Tag: changes

Time is fickle

~ Linda ~ Leave a comment

This year has been a great deal harder than I anticipated and not because of the plaque and the world trying to navigate its way back into the swing of things, but because heartache, failure, illness, and grief are just so fucking difficult.

I have been lucky in that the company I am blessed to work for has allowed us to maintain a work-from-home liberal hybrid environment. This year has proven that allowance is critical in my life. Just a few posts ago I wrote about my 20th anniversary and how lucky we both were. Every marriage and every relationship undoubtedly has issues, big and small, to contend with and work through, but I daresay our marriage has seen more than its fair share.

In January this year, my husband sent an email to me asking for a separation. Sure, we had our differences, and we had our ups and downs, but nothing could have prepared me for that. After many, many years of supporting his various job changes and career changes, financially supporting him during times he needed to take off work due to the strain from being a Paramedic takes on oneself, and even raising our three kids (alone for a year so he could better his career 200+ miles away from our home). It was a slap in the face, the wind was knocked out of me and my life turned on its head in a single email – not a face-to-face conversation but a fucking email! I wasn’t what he wanted any longer, I wasn’t who he needed. I was devasted beyond words.

A month later he was offered or applied to, I’m not sure which because he began making decisions without including me, a traveling Medic job that would take him to California for 2-3 months. He accepted, without hesitation, and off he went. We really never discussed us or where we were heading, not entirely. We spoke each night or morning, depending on his schedule and I pretended all was well. He came back at the time our youngest was heading off to basic training so we put on fake smiles and tried our best. We went up to Chicago to watch him graduate from basic training and my Medic decided it was time to finally find a job locally as the travel jobs seemed to be drying up.

While home, he developed a cough and it kept getting worse. I persuaded him to go to the doctor. Fast forward a month of testing and waiting, we found an 8.5×11 mass on his left lung. A blow even I couldn’t have prepared for and fast forward a few more weeks we had an appointment for a bronchoscopy biopsy scheduled. That 45-minute biopsy that turned into 2.5 hours was failed, botched (the doctor stated “the mass oozed and the bleeding had to be controlled”), and ultimately led him to become septic, develop post-operation pneumonia, caused the eventual collapse of his left lung, kidney failure, and respiratory failure all within a week of the biopsy. He spent the next month in the hospital fighting for his life all the while we had no diagnosis of the mass in his lung. I spent each night dutifully in the hospital recording every note that came from a nurse or doctor (of which there were dozens) while working remotely from the hospital. During week four after he was stabilized, but not before he had to have a chest tube to drain the sepsis from his lung, we finally had a diagnosis. High-grade b-cell non-Hodgkin Lymphoma in his left lung.

He’s completed half of his R-CHOP chemotherapy treatments and had a mid-treatment PET scan done which we learned yesterday that the original 8.5×11.1 mass had shrunk to 4.3×2.8 – GREAT NEWS!!! However, during all this commotion, his older brother moved in with us after being released from a 4-year stint in prison. This brother has turned our lives even more upside down if that’s even possible. You see, during his diagnosis, I researched everything related to this treatment, this cancer, and all the foods I could prepare to help him through this journey. After all, I’m no doctor, but I can cook and cook well. I learned about nutrient-dense foods that were critical to his getting over the initial treatments that he undertakes every 21 days. This is not a sob story for me and what I’ve been through, though I admit it’s the hardest thing I’ve dealt with to date. I recognize my hardship pales in comparison to what my husband has undergone. However, this is a vent to the zero people who read me that I am absolutely infuriated that my brother-in-law believes me to be a controlling bitch who refuses to allow my husband to eat fried chicken, pork chops, steak, and drink shots at every chance he gets. Worse, even, he’s convinced my husband of the same thing. For the last 4 weekends, I’ve spent that time in my room trying to escape the negativity that follows this man and who he is turning my husband into.

Time is fickle. Just 10 months ago my husband asked for a separation and it appears he will soon be asking me for that again. Only time will tell, but call it a woman’s hunch. We both walked away with a new perspective on life after he got sick, the problem is I think our perspectives are polar opposites.

Likely in January, one year after the first time, his perspective will reveal he wanted a permanent separation after all. I say January because that will be the time when his treatments are over and my services will no longer be needed. As he has given me every reason to believe this, it’s just a matter of time.

That’s the thing about time. You exert your energy giving your time to others and they either use it, waste it, or destroy it. Time doesn’t come back though, so tread carefully how and when you give it.

Time, y’all. Time is an interesting, horrible bitch, much like Karma.

Tragedy in America

~ Linda ~ Leave a comment

The below snippet was taken from an article written by Richard Berk on the website for the University of Penn State, Penn Arts & Science section regarding what constitutes a mass shooting.

https://crim.sas.upenn.edu/fact-check/what-mass-shooting-what-can-be-done

Based on this description, and according to gunviolencearchive.org, there have been 142 mass shootings in the US since January 1, 2022, that have either injured or killed more than 4 people at one or more locations close to another. One Hundred and Forty-Two, in less than six months.

Obviously, our country is devastated by the most recent shooting at an Elementary School in Uvalde, Texas. No parent ever drops their child off at school and expects to not pick them back up later that day. No parent ever sends their child to school expecting them to perish at the hands of someone. Ever. It’s tragic, it’s devastating, it’s senseless, and it’s horrifying beyond measure.

This most recent shooting follows in the footsteps of the mass shooting in Buffalo where innocent lives were lost while they were simply grocery shopping. People going about their days in normal activity and are gunned down by a racist lunatic which, if I’m being honest those two words are synonymous with each other.

I follow a lot of celebrities on Instagram, I got the love of that from my Mom watching Entertainment Tonight every night in the 1980s. I watch them post the need for changes in policy and procedures, and I wholeheartedly understand their meaning. Yes, things need to change. But, what? What can we possibly do at this point to make any radical change that will do any real good? Many, many of the celebrities who live in Europe and Canada voice concern over how readily available guns are to US citizens, they simply cannot fathom it. True, they do not have the same rights we do here in the US.

Gun laws? Background checks? We have those. We have gun laws, and we have background checks that must be performed to legally obtain a firearm. Removal of AR-style weapons? Sure, if we stop selling them in stores, citizens following the gun laws will no longer be able to purchase them. But what about the citizens who do not follow our own gun laws? What about those who already have them? What about the black market? What about the criminals who have no use of our laws as they stand much less if they get stricter? I’m not saying these things will or won’t help. I am simply addressing the fact we have had the constitution since 1776 and we’ve had the 2nd amendment since 1791. I think it’s unlikely in a country that is as proud as the US is to be “free” that we will see any significant impact on our laws regarding guns or gun ownership.

I’ve seen many arguments over the opinion that is the access to guns that is the issue, much the same above, this is nearly a moot point with the laws we have in the US. However, I can say, while I am no journalist, I do know at least the last two mass shootings were carried out by 18-year-olds. Is this not something we can control? The age to purchase nicotine products recently increased to 21 without question. In fact, neuropsychological research has countlessly shown that and provided evidence that adulthood begins around 25 years of age for the average person. The average brain does not mature to include right/wrong sense, common sense, logical sense, sense of fear, appreciation of life until around 25. As a mother to a 24, 20, and 19-year-old, I can attest that my findings agree with that.

Would changing the age of being able to purchase a gun to the age of 25 aid in trying to combat future mass shootings?

Would adding mental health checks aid in trying to combat future mass shootings?

What about the insane number of young adults who aren’t able to get employment who know social media better than their older neighbors? Would it not prove beneficial to have an entire department of these young adults to help identify any social media red flags for those applying to purchase a gun? Almost every mass shooter has left a social media footprint directing us to their intended massacre.

I’m sure I don’t know, but I know these individuals had no business owning guns. I know these individuals have massacred innocent lives for intentions that will never be justified.

I am not an expert, I am not the one with answers, but I am a concerned citizen who understands our rights to bear arms, the freedoms we have come to know and love, and our dire need for change in the US to provide security from raging lunatics who want to kill innocent human beings.

While prayers and thoughts are always given, sometimes I think that’s just not enough. Not anymore.

I remember when

~ Linda ~ Leave a comment

I sit here tonight in the quiet of the house with a heavy heart and fire inside me.  I have a plethora of feelings this evening and so I turn to this trusty place.  I’m staring at the blinking cursor as it mocks me when I can’t think of the words, but I know I have to write.

Do you remember where you were 15 years ago today?  The day before the world changed as we know it?  More importantly, do you remember what kind of person you were then? Who were you, what were your worries?  Did you lose your temper that day over something silly and mundane?  Were you a little too short with a loved one?  Were you a little too impatient?  Did you thank that nice girl at the counter who served you coffee as you rushed off to work, late because of the traffic?  Did you pass judgment on that person sitting at the end of that exit ramp asking for spare change?

I bet we all did some of these things 15 years ago today because none of us knew that tomorrow we would wake up and become someone different – that we would wake up and our country would be changed.  I remember exactly where and who I was 15 years ago today.  I was one week away from bringing into the world my daughter, The Middle, and I was as miserable as I could be.  I was impatient with anyone near me, I was short-tempered, I was tired, I was swollen, and I was not the person I am today.

Like thousands and thousands of people, I watched horrified that morning as the events unfolded and despite going into labor and my mid-wife instructing me to stay away from the news, I watched for days on end as the aftermath unfolded.  It was devastating; we all remember how devastating this day was.  It was a sight I will never forget, it was a feeling I will never forget, and it was a change in our country I wish we all would never forget.

You see, we’ve forgotten that part.  Every year on September 11th we all put that photo of the towers or the eagle that’s shedding tears on our social media pages and we promise not to forget, but do we actually remember?  Do we remember, as a country, what we swore we would never forget?  I do and I’m sure I’m not the only one, but not nearly enough people truly remember.  Yes, we remember the attack on our country. We remember the horrifying collapse of both towers and we remember the excruciating number of innocent lives we lost on that day, but do we remember the days that came after?  Do we remember how we promised to never forget that we are the UNITED States of America?  That when you attack one of us or some of us, you attack ALL of us?  Do we remember that at that time there were no black Americans, no white Americans, no brown Americans, no yellow Americans – we were AMERICANS.  We were UNITED.  We were one and we rallied behind our flag, behind our country, behind our law enforcement, behind our first-responders, behind our military and behind each other.

I remember when we became brothers and sisters of this country and we promised those nearly 3 thousand innocent souls and their families that we would never forget.  We also promised the assholes who killed these innocent people for simply being American that we would unite and rally behind our flag, behind our country, behind our law enforcement, behind our first-responders, behind our military and behind each other.

Today we are no longer brothers and sisters of this country as promised; we are jaded, separated, and self-proclaimed victims of a society that has done nothing but afford us every possible opportunity for success and freedom.  Today we can claim to be oppressed and show disrespect to a country we all promised to protect 15 years ago.  Today we fight each other to the death rather than the enemy who murdered us for being American.  Today we make excuses instead of change, we no longer hold the responsible parties accountable for the demise of their own lives but instead blame a country who has done nothing but house ideals, morals, and opportunities for centuries.

I remember when we were the UNITED States of America and I pray it doesn’t take another tomorrow to remind us of the promises we made.

Oh Alice, how I love thee

~ Linda ~ Leave a comment

March 12

Bedtime stories

What was your favorite book as a child or adolescent? Did it influence the person you are now?

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll has long been one of my most favorite and influential books to date.  Though in truth there are so many that helped shape who I have become.  Each time I read Alice I take something new from the book.  It’s the only book that I can say has grown with me when reading it during childhood, adolescence, and adulthood.  In my opinion, it makes this particular story timeless.

The loss of childhood innocence, learning quickly that the world will think you too small or too tall, never really being the right fit for what is needed.  As an adolescent, this struck me to my core.  In fact, I held on to it for far too long.  During puberty and into early adulthood I had the horrible feeling of not being enough.  It took me a long time to grow out of that – to figure out that I’m good with me and I don’t need approval to be me.  Through this story, I, like Alice, learned that I am the right size, after all.  I learned not to let the opinions of others dictate who I was to become.

The Cheshire Cat, with his broad grin and fearless behavior, can be thought of in so many translations. As a child, I thought him to be the secret, imaginary friend that tried to get you in trouble by leading you down a path you didn’t know and then disappearing.  As an adolescent, I thought him to be cunning and too knowledgeable.  The best line, for me, was when she asked which way to go and after she answered she didn’t know where when he asked, he simply said it doesn’t matter she will end up somewhere.  How true is that?  We never really know which path to take, but no matter which one it is, it leads us somewhere.  There is hardly a right or wrong.

The Caterpillar is another example of changing each time I read this story.  A simple three-word question and with it says everything.  “Who are you?” She has such a difficult time answering him, you can only assume she doesn’t know who she is anymore.  She’s changed.  Don’t we all?  She insults the cantankerous caterpillar by explaining it is dreadful being only 3 inches tall after all the caterpillar is only 3 inches tall.  Alice who struggles with her own image judges harshly the caterpillar’s size though it’s the same as hers at the time.  We often run into cantankerous, confusing people, but it doesn’t do well to insult them.

This story mostly taught me about adversities in life.  How the world constantly changes and confuses.  It taught me to expect the unexpected and learn that sometimes there is no logical answer to it and that’s ok, we’ll get through that maze one way or the other.  In this way, the story taught me to be more open-minded, not to follow simply to follow and to go with my gut in all journeys through life.  Life is a mess of puzzles, problems, oddities, and no two people are the same or think the same; we have to learn to accept it and move on.

 

Other people’s opinion of you does not have to become your reality
Les Brown

 

1996

~ Linda ~ Leave a comment

March 5

Buffalo nickel

Dig through your couch cushions, your purse, or the floor of your car and look at the year printed on the first coin you find. What were you doing that year?

1996

I rummaged through the crap mess in the console of my truck and not only realized I desperately need to clean it but found a dime and on it was stamped 1996.

It was 1996, the year I graduated high school.  It should have been a time in my life of festivities and prepping for senior prom and senior skip day with my best friends while making memories of a lifetime; instead, I saw it as utterly painful.  I didn’t realize then that I was still making memories of a lifetime and that I would make a new friend to carry with me the rest of my life.  I lived in Ohio at the time because my father was transferred there during my senior year.  I met one of my very best friends there.  Both of us were dealt the horrible fate of spending our senior year away from our original high school and all our friends.  I moved from Atlanta and she from New Jersey (though originally from Alabama).  We formed an instant friendship.

We both had to leave high school boyfriends behind, obviously and neither of us was too pleased and we bonded over that quickly.  We became a quick cliché of Misery Likes Company and we kept to ourselves for the most part.  To make sure everyone knew just how miserable we were, we dressed in head to toe black on Valentine’s Day because, well, why not.  It was still the grunge era so we had a lot of black hanging around.

I graduated in May and by that time my father had been transferred again, this time to Florida though I was convinced I would be stopping and staying in Georgia.  I was eager to get back to Mr. EMT and could see no reason why I couldn’t stay on with a family member and attend college there.  1996, coincidentally was also the year the Olympics were in Atlanta so my parents rationalized that it wouldn’t be a good time for me to move back, and I should just wait a little while longer.  I didn’t realize at first that it was a ploy to try to keep me in Florida where they knew my future would probably be brighter since I would be in college.  They were smart, my parents, they knew me far better than I knew myself.

Fast forward to the end of 1996, after a few new friendships and entirely too much partying, I decided it was time to go back to Georgia.  I secretly bought a bus ticket, gave my 2-week notice at my job, and was prepared to leave my parents in almost a haste.  I knew they wouldn’t approve.  I knew they would be desperately disappointed, but I missed Mr. EMT so much that I felt I would lose him completely if I didn’t return.

My mother, being the brilliantly smart woman she is, somehow found out that I was leaving and she drove me there.  In almost complete silence.  It was one of the most heartbreaking moments of my life.  I could feel her anxiety, I could feel her fear, and I could feel her love.  She was going to let me go, but it was going to break her heart.  She knew the struggles I would face, but I was 18 and I wouldn’t hear anything about it.

1996 was a monumental year for me, almost as much as 1997 when Mr. EMT and I welcomed The Eldest long before we were prepared to be parents and started going through the struggles my mom knew were coming.

I’m losing my shit, y’all

~ Linda ~ 10 Comments

I’ve recently opened up (a little) about this little alien disease that seems to have taken up residence in my body.  Depression.  I really didn’t think I would have it or be diagnosed with it, but what do I know?  Nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  Yesterday was some interesting business.  Thank God for medication and my husband because honestly, I don’t know how else I would have made it out alive.  Oh, and my new doctor.  I guess I should thank him, too.  Any who…

Yesterday started off as any other Monday does…with eye rolls, sighs, grunts, feet stomping, and whines – the kids felt the same way, too.  It was their first day back after fall break (what the fuck is that by the way?  They get a break because of a season change? Pfft).  About an hour after I get to the office I get a call from the middle school that my kids attend.  Lovely.  I answer, hoping and praying it’s some stupid “will you bring me a book” phone call so I can tell them they’ve lost their ever-loving mind and go back to class.  No such luck.  It’s The Middle’s counselor.

I listen as she explains the events that have transpired this morning, concern from a friend of The Middle’s led them to an investigation and a sit-down.  She’s been self-harming and that one single time that happened months ago “as an experiment” has been on repeat for a while now.  It’s at this point I can’t breathe, I can’t see, I can’t think and I have no idea what happened to my voice.  I don’t know how much time passes before I’m able to mutter a cognitive sentence explaining I’m on my way to the school.

On the way there I call Mr. EMT, who’s exhausted and hasn’t yet fallen asleep from working the night before, and crazily go through what was just explained to me.  He’s still dressed and he will meet me at the school and suddenly I feel a little better.  He’s home, he’s awake, he’s going to help us through this.  I love my Mr. EMT.

At the school The Middle is in tears, Mr. EMT is his perfectly calm self, and I’m shaking uncontrollably as the counselor goes more in detail to what happened.  I’m numb.  I’m scared.  I’m broken.  My heart hurts for The Middle and all I want to do is grab her and hug her, all I want to do is tell her she’s going to be ok.  I wait for that until we’re in the safe bubble of our living room, away from prying eyes and awkwardness.  Here this beautiful little child sits and she’s scared, and she’s broken, and it takes everything inside me not to join her in the endless tears.  But I have to be strong.  I have to be the mom and her backbone.  We talk at length and we look at the paper her school counselor gave us with the name and number of a therapist who specializes in this and we all three agree it’s the best thing.

Mr. EMT eventually goes to sleep and The Middle and I spend lovely moments together talking about anything she wants to talk about.  It’s like any other day, but more.  I hate to leave her, I hate that I have an appointment with my new doctor, but I need to go to this more than ever.  We spend an hour going over me, what’s been going on, how I cope with things, and I let him know about the events of earlier and I lose it.  I crumble and I just cry.  It’s too much.  Everything is just too much.  I feel like a rubber band must feel when it’s stretched so far that it’s developing a hole just before it breaks.

He speaks of depression, how my medicine will help me out of it, and he mentions seeing the possibility of a nervous breakdown.  I’m not there yet, he says, but he fears I’m pretty close.  Maybe I am.  I gather myself back together and we talk for just over an hour.  He told me the one thing I’ve read from The Bloggess countless times that has always resonated with me, Depression Lies.  It’s not hopeless after all.

I left his office with a sliver of hope.  I might be losing my shit, but I have help finding it and putting it back together and most importantly, so does The Middle.  I think The Middle and I can both become better and we can do it together.  She won’t feel alone going to therapy because her mom needs it just as badly.  The scar we both carry inside and outside will heal with time.

This week’s prompt from Tina, at Not Just Another Mother Blogger.

“Best hidden away” and/or “scar”

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By the wayside

~ Linda ~ 5 Comments

There are so many positive attributes that have come from technological advances over time.  Computers have paved the way for personal growth instead of just being a big box in an office from which to run reports.  Social media has proven to be a means for people to unite from all over the world who would not normally do so.  It’s been a bridge that has connected people who would have lost contact for years, maybe even lifetimes.  Smartphones have made it easier to keep in contact, keep busy, organize life, and become more productive when used properly.  All these lovely creations have brought so much more depth to people’s lives by bringing others easily within reach – technically.

However, like all positives, there’s a negative somewhere.  It’s like my mom used to say, there is no hate without love and vice versa.  It’s the classic yin-yang of technology.  Because we’ve become so reliable on technology a lot of other areas of our lives have either changed or diminished altogether.

Tradition, as we knew it just twenty years ago, has all but gone by the wayside.  Ask the younger generations how many Christmas cards they receive, and of those how many are from their generation.  How many birthday invitations come in the mail for children?  Who, other than the ones older than generation X, sends birthday cards?  These simple traditions have been replaced by evites, texts, Facebook messages, posts, and emails.  The only letters I have hand-written and mailed in the last few years have been to my grandmother who is in a convent.  When is the last time you printed a picture to put in a photo album?  Personally, it’s been a couple years for me as I am just as guilty.

Never mind these simple traditions, what about the big ones?  We’ve become a society so busy with our technologically organized lives that we forget to plan for the big events or we’re too busy to do so.  Family reunions happen less and less.  One part of my extended family hasn’t been together for a holiday in years, and I mean years.  My children don’t even know who some of these people are and I grew up with them at every birthday, every holiday, and every family event.  Today, I see their posts via Facebook and pictures via Instagram.

Technology has begun to rob us of what we once held dear.  We may not be so wise of it right now, but it’s there creeping in slowly like the mist of morning fog.  Don’t let your traditions fall by the wayside, grab them and hold them and then pass them to the next generation like that old creepy doll collection from your great-great somebody or other.  You never know, one day they may be worth something.

This week, we borrow from Nonamedufus and his self-titled blog, “Taught By My Example.”

“I love to spoil them.” and/or “tradition”

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From a child’s eye

~ Linda ~ 12 Comments

Images courtesy of freeimages.co.uk
Images courtesy of freeimages.co.uk

I was 12 years old and my brother was graduating from Navy basic training in San Diego, CA.  I remember his going away party like it was yesterday.   This party, though, was one for the books.  We had a 3-floor split level home and one of my dad’s best friends brought a gas station sized American Flag to drape in front of our house. There were so many people, so many laughs, and so many tears.  I don’t really remember the day he left, but I remember the sadness that overtook the party at the end when everyone wished him well.

Fast forward 8 weeks and my parents let me know we were going to be flying to California to watch him graduate and spend a week touring.  California!  This was the summer of 1990, people!  Just after the movie, Pretty Woman was released.  You could imagine my excitement to see Rodeo Drive!  Of course, that was before I realized San Diego was not at all near Rodeo Drive.  (My dad, being the awesome man he is, later got us to Beverly Hills and the Hollywood sign for a day anyway)

After his graduation and after I melted over the fact that I used the same bathroom in the USO building from the scene in Top Gun where Maverick followed Charlie, my dad wanted to visit Mexico.  Wow!  Mexico? Another country?  This was quickly turning into the best vacation ever.

It wasn’t a long drive, I remember, and we ended up at what reminded me as the toll booths on our highways back in GA.  We go in and Dad gets us to Tijuana, Mexico.  Naturally, I had no way of knowing what to expect.

My dad wanted to go to the shops in the town to barter for items on which he knew he could get great deals.  We ended up going down a small open tunnel that smelled of urine, rotting food, and God only knows what else.  I was scared beyond any of my monsters under the bed imaginations I had up until now.  I remember women and men off to the side-eyeing us.  Luckily, my father stands 6’4″ so no one really talked to us.  Except this little girl who couldn’t have been more than 4 years old and there she stood with her coffee can looking at us with these huge sad, brown eyes.  My heart broke.  This was the first time I saw real pain and real sorrow.  She was hungry.  She was poor.  After much begging and pleading, I got my dad to give her some money.

The vacation ended up being very wonderful, but there are so many times in my life where I find myself looking back at that little girl in that tunnel, and for an instant, my problems seem so small.

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Location, Location, Location

~ Linda ~ Leave a comment

I’ve heard it’s all about ‘Location’.  What ‘it’ is and where that ‘location’ is, well that’s a secret unknown to me.  I’ve never claimed to have all the answers, or even how to find them.  I have, however, discovered recently that taking a bubble bath is quite a thought provoking adventure that leads to questions and sometimes answers.  It’s like all those popping bubbles whisper things, or maybe it’s just the wine.  I digress.

We recently moved…again…for the 3rd time in 17 or so years.  See, we were the stable parents living in the same place for years and then WHAM we’re pretending we’re gypsies with no firm roots to any one place.  That’s not true.  We really aren’t pretending.  I never claimed to be a great parent, either.  What’s with all this rambling today???  As I was trying to say…we moved.  It’s been an adjustment for us all, but much more positive than I thought it was going to be.

Maybe that, too, is a lie.  Maybe it’s not so positive that I’m deliriously giddy about the fact my kids are all scraped up.  Again, no claims on great parenting.  But they are in this condition because for the first time in their lives they are outside on bikes riding around with other kids more than they are inside watching TV or playing electronics.  It’s like they’re real kids.  Real kids who ride bikes.  Real kids who come in sweaty and gross from a day of play.  Real kids who laugh and fall down a lot.  Real kids who learned to ride a bike when they were little and haven’t been back on them at length again until now so they keep flailing around like little drunk bicyclers.  It’s pretty fucking awesome.

The lesson today kids is that Location really is everything.  The only trick is you just gotta find yours.  Hey! Didn’t I say I don’t have all the answers?

A father’s daughter

~ Linda ~ 1 Comment

My father called me yesterday, no doubt after a conversation with my mother who told him of my recent bouts of the weepies.  My father is a great, loving man with a heart deeper than the ocean.  I have always been a ‘daddy’s girl’ and I guess, even at my age today, I still am.

We spoke last night for an hour and a half.  I don’t know how your parents are, but in my family, my mother is the most loquacious and my father just sits back and listens so that he called me and we spoke in length, says a lot to me.  The last two days have been so refreshing to speak at such lengths with each of my parents.

He reminded me who I am, how I was raised, and how I don’t need anyone for me to be ok with me.  Something I seem to have forgotten these last 10 or so years.  He reminded me that we choose the people in our life because we want them there, not because we need them there.  He’s a wise man who has been through a lot in his 61 years, and his words ring true to my heart and soul.  He’s never been one to pick a side and when I’m wrong, he has no problem telling me so.  He doesn’t often offer advice without being asked, but I am so grateful that he did.

He’s so right – I have lost myself – I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be who I am and stand on my own two feet needing no one to hold me up.  He raised me to be a strong person, not take no for an answer when I deserve a yes, to be self-sufficient, and self-reliable.  He raised me to be fierce.  I am slowly cowering away, letting myself get wrapped up in some sense of doubting self-worth.  Maybe if I remember that I don’t need anyone, but instead want someone, I’ll figure out just what I want and what I don’t want – I’ll no longer be clouded by the preconceived notion that someone completes me.  If I can’t complete me, how can I expect to love me, how can I expect to love others, and how can I ever expect to be loved in return?

Being a daughter, a wife, a mother, a sister, a friend, or an employee does not define me.  Who I am, not what I am, is the definition of me.  It’s time I rediscover that.