed to love us all equally, as I mom, I know that it is pretty tough to quantify love. There have been days in my own mom career that I loved my own kids solely out of obligation. Those days when they knew it all but could only express it in ugly grunts and big toothed snarls. Those days when I had to go to the bathroom a lot only to sit on a pile of towels and read a book with out the painful interruptions of she said/he did. Those days when I passively aggressively cleaned the house and no one jumped in to help because they already knew the passive aggressive game and didn't want to play.
But I digress, this post is not about me as a mom, but as a wish of happiness to all the mom figures that mom'd me and mine through out the years.
So Happy Mother's Day to my mom, as I mentioned. As time has passed, I get what you were trying to do. I'm trying to do that too. There are a lot of wishes and regrets in my relationship with my mom, time is healing those and time is giving me an opportunity to use her mom ideals in my own life, in my own way. Momming is like that.
This Happy Mother's Day wish is for you, the grandmas, aunts, great aunts, friend's moms and complete strangers that helped me raise these kids. Whether you are a mom or not, you have mom'd. You have fed and fixed my kid, you have offered advice, solicited or not, you have validated them and loved them and scolded them. As Velma Kelly so eloquently said in the musical, Chicago " But I Simply Cannot Do It Alone".
And none of us can. It a social media world that seems to be so hell bent on shaming moms specifically and women in general, I say fuck off. We are truly all in this together and it would be so much easier if we felt like we were allies instead of enemies. The goal should be to raise decent humans that are productive members of society that know how to wipe their own butts and will get off their phones when they are at the cash register. Let's get over the open letter philosophy of you're doing it wrong because you're not doing it like me. Let's also accept that fact that sometimes we screw up and raise little assholes. In those cases, let's apply a little tough love, remove the labels that validate the behavior (on kid and parent alike) and get them back to being decent.
And to my own kids, well, thanks. I am happy to have one more holiday that gets me presents. And no, if there wasn't such a holiday, I would not have been nearly as interested in being a mom. Except that the three of you are truly gifts that keep on giving. And I can confidently say that I have raised decent humans that are productive members of society. You each have your own gifts and talents that make the world a little better. I assume you can all take care of your own hygiene needs and I know that you all treat the cashier with courtesy and kindness. That just might be what I am most proud of, you speak to store clerks, you push the carts back, you scratch kitties behind the ears.
Obviously (bo, bissly) I wish my own mom a happy day, but she is in Heaven so her days can be no happier. I assume that she is very happy with the way her charges turned out and even more so, the next generation. My mom was a good mom. I can't speak for my older siblings, but I know I gave my mom plenty of trouble and she continued to love me through it. She looked to others to help her mother me when things got tough and at the time, I resented that because truth be told, I only wanted her attention. I wanted her to love me in the way I thought she loved Sheila. And she very well may have loved Sheila more though she claimed to love us all equally, as I mom, I know that it is pretty tough to quantify love. There have been days in my own mom career that I loved my own kids solely out of obligation. Those days when they knew it all but could only express it in ugly grunts and big toothed snarls. Those days when I had to go to the bathroom a lot only to sit on a pile of towels and read a book with out the painful interruptions of she said/he did. Those days when I passively aggressively cleaned the house and no one jumped in to help because they already knew the passive aggressive game and didn't want to play.
But I digress, this post is not about me as a mom, but as a wish of happiness to all the mom figures that mom'd me and mine through out the years.
So Happy Mother's Day to my mom, as I mentioned. As time has passed, I get what you were trying to do. I'm trying to do that too. There are a lot of wishes and regrets in my relationship with my mom, time is healing those and time is giving me an opportunity to use her mom ideals in my own life, in my own way. Momming is like that.
This Happy Mother's Day wish is for you, the grandmas, aunts, great aunts, friend's moms and complete strangers that helped me raise these kids. Whether you are a mom or not, you have mom'd. You have fed and fixed my kid, you have offered advice, solicited or not, you have validated them and loved them and scolded them. As Velma Kelly so eloquently said in the musical, Chicago " But I Simply Cannot Do It Alone".
And none of us can. It a social media world that seems to be so hell bent on shaming moms specifically and women in general, I say fuck off. We are truly all in this together and it would be so much easier if we felt like we were allies instead of enemies. The goal should be to raise decent humans that are productive members of society that know how to wipe their own butts and will get off their phones when they are at the cash register. Let's get over the open letter philosophy of you're doing it wrong because you're not doing it like me. Let's also accept that fact that sometimes we screw up and raise little assholes. In those cases, let's apply a little tough love, remove the labels that validate the behavior (on kid and parent alike) and get them back to being decent.
And to my own kids, well, thanks. I am happy to have one more holiday that gets me presents. And no, if there wasn't such a holiday, I would not have been nearly as interested in being a mom. Except that the three of you are truly gifts that keep on giving. And I can confidently say that I have raised decent humans that are productive members of society. You each have your own gifts and talents that make the world a little better. I assume you can all take care of your own hygiene needs and I know that you all treat the cashier with courtesy and kindness. That just might be what I am most proud of, you speak to store clerks, you push the carts back, you scratch kitties behind the ears.
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