Grown Up Christmas List

It's funny how as a kid you make these lists for Santa, place them in your parent's eager hands and wait for the magic to happen. Now, as an adult, we ARE Santa. We keep the magic alive, albeit poorly, we do what we can to make things happen that no fat man in a red suit can conquer. This is the first year in many many moons that I've had panic creep up because I'm not ready. Normally, under non-pandemic conditions, I would have had gifts and stocking stuffers stashed away for months now. Today, barely two full days before Christmas, I had to venture out on my lunch break to snag Santa's gifts.

This isn't like me. I like to be prepared and aware; two steps ahead of schedule in the case the unexpected arises. This is also the first year my kids BEGGED me for money. They know that I stick to a strict "Want/Need/Wear/Read," one "big" gift from Santa and a stocking full of goodies. Y'all. I struggled. HARD. Sure, I was able to knock out the needs, wears, and reads... but they just want money. That's it. It's taking the magic out of my parental duties. And knowing they just want money? What is the fat man supposed to do with THAT??

Two days ago, Little discovered where I'd hidden their gifts. Granted, I found MY gifts every year and would sneak peeks under the edges of Christmas paper. I have never liked surprises, they made me increasingly anxious and I needed to know what kind of reactions to have. But Little? Little is different. He was just built that way. He opened the HVAC closet door, found a package with his name on it and unwrapped his "Want" gift while I was in the next room. My baby, the last kiddo to really show any excitement (in his own way) towards Christmas? He opened the one gift I was super excited about giving him; the coveted "My Partner Eevee" Pokemon animated over priced piece of plastic. Because it was underwhelmingly overpriced, I bought Eevee AND Pikachu. Because what's one annoying toy when you can have TWO annoying toys??! Through my tears -- shut up, I'm hormonal -- I managed to get an apology out of him for opening his gift before I could fully appreciate his glee and an agreement that mommy could wrap Pikachu back up and he wouldn't open ANY MORE gifts before Christmas.

This kid. He didn't know any better and he didn't know what he'd done. But it broke me. It could have been so much worse, and it really wasn't that terrible. I think it was knowing that those stupid plastic Pokemon were ALL he wanted and honestly, were the only toys I got him. This is a kid who's harder to please than he looks. I mean, for the last 6 years of his life I had to keep tabs on which Beanie Boos he already had as he collected a menagerie of animals, but specifically those big eyed creeps. There were Beanie Boos, small plastic animals (think Fisher Price Little People style), visually altering fidgets, light up toys, musical instruments... But Pokemon were his first REAL "special interest." I don't want to get into what special interests are for autistic kiddos, so research it yourself. It's a nightmare if you're not in the least bit interested and have a hard time faking interest for the sake of keeping the peace. But it's also mesmerizing to see his brain categorizing and digesting every little bit of information he can find.

Today I went on my lunch break trek to find Santa's gifts. I applauded myself for making it across town in under 15 minutes WITH holiday traffic, and as I sat through a third green light cycle at the turn going into the shopping center containing my beloved Target, I watched as a beat up Hyundai started merging into my lane with absolutely NO notion that she had any idea that uh... well... I was already in line and barely moving. She ended up dislocating my front bumper and fucking up my wheel well, but surprisingly good old Florence (my beautiful ruby red 2017 Nissan Pathfinder) survived the damage with nothing more than a glorified "flesh wound" that will need a bit of front end body work, but we were able to walk/drive away with no issues. Raise your hands in praise, y'all, because Mama ain't got the money to be throwing around for Uber or hitching rides. Florence was purchased as a fix to my major car fixing budget. I was able to power through Target as I mapped out where all three items were while waiting for the Cop to write up the police report. I was in and out of Target DURING THE HOLIDAYS in under 30 minutes AND I was only 10 minutes late coming back from my lunch break. Thank heavens for small miracles.

I really am grateful that nothing terrible happened when shit could have gone sideways a multitude of ways these past few days. Little didn't unwrap or destroy everyone's gifts and Florence drove away in (mostly) one piece and it was an obvious error on the other driver's part... I just. I'm trying so hard to not slip into the seasonal funk. I feel like I'm holding on tight to this rope and the skin on my hands is on fire trying not to let go. So, if any of my kids ask what they can get me for Christmas, here's my semi-selfish adultish Christmas list in no particular order:

• Florence needs to be detailed in/out with Little's seat sanitized and spit shined.
• I want a full body deep tissue massage that leaves me feeling like a glow stick that's been popped and shaken up real good.
• 3 nights alone on a beach. Ok, maybe not ALONE alone. I can have a visitor to tuck me in each night or to fetch me drinks.
• The house cleaned top to bottom with a hoarder version of Marie Kondo to organize all the things.
• A week off from work while the kids are in school so I can work on my mental health.
• Insurance that actually PAYS for mental health help.
• Anything from Tiffany & Co. I'll even settle for a receipt or empty shopping bag. 
• Art supplies. I know that's vague, but I'm not sure what kind of supplies I need. I lost ALL of my art from my young adult years when we moved out of the "Divorce House." I've got some supplies still, but not my printmaking tools or fire hazard heap (paper scraps for collage work.) I want to work on some art, but at the same time, my carpal tunnel is over there leaning against the wall filing her nails sayin, "really girl? You sure about that?" And honestly, I just don't know. Maybe I'll start slow and just start cutting paper and see how the scissor work affects me.
• A fucking nap. Jeez oh man, just let a girl sleep. Uninterrupted. No Little body slamming me 20 minutes into a good doze, no MMA happening in the next room when Little decides to play superheroes with Big. No Middle getting sassy and waking me up out of spite. I need these kids to work together to just let me rest.
• A personal chef to feed these children.
• $1000 loaded on a grocery store gift card to make up for the BS these kids have put my pantry through. Little ate EIGHT yogurt tubes yesterday while I was at work. EIGHT. His good bacteria levels are probably ON POINT right about now.
• A Torrid shopping spree.
• A shopping spree, period.
• Another nap.
• On a beach.
• With a cabana boy to appear with every snap of my fingers.
• A mom can dream.

I worry.

I worry one day Middle will tell someone the bruises came from me.

I worry that she will tell someone that the bruises came from me and they will take my children away.

I worry that all the time and energy I've spent trying to help her and her brothers will be for nothing.

I worry that someone WILL actually hurt my babies and I will not be able to do anything.

I worry that Middle and Little will be institutionalized because I missed some vital clue that I could have seen if I had just been present instead of at work.

I worry that I will have a position forced upon me at work that will rob me of more time from them.

I worry that there will never be enough time to undo the harm that was done to them before I was able to use my voice.

I worry that the 36 hours they're not in my home every two weeks, that they are putting words in their mouths and giving wings to false accusations.

I worry that no amount of sugar coating and biting my tongue will save me from the snakes lying wait.

I worry like I'm getting paid to do so.

***

We went to Callaway Gardens tonight. I'm sure it was beautiful, but instead I was too busy sobbing silently in the dark of my mother's SUV to notice the scenery surrounding us. In my 38 years on this earth, 34 of which was spent here in South Atlanta, I had never been to the Christmas Lights show at the Garden. Nor do I think I've ever actually BEEN to Callaway Gardens.

The drive there was uneventful until Little threw up everything he ate for dinner after we hit a few curvy back roads. Being that we hadn't been on a long drive in a minute with him, I didn't think to pack extra clothes. Why would I ever be prepared? We had to buy some emergency clothes at a Dollar General in the middle of nowhere so he wouldn't have to wear vomit covered clothes or be naked the res of the evening. This meant that my baby came home in women's yoga pants and a hot pink t-shirt. The comic relief is NOT lost on me given how the rest of the evening went.

We were corralled into a congested holding area for 30ish minutes with other running vehicles before entering the site. That's when Middle's brain failed her. There was hair pulling, screaming, hyperventilating, speaking of self harm, actually hitting herself, threatening those around her... for 30 long minutes. Nothing we said would soothe her. Nothing we did would calm the beast that roared within her. All I could do was cry. Until I snapped and wrapped my hand firmly around her knee to try and bring her back. When I pulled my hand away I ended up pinching her flesh above her kneecap and I realized then what I'd done. I'd pinched my child. The way my mom used to pinch us on the soft part of the backs of our arms when we'd act out of line in public. This was not the way my life was supposed to go. This was not the person I wanted to be.

When I finally gave in and called her father (it was either him or emergency services), I had to place him on speaker phone so she would actually listen to him. Hearing him ask her if he knew why she was acting like this and if it had to do with what they'd been talking about was the straw that broke me. A.) she refuses to talk to me unless it's superficial. B.) I can't have her hate me any more than she already does. C.) I absolutely cannot have her one other biological parent use me or my parenting as the reason she acts this way when she only gets this manic within the few days post visitation. It broke me.

There. Are you happy? I could hear your silence when I would try and stifle the sobs. I could hear you stroking her ego and reasoning that her behavior was due to others and not due to her own actions. Are you happy? Do you remember telling them that you would always respect me and have my back? Do you remember telling them that you "always picked good mothers for your children?" I may not be the best mom, but I am HANDS DOWN the best mother to our children. I make mistakes. I own up to them. I love them and yes, I discipline them. Discipline does not mean corporal punishment. Discipline can mean structure, stability, consequences for their actions, cause renders effect... Bad mom's don't feel guilty for pinching their children. Bad mom's don't ask to see if they hurt them and talk to them about WHY they did that and WHY they won't be doing it again and actually NOT doing that again. Because they have to learn that humans make mistakes, and even if their actions aren't forgotten they are recognized as continuously striving to be better and not using "sorry" as a bandaid.

Maybe someday years in the future or even a few days from now I'll think back on what we experienced as "I can't make this shit up" material during this already shitty unforgiving year. Maybe someday my daughter will curl up on my sofa chair and just exist in my presence without any of us walking on eggshells. Maybe one day I will be able to wrap my arms around her without feeling as if I'm handling a bomb.

I just want her to be a good human and know how much she is loved.

I just want her to be happy.

DIY Boozy Fudge

I don't think y'all are ready for how easy this recipe is. Like, legit, I could make it in my sleep if my carpal tunnel would let me. And those of you awaiting the fudge I made you? You're freaking welcome. It's your turn to make ME fudge now. (I prefer Baileys or Fireball just FYI).

Mama's Boozy Fudge

• 2 Cups Baking Chips (semisweet is my go to, you do you fam.)
• 1/2 Cup Sweetened Condensed Milk
• 1/4 Cup Liquor (or Schnapps)
• 1 tsp Vanilla Extract
• optional pinch of salt

Dump chips in microwave safe bowl, add sweetened condensed milk. Nuke for 30 seconds. Stir. Repeat until the chips have FINALLY melted in their entirety. Add your alcohol, extract and maybe salt if that's what you like. Spread into 8x8 pan. Cool. Cut. Diabeetus. Wilford Brimley would be so appalled.

Combos I've tried:

Baileys Dark Chocolate

Mexican Hot Chocolate (Fireball and semi sweet)

Peppermint Bark (Peppermint Schnapps w/white chocolate topped with crumbled candy cane)

Kahlua

Coffee

Sweet Nothing

You found me. Forbidden. I broke my own rules.

Your hand slipped under the back of my shirt in passing, your finger grazed the waist line of my pants. Not here. Not now. You brought your arms across your chest and leaned back. “Then when?” As I passed you again, your hand came up and caught my wrist, “when?”

I shouldn’t have responded. You’re forbidden. You came over anyways; caught me in your snare. I fluttered anxiously like a frightened bird against you. Your mouth hot like fire, secrets whispered across the nape of my neck. My hair swept to the side by your fingers, lingering behind my ear. We’re alone, but anyone could come around the corner and see us and I’m conflicted. 

Do I want this or do I need saving?

You are forbidden and this is cursed but I shave my legs anyways. “I’m here.” The door is unlocked for you, “open it.” The neighbor calls out that someone is upstairs. I pull you inside and you drink me in. I can’t read your expressions.

Wine warms my throat, my cheeks and ears. They are red with knowing there’s no going back and the words not yet said ring in my ears. The hum of you deafens the room as you unzip my jacket. “It’s too warm for this.” Your eyes close as I wipe my wine kiss from your lip. My shirt falls to the floor, “this is also unnecessary.” My rib cage fits up against yours and your hands undo the clasps of my bra. “Impressed yet?”

The neighbors hear my laughter and my mouth is dry. This was not meant to happen. We aren’t meant to happen. I’m out of wine and one glass was not enough. Your hands are magic and I bend but don’t break by them.

I am glowing. By guilt? By bliss? By shame?

I upend the bottle for just a drop more; longing for the taste of it... of you... of this sin. More, now, again. 

“Next time.”

Allow me to reintroduce myself...

I am a proud card carrying member of a tribe of humans who care too much, but don't know how to show it.

I am a mom.

A filthy smoker.

An occasional wine drinker.

A lover.

A writer.

I am inspired, spiritual, an occasional Siren.

I drink 2+ pots of coffee a day.

I am compassionate and empathetic and I have a terrible memory unless you ask me about something random that happened 22 years ago.

I have a hard time stringing my thought processes together to keep my mental train from derailing.

I am forever 17, but we'll get to that.

Is this just a dreamlike state?

I am not responsible for how you react to my actions, my words.

And you are not responsible for how I react to life.

I am allowed to wallow in pleasure.

I am allowed to appreciate the sense of touch, smell, taste...

I am allowed to curl into myself and acknowledge my grief of a life I spent a third of my life cultivating, praying for the best.

I am allowed to close my eyes, face in the sun, embracing what little bit of serotonin pops like popcorn in my brain.

I don’t need your permission to tell my story, my truth.

Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals. This is possibly a work of fiction, but it is the author's story regardless. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination and may be used in a fictitious manner and does not require your explicit consent to tell their version of their story.

The divine in me honors the divine in you.

You wouldn’t know what to do with me if you had me wide open 100% all for yourself.

Your hands would feel like strangers, like they belonged to someone else. Or maybe like divining rods seeking the water within me. They’ll float, hover, until you feel the pull somewhere under my rib cage. You won’t be able to let go once you get there.

You’ll tell me that the divine is within me and I’ll hold up a mirror. No, baby... it’s within you too. 

I’ll wrap around you like a firm hug; something you didn’t know you needed. You’ll melt and know that you were home all along.

Comparison is the thief of joy.

The widow in me hates that his ghost is so visible; that he does all these things for her and her children that he promised to us me all while I was killing myself to support all of us.

The widow in me wants to thrash, scream and tear down walls. This was not the life I had ever imagined for our children, for myself as I stood across from him and vowed my life to him or as I squeezed his hand and cried silently with that last push that brought our children into the world.

The widow in me is on her knees. She is tired. She wants to escape. She wants her children and herself to be “happy” too. Whatever “happy” even is.

The strong independent woman my mama, grandparents and ancestors raised her to be wants to scream, “THIS IS BULLSHIT. This is NOT what I’ve worked so hard to provide for.” But this comparison is the thief of all my joy.

If I closed my eyes tight enough... I would open them to see that I have the ultimate prizes. I have my babies. I built them brick by brick inside of this amazing body. I have my health. I have the ability to provide a roof over their heads, food on the table, a vehicle to get us from this place to the next.

Shit could be worse, and I know because I’ve lived it and don’t ever want to look back.

Raised by the Music

Growing up, I was raised by the Big Chill and Dirty Dancing soundtracks. I can still see the dust whirling through the air on the weekends my mother would deep clean the house belting out "Tears of a Clown." 

We didn't drive anywhere without music. I associated my mother's mini van with Marvin Gaye, The Bangles, Fine Young Cannibals, George Michael... I associated my father's truck with Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, The Beatles, Roy Orbison, Lynyrd Skynyrd... 

Music was everywhere, and then one day it wasn't.

It became my job to fill my room with The Cranberries, Nirvana, Foo Fighters, anything Fat Wreck Chords put out, all the local bands tapes and CD's that littered my purse post show.

I don't remember the exact time frame that I realized my mother's car radio stopped playing. I don't know why she stopped. I don't know how she could get into her car and not subconsciously start pushing buttons on her dash until something that resonated with her became her soundtrack to drive to. I know that it makes me sad to slide into her passenger seat with a palpable silence between us. 

Little has a bad habit of screaming "Alexa/Siri STOP" whenever I play music and I want to hand him earplugs. I need the lyrics to sing to me and to speak to me. I need all that noise to make sense of my world. I feel the bass, I resonate with the words.

I used to joke that mine and Gwen Stefani's lives paralleled. As I expanded out of my teenaged cocoon, we both left our teenaged loves behind for the hot bad boys of our lives. We got married, each had three beautiful children, our Husbands had affairs with women who were too easily accessed, we found love again... and then the parallel's stopped. As she announced that she was engaged to her big country boyfriend, I was announcing that we were over.

A part of me worries that I've upset the balance of the cosmos. Every album had spoken to my heart and brought words I couldn't find to experiences I was going through. I'm almost anxious to hear her new single because what if we are no longer experiencing the same seasons in life together?

It's trivial and ridiculous to think this way, but... what if I'm right?

What if, the reason no single genre or song is currently speaking to me because the music is dying in me the way it did for my parents?

I don't know that I could handle the loss of relevance music has in my life.

For my parents, the music died and they are still very much alive.

I cannot tell a lie.

Do not ask me to tell you the truth or I will tell you how I have become a confessional for the secrets men keep. 

Their truths come in waves washing over me as I stroke their hair and shush their cries. 

I mend their hearts and return them back to you good as new.

I am black and white and where the colors meet are contrasts that stipple until they overlap and you cannot tell day versus night; there is only now. 

The now is heavy with the words I do not speak because their secrets are so loud. 

The now is like Jack Frost inching up my spine while their truths heat my ears, my cheeks.

I bite my lips, my tongue to keep their secrets inside of me.

I do not ask for their confessions... their secrets, half lies, brazen truths. 

But they come to me, weary with words and set them free where I do not interject or give my two cents.

I allow them to free their inner demons and wipe their slates clean.

The hardest part is not knowing whether they are leaving their problems for me to unpack or if they are letting them slip out the door as they leave.

Siren's Songs

I'm not the marrying type.

I've been married. 

I fine tuned myself to be what he needed, shedding the leaves of myself along the way. I shared space, WE shared space. We made ourselves believe that one person's yin was the other person's yang. Instead, we were chasing ideas of what the other should be so we could complete each other.

But we were not puzzle pieces cut from the same puzzle. We were two pieces that felt right, like we might connect and complete some whole beautiful pictures. We wanted to work, for a long time we wanted to work. In actuality, we were two whole different puzzles with missing pieces of ourselves.

I'm learning now that I'm single. I'm learning that I'm a whole human with no missing pieces. That I only needed to step back, slow down and quiet my monkey mind long enough to enjoy the beauty of a complete puzzle.

But now that I'm enjoying the silence and learning myself as this whole human, I see my heart as a Siren. I catch her singing and luring individuals in as if she calls the shots. I see the words that form in my mind like lyrics, whispering sing song hushed whispers directly into their ears. Part of me wants to stop her, but the other part of me says to enjoy the attention and enjoy the heart flutters of the fun parts of new friendships. The fun part of any new relationship whether romantic or otherwise.

In knowing that I don't want to coexist/cohabitate with another adult, I'm allowing myself to enjoy what's meant to be temporary living for a more long term arrangement despite the disappointment this brings to Big. It disappoints me too knowing that he won't have a house to look back on as his childhood home, but instead he'll think of the community I worked for and that we lived in for half his childhood.

But to me, this has never felt more like home than any of the other places I've tried to make "home" for them. So far our sleeping arrangements work for us here and we're able to create space for each other individually. It's not the big house we left in downsizing to this, but it's intimate and complete in so many ways good and bad. 

I got sidetracked.

My Siren heart reminded me of this. She sings her little diddy and suddenly I have others - like myself - who are uninterested in settling for less than we want for ourselves. Others who love themselves in an unselfish and not even a self centered way, they are simply compassionate with what their bodies and minds have survived and are no longer served by compartmentalizing their "self" to make others more accepting of them. They said, "NO MORE," and became the best selves they could be.

Big Distraction Pt. 2

I set intentions, lit the sage, cracked some windows North, West, South. Willed you up the stairs, through the door, follow the breeze and/or my smoke signals. 

Hear your name on the tip of my tongue. Feel the heat of too much too fast like a raging fire. I don’t know how to want small. I don’t know how to tone down a sensory experience from “fever dream” to “background music.” Theres not a dial on me anywhere like a volume setting on your dash. I’ve never been able to “enjoy” in moderation.

I want more. Now. Fast, loud, a rip tide that doesn’t let me back up for air.

I hold my breath letting your hands speak, I breathe in I breathe in I breathe in and my lungs are on fire. My eyes are saucers, black cat dilated, hungry for more. You signal release and all life radiates from here.

“We broke so many rules.” I draw my finger down the stress of your forehead, willing them to calm. Down the strong defiance of the bridge of your nose, I rest my fingertip on the bow of your lips. The nerves electric between the silhouette of your lips and the skin of my fingers. This is Vegas, baby, Dubai. Foreign and aggressively blinding. 

Waves upon waves. I am overcome with gratitude and pleasure like a hot white light warming my hands on your mouth, I know words are in there and I look and look “cold, warmer, hot, hotter, you’re there you’re on fire can’t you feel that? Can't you hear me say your name?”

The bones of you are support beams; there are earthquakes but you’re made for aftershocks.  You hold me together, scooped up into you. Big hands like Atlas, you look into me like I’m your world. My hair winds through your fingers. Burnt by the sun and this drought, corn silks kissing your cheeks; lips cooling the sun streaming from my chest.

There are moans caught in my throat stuck like stones making it hard to swallow, speak.

You.

When your house has sold, and the last bit of your belongings have been thrown into the back of your truck... call me, and let me hear your voice nearly a thousand miles away but familiar in my ear.

Call me and give me one weekend.

One weekend to say our peace, change our minds, remove my rose colored glasses, to place my hand on your chest and know what your heart says.

Call me.

Artificial Sweetener.

 Re-read, re-write, re-do, undo...

There's a lot of static in my head currently, but something empowering has been the realization that I'm so grateful. Like, overwhelmingly so, just regarding my life in general.

I can look in the mirror and see where my skin has stretched and pulled and begged for relief from three pregnancies. I remember before kids I'd gag at my "rolls" and make the ex-husband swear to put me out of my misery if I ever crossed over the 200 pound line. I gained 60 pounds with my first kid. I lost, gained, lost and gained some more and I'm still slightly over that line and you know what? I'm not miserable. I'm not so out of shape that I can't chase Little in heels across two yards, or that I can't channel my inner cheerleader wannabe self from 8th grade and do a high kick to freak my oldest out. I can still run, do yoga and shave my own legs without getting short of breath. 

I can tell you which stretch marks belong to which pregnancy. 

I can barely reach with the tips of my fingers, the scars that dot my back from skin cancer surgery from 5th grade. 

I can spot acne scars from a mirror across the room, but I also know that my incessant nervous picking during 10 years of being married to the wrong person didn't help that. 

I like to flex the muscles of my legs in awe that they carried myself and three big babies through 27 long months of pregnancy as well as two hands full of finish lines. 

These poor rough feet look amazing in heels, but tell a story of a woman who walks miles upon miles each day to provide for her children.

The small calloused hands also speak volumes of a woman who does things for herself before she'll ever ask for help.

The lines around my eyes tell of happy laughter, my arms the most welcoming hug, and this chest has been a resting spot for many babies and will be for more babies (hopefully grand babies, nieces and nephews) in the future.

This body is nothing short of miraculous, and I am so grateful for every inch of it.

If you could read my lab work you would see that I work hard to keep all my numbers in the right places. That despite my size, I'm probably healthier and more proactive about my health and the genetic issues that keep me up at night than your best friend or neighbor. I've got my vices, but I also make most decisions out of moderation and physical need.

It's not that I want to outlive all of you, it's that I want to live to see all of you, my children, their children, my partner if that ever happens again... I want to see you all live happy, healthy lives. I still have so much to experience and so much life to enjoy.

I know that if I were to pass tomorrow of some unforeseen tragedy, I know that I will have still lived a life worth writing about. I know that my kids will know how much I loved them. I know that there will be good stories to tell at my wake. I'm not ready for that yet. I still have so much love and life in me aching to come out.

Take care of yourselves. Look in the mirror and remember how amazing that reflection is, and be grateful that this body has worked so hard to get you to where you are today and how much life you still need it for. Take care of YOU. Love YOURSELF. You and your body will be stuck WITH you for the rest of YOUR life. Show it some compassion and gratitude for how far you've come.

Weekend Summary.

Friday night exploded with anticipation until the main event arrived. He was already taken. As in, they live together. He needed a "breath of fresh air." He enjoyed the excitement and flirtation. He was taken.

Saturday night was a reminder of everything I'd already experienced. The thrill of the chase, the awe of the other human and all of their adventuring and wanting the passion that made those adventures so intense, the exhaustion of being unable to catch up mentally... I pride myself on being literate, appreciating the arts and flexing my fingers at the keyboard. I'm not a master of any of these things, nor am I able to quote much of anything outside of music lyrics at the drop of a hat.

Both nights I was countered with great conversation and handsome companions. Both nights I enjoyed myself. Both nights took me way outside of my comfort zone.

I know that to "grow" and stretch ourselves as humans, we need to push past those comfort zones. However, for the first time in nearly 3 years I felt the itch to medicate because I was terribly nervous and borderline panicky. I don't think I'm ready for companions unless they're mutually frisky with no strings, no current partners (ahem), and just want to be friends. I need friends, maybe that's where the anxiety crept in. I didn't want to come off as desperate but I didn't want to come off as the most boring human in the world.

I lay things flat out on the table to scare the weaklings off. I have a kid with learning differences. I have a kid with a heart condition. I have a child genius who overthinks and sends themselves over the edge. A lot. I love me, flaws and all. I love my cats. I am OBSESSED with my kids in an almost unhealthy way (IF you were to ask them.) I loved traveling, but it will be a minute before that ever happens again. I love to write, but I'm not the greatest at staying on topic. Music speaks to my soul. God made no mistakes, and I believe he is very real. I can't look at my kids and NOT believe in God. I've spent the past 14 years raising kids, humor me. Flatter me. Be honest and kind with me.

Probably the most awkward moment of the entire weekend was not so much ripping the proverbial bandaid off in front of my ex-husband and his wife while disciplining the oldest for his grades, but having to give middle the run down of how my dates went... in front of the ex. She asked how my Friday date went and I told her he already had a girlfriend, "LIKE, HE WAS ALREADY DATING SOMEONE AND STILL MET UP WITH YOU??!?" Yes, child. Much like a scenario we've already explained REGARDING THE OTHER PRESENT ADULTS sitting ON THE COUCH watching us with big awkward eyes. Yes. Like that. But we're friends and I'm over it, because I mean... dammit. This is the story of my life. "Was Saturday better?" Yes! Infinitely as far as availability went. Only he too, like a recent love of mine, needs to be in the thick of all the things and constantly be on the go. His stories were incredible though. 

"You're a house cat, mom."

Yes child, I am.

Shorting Myself.

I made myself smaller for you.

Compartmentalizing every bit of "me" because I heard the words you used, laughing at others who are like me. The artists. The lovers. Those who would rather love themselves and spread their wings than be rooted to a passionless life.

I stopped dancing... singing... writing... dreaming.

I didn't want you to stop being you; I wanted to stop being the "me" you wanted me to be.

Big Distraction Pt. 1

We're reading on my loveseat. Our shoes a scattered heap beneath us and my feet are tucked in behind  you. My dress leaves my legs exposed and you periodically run your hands down my shins to warm them up. The sun has start to set behind the buildings leaving the sun room darker and darker until we can no longer stand to strain our eyes to see. Pushing my glasses up over my hairline, I place my book down beneath the arch of my legs and stop your hand as it slides down my shin again.

You place your book on the arm of the chair and turn towards me, both of your hands wrap behind my knees and pull me closer to you. Whispers of actions not yet passed leave your mouth and heat my ears as my telltale flush creeps down from my ears, cheeks and my chest. My hands rest on your lower back as  you lean into me.

Satchmo croons lightly in the background, the brash brassiness of the horns brings us back to the moment. You scoop me up into your arms, my legs around your waist. We sway some to "La Vie en Rose" before we land backwards back on the loveseat, we laugh as we untangled ourselves from the heap we'd created. You reaches over and push some of the hair back off my face back into my ponytail and pull my face towards yours.

Things that hurt my heart volume 1.

The sound of my son sobbing because he doesn’t agree with me about my views on violence/bullying. He feels that if he is getting pushed around he should react with more force than they are giving. I feel he should protect himself, yes, but that violence should NEVER beget violence. I believe he should protect himself and walk away wiser than when they began.

He believes that if he’s being mugged he should fight back with intention to harm. I believe he should hand over his wallet, strip naked if he has to, but to get out alive.

That’s all living is, getting out alive. I don’t want his heart to burn like coal angry and hot and ready to bleed. I want him to focus more on loving and living.

There’s never a good enough reason to harm or hurt. Ever. Protecting yourself to get out alive, yes. Protecting yourself but believing an eye for an eye? No. Never.

Karma sorts shit out and God is the ultimate judge.

The "Show Me" State of Mind.

I don't need you.

I want you.

I want your hands to remind me of what they used to do to me.

I want your mouth to tell mine everything you can't say out loud.

I want your eyes to read me like a book you can't put down.

I don't need you.

I want to watch your body change the minute you see me, like it remembers what it felt like when I would curl into it at night while my hand whispered secrets into yours.

I don't need you, but I want you to show me how much you want me.

I don't need you, but I want to fit like the missing puzzle piece of your heart.

Finding my Footing.

My feet have followed the same cobblestone paths as Winston Churchill. I have walked barefoot across the grass in Oxford. I have had tea and sandwiches in an actual rose garden in Oxfordshire. I have watched the sun rise and set from a sky rise hotel in Dubai. I have nestled myself among the branches of a Banyan tree in Honolulu and witnessed what felt like infinite hours of dusk in Anchorage. I have purchased cigarettes from a street corner vending machine in Frankfurt and hot green tea from a different machine in Akasaka. I've slept in holding barracks while pregnant in Abu Dhabi. I've fallen asleep in a tour bus watching the Italian countryside fly past me at 60 miles an hour traveling from Aviano to Venice. I have touched down at many other airports and military pit stops along the way from 21 to 26 that I can't list them all without forgetting others.

I was accepted to multiple colleges before I left academia behind. University of Southern California was up there on my list at the number one spot. I wanted to get as far away from "home" as possible without shipping my skin cross country. Gruesome and vivid, yes, but I didn't feel at "home" where I laid my head at night. I stepped out onto the tarmac and called the pressurized cabin at 35,000 feet hurtling 600+ miles per hour my home for the first half of my 20's.

Do I regret not getting a formal college education? No. No, I don't. Do I regret not hustling like my mother in her late 30's to get a formal college education? Again, no. NO I do not. My grandfather worked a full time job straight out of the Navy and went to school full time at Marshall University all while starting a family. My mother left school before she married my father, went back as a "continuing education student" around the time I started middle school while raising my sister and I, working 40+ hours a week and slowly untangling herself from her marriage to my father. I remember multiple trips to Clayton State before it became a university and shoving my nose in the thick books of it's library and finishing my homework alongside it's students while my mother took night classes. I applaud the sacrifice it took the both of them to obtain their degrees and the effects it had on their careers and personal lives. Do I sometimes still think about going and earning a simple business degree to keep in my back pocket? Honestly, not really.

I can barely fathom how stressed my mother was during those years; she had myself (an awkward middle schooler) and my sister who suffered from serious asthma complications. I know that I could not add the stress of school on top of my own children (each with their own unique special need or health issue), my job and being the only stable adult in their life. I can barely have dinner on the table by 7 as it is. I have always been the type to just GO and experience life, and I would much rather experience life than to sit in a classroom setting for months on end. 

Y'all. If you or I died tomorrow, I want my life to be filled with memories of doing and enjoying the three people who called my body home. I want to remember being kind to people and teaching my children to be kind as well. I want to remember the view from that sky rise in Dubai while minaret's haunted the city below with the morning call to prayer. I want to remember the peace as I sat on the banks of the river Windrush beneath willow trees and the scent of roses hung heavy around me. I want to remember the rich scent of my babies scalps as I buried my nose into them while the weight of them sleeping on me anchored into my heart. I want to remember the feeling of my grandmother's arms around my neck as I held her upright and whispered goodbye to her while my stepfather prepared to take her to the hospital. I want to remember these things because without hesitation, I can tell you that I never would have had these precious memories with the children I have and the trials/triumphs I experienced by NOT continuing my education past High School. I don't regret nor would I change any of it.

That being said, I do love hearing about other's experiences with College/Universities so I can live vicariously through them. I think the closest thing I had to the rowdy raunchiness of partying during my college years would be the time I worked a commuter jet into Indianapolis and after an excruciatingly long day, allowed myself to drink with the pilot and copilot knowing we didn't have a show time till after noon the following day. While we never left the hotel lobby, I barely remember going back to my room and changing into an old T-shirt to pass out on my bed. I did sober up, however, when I woke up to relieve myself in the middle of the night only to come to consciousness as the lock clicked and I realized I was NOT in the bathroom but outside of my hotel room. Nothing will sober you up faster than recognizing you have to pee and the only way to get back into your room is to ride the elevator in your t-shirt and undies and explain your plight to the front desk. And yes, after that I started packing pajama pants because NEVER AGAIN would I risk the world knowing what kind of undies I wore.

Smitten in the Kitchen

For a few years now I've been making a pasta dish at least once every few months to satisfy my soul. Only one of my kids tolerates mushrooms, while the other two GLADLY dig them out of their bowls and scoop them over into our bowls. This is a meal that is only slightly labor intensive and as a single mother of three kids this means I seriously can only make it on a Sunday when my stomach is begging me to make something cheesy, mushroomy and heavy on the carbs. I've been known to make it during beach week when myself, my mom and my sister scrape together our favorite recipes and indulge all week long. If you DO NOT double the serving and you're only feeding 4-5 people, at least one of you will be sorely disappointed in the lack of leftovers. ((Editors note, I always always ALWAYS double so I can eat on it on nights the youngest trumps everyone and requests THE blue box macaroni and cheese.))

I cannot tell you how I stumbled across this recipe, as I most certainly wasn't searching the internet for vegetarian Marsala options, and I definitely wasn't searching for mushroom heavy meals. The fabulous Deb from Smitten Kitchen wrote this up five years ago, and I hope it brings a great big smile to your face if you make it for yourself (just save me a plate!) 

 

Mushroom Marsala Pasta Bake

 

Prep time: 30 minutes, tops 

Cook time: 30 minutes, tops 

Servings: 4 really generous or 6 slightly more moderate ones. 

To serve a crowd: Double it in a 9×13-inch or lasagna pan  

 

• 1/2 pound pasta of you choice, I personally use penne
• 1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil 
• 3/4 pounds fresh mushroom, sliced
• 1 small-to-medium yellow onion, halved and sliced thin 
• Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste 
• 1/4 cup dry Marsala wine
• 3 tablespoons butter 
• 3 tablespoons all-purpose flour 
• 1 1/2 cups stock or broth (chicken, vegetable or mushroom) 
• 1/2 cup finely grated Parmesan cheese 
• 4 ounces mozzarella, cut into small cubes
• 3 tablespoons chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley  

Cook the pasta: Bring a pot of well-salted water to a boil. Add pasta and cook until al dente, about 1 to 2 minutes before perfect doneness. Drain and set aside.  Heat oven: To 400 degrees.  Make the sauce: Reheat your empty pasta pot over high heat. Add oil and once it is hot, add mushrooms and cook until they’ve begun to brown and glisten, but have not yet released their liquid. Reduce heat to medium-high, add onions, salt and pepper and saute together until the liquid the mushrooms give off is evaporated. Add Marsala and cook mixture, stirring, until it has almost or fully evaporated (depending on your preference). Add butter, stir until melted. Add flour, and stir until all has been dampened and absorbed. Add stock, a very small splash at a time, stirring the whole time with a spoon. Make sure each splash has been fully mixed into the butter/flour/mushroom mixture, scraping from the bottom of the pan and all around, before adding the next splash. Repeat until all stock has been added. Let mixture simmer together for 2 minutes, stirring frequently; the sauce will thicken. Remove pan from heat.  Assemble and bake dish: If you’re cooking in an oven safe dish, add cooked pasta and stir until combined. (If you’re not cooking in an oven safe dish, transfer this mixture to a 2-quart baking dish.) Stir in half the Parmesan, all of the mozzarella and two tablespoons of the parsley until evenly mixed. Sprinkle the top with remaining Parmesan. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes, until edges of pasta are golden brown and irresistible. Sprinkle with reserved parsley and serve hot.

Collections

A neighbor of mine is an elderly lady, with no family close to her distance wise. She has a life alert, but if she falls outside of the room the call box is located in they can’t hear her answer. So every once in a while I’ll be contacted that they can’t reach her and I will run over to see if she’s ok before they send the emergency personnel to her.

In the time I’ve known her, she has lost two sons and decades before she lost her husband. Just like my grandfather, she is outliving all those she loves.

Today, while visiting her, I helped her up off the ground and she called me by another person’s name. Which wasn’t uncommon as I don’t really feel I look like the name I’ve been given. I am often called by anyone’s name but my own. She fussed at me about a utility bill that she had on her countertop, telling me it was scheduled to be turned off today because I hadn’t sent anything in. Mind you, she was still calling me by another name. When I took the bill from her, I realized it was over two months late AND she’d been charged almost four times the amount I pay with a house full of people. In investigating the bill, I realized that she’d given all of this info maybe to her daughter who lived across the state to handle but who is also handling her 94 year old aunt.

I mentally stepped back and scanned her for any other issues she may be having when I noticed the blood spots on her back. They were dried meaning she’d been on the ground a while. She also looped her stories a few time so that I was hearing the same thing two or three times.

When I got her settled and took care of her “to do” list of easy maintenance issues, I gathered my things in preparation for leaving to take care of her utility bills. She thanked me and called me by my correct name stating that she barely recognized me without my glasses and that was looking real good, “you’re gonna get you a boyfriend if you keep up looking so good!” I thanked her and laughed saying I’d resigned myself to being a spinster with the hope of collecting a few lovers in the meantime. She laughed in response and said she remembered her hoe days well. I think we both peed a little we laughed so hard.

Give and Take

In the past six years I’ve learned a lot about conversation from therapies that weren’t even my own. The give and take of language and how our minds process the information given to us. I don’t know that I ever learned the giving part properly. I’ll take all your words and digest them, but my own responses come out flippant and meaningless.

I want to be able to hold intelligent conversation, as I know it’s incredibly possible given the thoughts screaming inside of me. I joke that I’m forever 17 mentally, but worry that I won’t be able to hold up my end of the conversations.

This weekend I’m going out with friends and I’m terrified that they’ll see me as uninterested in what they’re saying or that I don’t have anything to add to the subject.

Liquid courage should help, but I know that with my own history I shouldn’t rely on false promises.

Rituals

Fall has this ridiculous way of intoxicating me, bringing out my inner voice so I can hear my wants and needs more clearly. With the windows flung open across my home, I can feel the breeze curling it's way into our bedrooms and other most sacred places. The sage starts to glow from within and the flame heightens with white smoke billowing from the top as I purse my lips and blow softly to quiet the flame. I can see the smoke following the breeze and I start from the farthest room and work my way towards the front door.

There are still boxes piled up in the living room, but not nearly as many as this time a week ago. It's starting to look and feel more like home; our scents are mingled into the carpet fibers now and the newness is fading. The floor hums with each footfall, accepting my path as I invite the sage smoke into every crevice and corner. I hesitate while standing in the middle of the sun room. Something still doesn't feel right about the set up with the desk, loveseat and play table, but it's the only room that can allow room for all three items and still have room to maneuver. The cats like the set up as my youngest doesn't see them lying on the window sills soaking up rays while the loveseat hides them from view.

I haven't reached out to really talk to the ex to see how he's doing, see how his arrangements are working out for him. Part of me knows that it's better for him to not hear from me right now, and the other part mourns for my friend. Little has brought his name up in some nonsensical play, but I think middle and big are still processing the shift in their own ways as well. I don't hate him, I never did. 

I'm bringing attention and intention to our space. I want nothing more than to fill it with laughter and peace after all that's happened to us these past 5 years. I am living my life for me and my kids and I'm no longer allowing negativity or toxic behavior into our home/lives.

I finalize my walk around my room, circling my bed and welcoming the smoke to rest over my bed and out the window. The sage comes to rest on my bedside table between the bed and window to burn out peacefully.

Hot Rollers and Hairspray

2020 was supposed to be a year of "doing" instead of another day filled with "Groundhog Days." I even kicked off 40x40 GUNG HO READY TO GO! I put my blinders on and plowed head first into what I thought was going to be the best year ever as I'm sure so many other people did. I took the initiative and threw all caution to the wind and moved myself, my father, my kids and the then boyfriend into a massive big beautiful house. We bought tickets to various events and venues. We celebrated birthdays and holidays. Everything tinted with COVID in the forefront of our minds.

My ADHD brain can't stay on topic; lets work up a list.

Things 2020 took from me but with a twist!

• For Christmas last year, we received season passes to Six Flags. I have yet to activate them (sorry mom!) as every time I think to do it, the COVID numbers spike and yeah no. In losing the ability to hit the park with the kids, I gained the ability to spend more quality time with them. When Middle and Big wanted to do their own things (not spend time with their mother and baby brother because EW GROSS), we blew up a big inflatable pool and enjoyed some sunshine.
• Alanis, Liz Phair and Garbage were doing a tour together and the then boyfriend snatched up tickets right before they sold out. 2020 took my chance at seeing Liz Phair live away from me (I mean, I was there for Alanis and Garbage too, but Liz has my HEART.) What it gave me? The opportunity to introduce the kids to her music.
• Ben Folds life with the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra. THIS one made me super bitter. This? Was my version of Metallica's S&M -- also a great album. I used to wear out a radio recording (on tape no less) of Ben live at Eddie's Attic in Atlanta during the 90's. I can't tell you how many copies of Ben Folds Live I had before I was able to upload onto my phone/iPod. I remember hearing stories of how he would wear out a piano the way some rock stars would smash guitars on stage. Every time they changed the dates (before inevitably cancelling altogether) my sister and I would rearrange our calendars because we were NOT going to miss this opportunity. While the glimmer of hope in THIS "taken by 2020" is extremely small, like a sliver more than a glimmer honestly (don't ask me how to measure the two, it just sounds better in my noggin), there's still the light in knowing I always have my sister as a concert buddy.
• The boyfriend/best friend. Yup. 2020 took my status as "taken" away, but that is OK! IT'S LITERALLY A GOOD THING!! He is/was not a bad human, anything but. He's human. We all make mistakes and make bad decisions and have our own opinions and beliefs and this doesn't make us terrible people. 2020 gave me the ability to recognize and come to terms with some people make better friends, no matter how much you love someone. And I did love him very much, but it took me the last few months of our relationship to realize that I loved him as the friend he's always been to me. However, no amount of love made us "right." I don't know how to say it other than that honestly. We didn't mesh in that yin and yang sort of way or just "flow." And if there's anything I've learned this year, it's that if you have to force something it's better to let it just be. Plus, if you refer back to my first 40x40 post, I wanted to survive somewhere just me and the kids and forcing us together in that big beautiful house was the very opposite.
  

All of this is really just brain static, the noise in my head as I tried to find some way ANY way to make my hair look natural this morning while also wielding hot rollers to my head and suffocating myself with hair spray. No amount of any hair "magic" was fixing it. The daughter even came down the hall, looked at me and said, "did you do something to your hair? Because it looks like you didn't." Thanks kid... at this point, it's better to just leave 2020 be and set our intentions and eyes on 2021.

Can I get an Amen? Hallelujah?

Seen and not heard.

Something that has stuck with me since childhood has been my father's voice telling me that I should be seen and not heard.

Let that sink in for a second.

I'd like to think that this has molded me into a person that is observant, but recent revelations have very obviously enlightened me that not everyone was raised this way nor does my silence warrant observance. Instead, the overflow of words deafen me until I can't hear anything else. It has created a way of thinking that what I have to say is not important and that actions are the only way to be believed.

In doing the work on myself, I'm so sorry to every person that my lack of spoken communication has effected. Please know that I'm trying so hard to express and untangle the mess in my head. I'm trying. The hardest part for me personally is having others ask for input or try and drive home how important communication is and inform me of how I'm a total failure at it  and then totally dismiss what I have to say or talk over me (because believe me, THEY DO). My personal favorite is when they READ a text/email/social media post and then question why I can't speak up like this in the moment. Because my brain doesn't communicate to my mouth to open and let the words fall out. If I'm going to word vomit or elaborate on anything, my brain says, "DO NOT DO THAT, DON'T. JUST STOP."

Seen and not heard.

I want to see people in action so I'm not alone in my own actions. Can we speak with body language? Smoke signals? THE WRITTEN WORD? If you love me, meet me in the middle. You don't know the struggle of silencing my brain just to open my mouth for you. And I'm not a foreigner, we don't have to speak louder to me in an effort to make me understand your language. All that does at the end of the day is send me into sensory overdrive and my emotions say, "Cue waterworks! Bring the tears! Dehydrate the bitch so she'll have to shut her mouth around a water bottle instead of letting the words fall where the tears lie." See what I did there? Not even I can discern whether I meant the act of lying or the location of my tears.

Seen and not heard.

It's apparent that I'm in survival mode as a parent. *Ba Dum TING!* With three excruciatingly different children and only one of me, shit is bound to hit the fan more often than not. I pride myself in maintaining the shit show to a minimum of once every 3 weeks... today was that day for the cycle to begin anew. It started with "Little" screaming in frustration, "Big" reacting with his own frustration and in a bizarre twist of events physical altercation with "Little." Once I started raising my voice, "Middle" lost HER shit and we were all crying and screaming. Nothing says totally winning at this parenting thing like everyone in the community hearing your mom voice for the first time because you were OVER. ALL. OF. IT. The absolute cherry on top? Getting "Little" successfully out of the truck with no screaming from him, until he and I both realized simultaneously that we had FORGOTTEN HIS BACKPACK during the scuffle and then returned with forgotten backpack realizing I'd left ALL of my masks in MY lunchbox which also? Conveniently still inside our apartment. I legit opened the door, placed the backpack inside the door, flagged the first person to greet me with a "YOU CANNOT COME IN HERE WITHOUT A MASK" with "I'M TOTALLY AWARE AND A MESS, THIS IS FOR THE ONLY ONE OF MY CHILDREN WITH <<INSERT LAST NAME HERE>> FOR A LAST NAME IN THIS SCHOOL BYEEEEE!" #fuckingdone I ugly cried for two solid hours (and am still periodically getting overwhelmed two hours after the last tear dried.)

I'd also looooooooove to add that commenting that maybe my nerves are shot would be an understatement. I ripped those bitches open when I sliced open my leg and they are ANGRY. Shot? No. Alive and reminding me that I'm a graceful idiot, yes. Tylenol is not touching angry nerve pain.

Seen and not heard.

So moral of the story? If you see me crying, please wait till after I get off my shift to ask me if I'm ok. In attempting to verbalize aloud for everyone else to hear my words, it's become increasingly apparent that I will become overtly emotional and probably become incoherent with everything that's built up behind the flood gate.

Or you could just read my word vomit and be done.

May the odds be ever in your favor.

Word Vomit

I sliced my leg open and couldn’t think of who else to panic call and honestly didn’t think you’d answer the phone. I’m so glad you did.

It was wild seeing your face, you haven’t changed. You say you have, but you’re still YOU. You’re still behind your 39 year old eyes that have seen all the things and between your eyes and the things you said I wanted more.

I went in hungry and came out starving.

I didn’t want to hang up, I wanted to drink you in. I wanted your mouth and the words inside it. I wanted the moon you took me outside to see at midnight your time in the dark of your porch.

3 and a half hours.

You used to call me like clockwork, every Thursday at 8 EST. I would turn the radio down in my car to listen for the phone at 7:59. You had me trained and always left me wanting more.

How do you do your magic? How do you change me from strong independent woman to tethered to your heart doing tricks like a puppy begging for your attention and devotion.

I want to upend my life and unfold for you.

But I remember how the story ended last time.

Is this a sequel or spinoff?

Are you thinking of me when you pick up your paintbrush that I harassed you jokingly over? I saw you absentmindedly cleaning it when you turned the camera wrong. I saw you see yourself as others do, but not like I see you. I saw you concerned that I wouldn’t see you in the right light.

You live in a light that is your own.

Let it shine.

Let me bask in it.

The Shift

 I don't know when it happened. I can't give you a season, time of day, what I was wearing... but something shifted.

I changed mentally, my outlook on life moved one foot to the right and maybe an inch higher up on the wall. Something cracked open my heart and love, like a fire, ignited me from within. Not love for another human, or even love in the "rose colored glasses" perspective. It's like I woke up and all the negative input and darkness from my past just fell away from me.

I'm seeing my children and their precious selves and wanting to cultivate the good in them too. I see so much hurt in my oldest. I see it in the way he seeks validation through his ever changing hobbies and conversation. I see it in the way he reaches for my mom and not for me, and while there was a bit of jealousy and anger in watching him leave me for her, I know that it's so important for his mental health to know that he has my support and that he knows he has ME when he needs me most. He feels safe with her. He feels safe with me as well, but he knows that Grandma will give him that one on one he craves that I cannot give him when I'm the only adult in the house and I have three little people to answer to. 

I see myself in my middle. I see the awkward discomfort of living in her own skin and the mental power struggle of wanting to be herself and wanting to fit in. I hear the distress in her voice when she's doing all she can to keep herself together instead of exploding and bouncing all over the place mentally. My youngest? 

My bud? He's calming down and has become more open to receiving our new routine in the new home. He's shed his anxieties and distrust of the "newness" of new schedules, new home. I hear him vocalizing his discomfort and frustration more often, but with that I also see that he too is shifting. He knows the words are there in his mind, he can feel them on his tongue, but nothing comes out. I can resonate and understand this 1000x over as I too have issues getting my words outside of my head verbally.

I see the people I love that I WANT to surround myself with as who they are, imperfectly perfect. They are who they are and at the end of the day I can't expect them to be anyone BUT themselves. What I can control though? Is the amount of interaction I have with them. Even if I love them down to their bones, it doesn't mean I have to allow myself to participate in their toxic or negative behaviors/activities. I can love them safely from a distance and appreciate our differences from afar. It doesn't mean I condone or tolerate them, even though I know sometimes my silence may feel differently to them.

This past weekend I indulged myself with simple tasks that soothe my obsessive brain and maybe having more time to do this is making me a better person both for myself and for my loved ones. I folded ALL the clean laundry; the neat clean piles sorted, stacked and disbursed between our rooms made things seem more orderly. I built an over the toilet storage cabinet. Sure, I cursed incessantly as I assembled it, BECAUSE WHY WERE THE DIRECTIONS IN PORTUGUESE? I managed to survive all in one piece without any new wounds (which we'll discuss here shortly). I bought myself some pretty fall/winter flowers and hung my hanging planter hanger at the front door assembling my collection so they spilled out with color plus rosemary for height/scent as a centerpiece. I'm obviously VERY PROUD and also VERY out of potting mix. Looks like another excuse to go back to the nursery.

The following story could have gone a complete different direction, however I reacted more with love than irritation and I AM SO PROUD of myself for this. This past Friday night I was stepping out onto the patio and I thought to myself, "let's not announce that this single white female is alone late at night on her patio." And so I never turned the light on to see what I was walking into. I have two colorful plastic Adirondack on our patio and as I went to sit down I realized that something was NOT right around the same time that I heard the crunch of plastic shattering. I went THROUGH the chair and as I did, a jagged piece of the chair sliced the outside of my thigh (right under my left butt cheek...) I knew my leg and pajama shorts FELT wet, but brushed myself off and sat on the other chair contemplating what the fuck just happened. I stared and cursed inwardly at the chair, embarrassed and oh so grateful I didn't turn the light on so no one could bear witness to my literal downfall. At this point, it didn't sting or hurt, but my shorts became soaked with blood and the backs of my arms ached with promise of bruising. I slightly panicked once inside when I saw how much blood was running down my leg. I sprayed the wound down with peroxide, wiped away the evidence to reveal a gnarly cut. I instantly remembered a few days prior discovering my youngest opening as many band-aids as he could to use as adhesive to hold his pictures up on the wall (I can't make this up) and so I hid the first aid kit from both himself and of course myself. I tore the apartment apart looking for that damn kit and finally, when I realized there was no point in looking anymore because I had to cover the wound, I reached out to my neighbor (friend from my HS years who's a cop) who could also pass for one one of those hot TikTok cops. (Insert awkward wave here in the case he reads this.) The panic and embarrassment crept up through me as I shot him a text to see if he was awake, had any first aid experience, and could help me patch myself up as my t-rex arms didn't quite reach and with it being in such an awkward location I was unsure just how bad things were down there. He responded that he had a medic kit and to come over and so I hobbled to the apartment behind mine, his gut reaction, "JESUS, what did you do??" I ruined my pants, that's what I did. The entire time he was eye level with my butt, the only thing I could pray was that his girlfriend was somewhere watching so she could see that I wasn't trying to make any moves while my backside was exposed. I am NOT that kind of woman, although if he has any friends... And this is exactly what I mean by remaining positive through this terrible accident. Not once did I curse at the fact that NOBODY brought up the broken chair even though at least two people knew. Not once did I break down and get overwhelmed at the fact that I was in an unplanned predicament (even though planned predicaments can't always get great responses either.)

So "high five," me! Way to survive an incredibly could have gone WAY farther south weekend and keeping my eyes on the prize of just getting through it with the best attitude possible. ((And my leg didn't need stitches YAY! and is healing nicely from what I can tell.))

Now to survive tomorrow's long list of doctor's appointments (tetanus shot, flu shot, full blood panel, full physical exam, lady doctor exam, 3 different therapy appointments...) and all I'm truly itching to do is unbox ALL my books and get them on their appropriate bookshelves. #priorities #bitcheslovebooks #POSITIVITY

Pt. 4 - It was all a dream. Seriously.

I woke up tucked into him; my back to his front. I rolled over into him. Tilting my head up, I breathed him in; my lips brushing his neck. I could feel his chest rise and fall against mine, his heart steady under my hand.

How could this be real? How many years did I wait for this moment?

My oldest, at 13, is only 2 years younger than I was when I fell in love with this now man. My eyes scanned his face as my fingers rubbed the rough of his beard. Everything he’s been through, all that he’s seen... The faint reddish brown of his hair surrendered to waves of silver down to the scruff on his chin and the curls that danced across his chest.

All that we’d survived in this past decade had brought us to this point. If we hadn’t lost each other once, we wouldn’t be here in this bed.

Months earlier, I’d taught him to video chat. His face filled my screen and I couldn’t breathe. My soul awoke and the sparkle in his eyes came alive. “You are still so beautiful,” he said as he finally smiled wide for me after months of sharing pictures. We talked for three hours that night; it felt the same as the late night calls from our teenage years.

I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead to his chest as he blindly reached over and pulled me closer into him. In my mind, I could remember the way I felt in his arms as I awaited my flight on the freezing December morning in Montana. I remember my voice cracking and giving way to full blown sobs by the time I reached the gate. This time would be no different, only he’ll be the one leaving me to go back to tie up his life out west. In my half sleep, I snuggled deeper into him and whispered, “I don’t want to ever wake up.”

And then, I opened my eyes. It was all a dream.

Pt. 3 - It was all a dream. Seriously.

It was close to 2 am by the time we pulled up to my home. We sat holding hands in the dark of the front seats; the rain scarring our faces as they dripped down the front window. I just wanted to pause this borrowed time.

We made our way up the stairs, my hand fumbling at the door as I felt him grow closer to me. He swept my hair away off the back of my dress and his beard tickled the nape of my exposed neck. We couldn’t get inside fast enough.

This was really happening.

We barely made it through the door before bags were flung on the floor and he laid me back on the couch. Kneeling before me he placed his head in my lap. I rubbed my fingers over the fine soft fuzz of his shaved head. “I’m so sorry,” he said quietly into my dress, “I’m so very sorry.”

Rubbing the back of his neck,“Why are you sorry? You’re HERE.”

He lifted his face up to mine, grabbed me by the waist and pulled me down off the couch onto the floor with him. “Because,” he whispered, “I should have shown up. Every time I came to town hoping to cross paths, I should have just SHOWN UP.”

His hands reached behind my back and untied my dress, hands shaking as they did 20 years ago when he couldn’t get my bra off fast enough. He leaned into me, kissing my collarbone, my neck. His lips took mine and we were hungry all over again. Hungry for each other and for the time we’d missed while living two separate lives.

I could hear our hearts galloping towards each other; feel the heat burning in my ears, my flushed cheeks and chest.

There would never be enough time to say everything our bodies had been deprived of.

Pt. 2 - It was all a dream. Seriously.

Given the state of the world's security and pandemic situations, there was zero opportunity for anything more than the worlds quickest hug and maneuvering bags into the back of my vehicle. We slid into our seats, looked at each other taking one another in and laughed. 

This was really happening.

I threw the truck in gear and drove as far as I could, leaving the airport behind us until I could pull over into a well lit parking lot. "What are you doing?" he asked. Coming to a full stop, I threw the truck in park, smashed the emergency brake and flung my door open. He came out of his seat and met me in the headlights as I flung my arms around him and buried my face into his neck. He slipped his hands around my waist grasping at my dress at the small of my back and pulled me harder into him. I hadn't felt this complete, this seen, in almost 20 years. I whispered into the tickles of his beard, "Don't let me go this time."

I don't even know how long we stood there. I don't know how long his thumb stroked my spine through the opening in the back of my dress. I don't know how I was able to breathe with his other arm wrapped around me holding me so tight to him. I don't even know if we said anything else out loud again in that moment. The night's drizzle kissed our shoulders as his lips brushed my jaw line and the space beneath my exposed ear. I just wanted to breathe him in and stay there watching the heavy mist glitter across the pavement around us.

He slid his hand into mine and motioned towards the truck, "lets grab something to eat on our way home, we've got time to come back to this." I wanted so badly to believe we had all the time in the world, but I had already started counting down the seconds till we had to slip back into reality. I eased the truck back out onto the road leading us home; playing with the screen of the truck's media display, he scrolled through my music library and settled on something that took me back to music festivals and late summer nights in limbo between our neighborhoods. Trails through the woods where our feet beat paths leading back to one another, we would spend stolen hours in the darkness making out under pine tree canopies; stars winking at us through their branches. His fingers hooked through mine across the console, bringing me back to the present. He pulled my hand up to his lips, kissing my knuckles. 

The last thing on my mind was food, but I obligingly pulled up to a 24 hour breakfast place where our once teen-aged bones would sit for hours drinking terrible coffee and smoking cigarettes bought from vending machines in the back of the cafe. Staring at each other from across the booth, we laughed again at the insanity of being here in this place 20 years later. I thrust my feet beside him on his bench, boots crossing over at the ankle. His hand rubbed my calf beneath the table as he flipped the menu card over on the table. We ate and bitched and moaned about airports and traveling in general, sharing our experiences over endless cups of terrible coffee.

Everything about sitting across from him felt so surreal as so much had changed and yet, everything was the same. It was comfortable and cozy and was this really happening? This was really happening.

Pt. 1 - It was all a dream. Seriously.

The setting sun was dancing across my fingers as they itched across the steering wheel; something that felt like love, might be lust, might be butterflies, nerves, the carrots I had at lunch threatened to explode outside of my body. I hadn't been to this part of the airport since I worked for the airlines. Humming in my brain were the directions I gave him to get to me from the train exit.

It was happening. 

I can't tell you what I said to him when his brother gave me his phone number two years back. I'm sure it was along the lines of "Happy Birthday," or, "You can't hide from me, BITCH." There were deep discussions of where we'd been and what we'd experienced in the years that we'd lost. There was tension of every kind imaginable, apologies, revelations, pandemics... and then there was a familial loss and lifted travel restrictions. Plans made. Tickets purchased.

I wiped the sweat from my hands; palms down smoothing the black sweater dress I impulse purchased not even a month before. I instantly hated my hair, my aged face, my saggy baggy all the things. What were we doing? As Ron Burgundy would exclaim, "That escalated QUICKLY." And boy howdy, DID IT EVER. I could see him rounding the corner and my forever 17 year old inner voice squealed in my head. HE IS HERE HE IS HERE HE IS HERE!! 

I had only just had a conversation with him about how I'd come to him in Montana, a woman on a mission, to figure out where we stood 15 years previous and that it was his turn. He revealed that he did come back for me; the first of many times he came back was the only time we made contact. He had walked up to my door while my then Husband was at work for the local fire department and I had been feeding my now oldest who was only 9 months old at the time. The tension then was more surreal. We both knew that in that moment we were saying goodbye, that my life had taken such a significant turn we couldn't go back. But he came back. He came back so many times for me, for another chance, but allowed me the opportunity to be happy in the life I had.

I know this is terribly Tarantino-ish, but lets take it back further to something that still haunts me. During the breakup to top all breakups, the only time I was ever THE belligerent crazy girlfriend... Between sobs and choking back tears I remember him holding me, I remember the feeling of being so drunk I couldn't tell if I was cold or hot or sick. I could feel my knuckles ache from the grip I had on his shirt. I told him I'd leave anyone for him, my husband, my partner... that I could never love another man the way I had loved him.

I wasn't necessarily wrong. But I don't know if that's because it KILLS me to be wrong and I'm too stubborn to make a liar out of myself or if I just couldn't love anyone that much because I knew how hard my heart hurt when he ended us. I couldn't hear his voice or see him without dying inside. I'd run down the driveway of my grandfather's house when his parents would come over the horizon, walking the neighborhood together hand in hand. I needed to know, was he happy? Was he eating enough? Where is he now? I never ever asked if he missed me. I never asked for his number. I never ever broke my vows. Every day I would have moments of feeling like I'd lost my keys, knowing full well it was the pang of knowing my high school sweetheart, my almost everything was out there and I needed to know he was ok.

My Truth.

The truth is... there’s always three perspectives, yours... mine... and the outside perspective.

I was immensely unhappy. Not because of WHO anyone in that big beautiful house was, but because of who I am and who I wanted so badly to be.

He and I didn’t work out. We just didn’t. We tried, we gave it multiple honest efforts, but we needed vastly different lifestyles to achieve our best selves. Lifestyles that don’t include the other person.

I am a house cat. I’ve said and implied that before. I need self reflection time, comfortable silence, a good book and the ability to not feel like I’m depriving another person of their needs to fulfill my own needs. I am one person, with three immediate dependents who rely on me to make their world “run.” Once their needs are sufficiently met, I have to meet my own as a way to recharge and evaluate our next tasks. This leaves little else than the weekends they’re with their father to devote that one on one with ANYONE other than myself and them.

You teach others how you want to be loved based on your own actions.

It took me an unfortunately long time to realize this. It took a failed marriage that involved an exhausting amount of self sacrifice but also self neglect to realize I was killing myself; if not physically then definitely mentally. Your happiness should never depend on expecting your partner to fill your “cup.” Your happiness should come from being able to be YOU and being with like minded people.

So yes, I’m well aware I will be the villain in at least one person’s story. I accept this and I will not apologize for loving them enough to tell them I’m not that person. I’m not who YOU want/need me to be, and that’s ok.

My kids and I have been in such a better place mentally since we left the “Coronapocalypse McMansion” and that to me speaks volumes about my decision. Yes I’m exhausted, but my God is it worth it. There’s no more sudden anger and confusion over petty temporary issues. There’s no more disappointment or shame in the way others speak or take it upon themselves to discipline to my children.

I will allow them to make me their villain. I will remember how easily it was for them to speak ill of their past exes and friends they’d fallen out with. I will remember how hateful and toxic their stories would be and wonder after hundreds of embellished or stretched half truths, what should be believed.

Don’t believe everything you read in the internet, kids. Check your sources, ask questions and if things still don’t add up? Investigate further.