Reminded me I’m a terrible daughter by saying he’s learned not to expect phone calls from his kids.
He talked for almost half an hour.
I was yawning like crazy.
Didn’t want to miss a daily post.
Promised to call home tomorrow then remembered I had plans 🤦♀️. But I’ll still try to call him somehow. I don’t think he’s doing well, and that hurts me. Even more so because I’m bad at being a daughter.
Call your parents, if you have them. If not, call a friend. They need you even if they don’t need you.
Like everyone says, “it happens so fast.” And boy are they right. I can still see you for the first time, in my arms all puffy and pink.
I can still see you in your father’s arms, and the glow on his face when he looked upon yours.
I can still see you sleeping at home. I can still see the you and I, you sleeping peacefully in my arms as I struggle to stay awake in that rocking chair, knowing that once I lay you down you will wake back up.
I can still see you fussing with your first teeth coming in, we could not settle you for long.
I can still see you giving up the pacifier.
Honestly I was trying to get you to take it so I could go back to sleep after you went back to sleep but you were like, “no my dude.” Never took it again.
The bottle weening, and then the sippy cup weening, the first steps, the dime incident—which was also the first emergency room visit. The second visit being the minor head wound.
FYI head wounds are bleeders. They’ll bleed like crazy and it’ll just be a scratch.
Potty training was THE WORST. Like, sometimes I can’t believe we all got through that relatively unscathed.
You are still my reason for living and still sometimes on my last nerve. You are amazing and smart and silly and ridiculous and frustrating and special and bonkers and wonderful.
You are the best thing to ever happen to me but I still don’t recommend parenthood because it is stressful and expensive and exhausting and the most amazing thing in the whole world.
I will never ever love another creature or thing on this earth like I love you, and the whole of my heart is yours. You above all else always.
I would kill a man (or woman, I do not discriminate based on gender) for you, within reason. Give me a good reason, to do it. This is by no means me admitting to murder.
If anyone ever hurts you they will experience the wrath of god by my own hand. There is no other Hell like a mother scorned. I’m not very strong but I’ll go down swinging!
This got really dark really fast lol
I want nothing but the best for you and I push you through your homework and trying because it’ll help you in the long run. And yes, I don’t let you eat constantly because it’s not good for you. I don’t want you to be like me. I don’t want you to be shaped like me. Is that bad? I often wonder if I’m being a bad mom because of that.
I want you to be happy. No matter what you choose to do in life, I want it to be something you love and that makes you happy.
But you cannot be a cash register—Imean cashier— it won’t make you happy trust me. Oh wait. Last time you said you wanted to be a scientist.
We are not rich, but we try really hard to give you everything you need and a little of what you want. And to be honest you get more than a little of what you want. You are and will always be our only child and we have a hard time not spoiling you, just a little.
Know, always, that no matter what, you are loved. You are loved my many. Loved beyond measure, loved without buts, conditions, or circumstances. You are loved with all of your flaws and imperfections, with all your mistakes and bad decisions.
“Something terrible has happened.” I told my husband. Of course I warned him that the terrible thing isn’t terrible in the sense of, say, someone died. But terrible in the sense of, utter shock.
Against my will and best wishes I have been bluntly reminded that time stops for no man, and no matter how hard you wish to believe, things will change, and children will grow. Whether you like it or not.
My niece, the first female grandchild to be born into the family, has gotten her period.
Now, in ten or fifteen years, when she’s old enough to register that her wealthy, famous, philanthropic aunt (I’m pretending here) has a blog, and she’s spent a late night reading though the old archives of said blog, she will be utterly embarrassed that I told the internet she got her period. And I look forward to her cringe-face when she does.
Of course, unless you know either of us, you won’t know her name or anything about her other than her “coming of age”, as I intend. Except for, of course, her age. Which happens to be a part of the reason why I’m so distraught.
SHE’S HOW OLD?!
You see, she’s nine. NINE. NINE. FREAKING. YEARS. OLD. When did this start happening before a kid reached the decade mark?! I was at least 12, maybe 13. That was also a million years ago.
How is it a child’s body can become mature before they mature mentally. That isn’t to say she’s not smart, my niece. But she’s also a huge goofball, loud, and stubborn. Of course all that is natural in our line of women, but still. I can look at her and know she’s not ready for this.
And yet there is no magic pill or injection with yearly booster that can pause the development of a person until their brain reaches the right stage of growth. If anyone knows of such a thing still in R&D, hit me up. I have a pickle jar of change to lob at the nearest scientist.
And the simple fact that this country, this would, is not currently built with women, especially young fertile women, in mind, makes this all the more gut wrenching.
Of course my mind goes straight to the 10 year old who was raped and sought an abortion. The fact that the violation of a child barely a decade into life happened is one disgusting matter. But knowing that there are people out there who would rather risk the 10 year old’s life and force her to carry an unwanted pregnancy to term, chills me to my core.
If some low life with a protruding part and an evil idea in his head chose to harm my niece, she could not only be a victim, but forced into that burden as well.
Not that, between myself, my sister, and my brother-in-law, the perpetrator would love to see another day. (Legally I feel like I should say that we are in no shape, form, or fashion, planning to, nor have we committed any sort of crime.)
Parents: educate your children
Male or female or whatever. Educate your kids. while I know my sister has already started the conversation well before “tragedy” struck, there’s still more to come.
Men and boys have it easy. The thought that my niece has to experience Aunt Flo’s monthly visit now and until menopause, makes my heart hurt for her. Boys don’t have to deal with it. They get the whole change of voice, they get taller, and facial hair that society doesn’t tell them is gross and should be promptly removed. Girls have to start buying special products that cost way more than something we have to have should.
My sister and I are talking about having a conversation with my niece, as women. I hope to be ready for it, so we can help her with this gawdawful transition.
It has occurred to me
That because of this new path she has to travel in life, and the small but evident age gap between them, she and my child, who have been so close, close enough for The Kid to call my niece her “best friend”, might grow apart. That’s not to say I think my niece will change overnight. But it’ll be an experience they cannot share in just yet.
It also reminds me that in roughly two years The Kid could be going though the same thing.
Hopefully by then I’m on sufficient amounts of medically prescribed “assistance” to get me through the whole thing.
She sees a thing and wants said thing. She’s had it in her head before, but it’s been a while. I’ve had to explain to her multiple times in the last 48 hours that it costs money we don’t have.
It goes without saying that she has, at least once, said, “But were RICH!”
I wish kid. I wish.
I understand that kids her age don’t really understand how hard money is to come by, or inflation and gas prices. But she’s just repeatedly reminding me how broke I am.
Even though she’s had some trouble the last year or so, she is an amazing kid, and she deserves all the things she wants in life. I just don’t have the means with which to give them to her.
But here’s how silly my child can be. She asked, when we were supposed to be going to sleep, if they (Build-a-Bear) has unicorns. Unicorns are the be all end all for her. I said I don’t know, probably. I told her if I were going to Build-a-Bear, of course I’d want to make one, I wonder if they have T-rex’s. She said, but what’s your favorite animal? BESIDES a TRex. I said, I dunno, a bird probably?
So we insisted that we look at their offerings. We saw a lot of animals, including a TRex and a velociraptor. We had to search for it, but we found a unicorn, and she loved it.
My hope and goal is to save up enough to take her to Build-a-Bear for her birthday. It’s toward the end of the year, so maybe about six months is enough time. The closest location to me, I believe is in Charleston. it would be an amazing thing to be able to give her.
This is not unusual she “hates” it. “I don’t want too!” She says.
So I gave her a warning. “You have until I get this bath run…”
So dad decides to walk in the room. I know full well he ain’t gonna be able to get her to do anything. And then I hear her crying over the sound of water running into the tub.
I go in there and cannot keep a straight face. The Hubs is just sitting in the chair and The Kid is crying in the loveseat. But I can tell (you just can as a parent) that these are not true tears. These are crocodile tears. She’s faking it. She’s getting really good at faking it.
So I straighten my face up, ask her if she’s done. She stops the fake tears, and I have to raise my voice. Not yelling or screaming. But clearly showing her I am the boss, not her.
Eventually she reluctantly comes to the bathroom for the bath. And no time later, she’s back to telling me, “you’re the meat mommy in the whole world.” And “guess whose my favorite in the whole world?” And the ever amazing, “you’re my favorite mommy.”
Kid I’m your only mommy. But I ain’t mad.
She is young yet. Less than ten. She has not been jaded or broken or wounded by the world, or worst of all, a parent. She’s not had her heart truly broken by someone she can trust, someone she loves.
It’ll happen one day. If it is by lort, punish me for eternity because I would never harm that child if I can help it. But if someone else does it they have me to deal with. And my wrath will be mighty.
But seeking vengeance for my baby’s broken heart will not heal it. And one day she will be hurt and she’ll see she cannot be so quick to forgive. Though I wish I could keep her pure and loving and happy for ever.
Memorial Day started as a day to remember and honor the lives of United States military personnel lost in service. But like all national holidays, Memorial Day has morphed into something else.
Now, every year families get together and purchase mass manufactured (questionable quality) Memorial Flowers from big box retailers.
Now while, in my decade plus of working in retail, I have seen the quality of these flowers improve, they’re still expensive. Especially if you’ve got a lot of graves to cover.
This post is not about Memorial Day. This post is about how life and death are both expensive.
Flower Power
My Mother-in-Law, a widow, every year spends hundreds of dollars on handmade memorial flowers. She buys them for her husband, her son, and her daughter-in-law, who all passed in the years I’ve known them. But she also buys them for her siblings and parents, and a little brother (I think) she lost when he was very young.
She usually buys them for her In-Laws, but another family member took care of those this year, making travel and expense easier. She purchases these off one of The Husband’s cousins.
I recently asked The Hubs, “when your mom is gone, are you going to buy all these flowers and put them on yourself?”
His answer was that probably definitely for his parents and brother and sister in law.
When my mother passed, she was cremated. It was one of the things she said she wanted, more than once. She had a habit of not making her mind up, and she also didn’t want a financial burden put on us. And she knew that cremation was much less expensive than burial.
And I’ve been asked on occasion if I’ve felt like I’m missing out because I have no where to put flowers, or visit her. My response is always no.
Why? Because not only do I have what I like to affectionately call a shrine—a little shelf on the wall with her picture, a framed lighthouse postcard from a friend (hi, Selena), a figurine of the lighthouse where we spread most of her ashes, a small bottle of her ashes, and a really weather beaten Pepsi can—but I feel like she’s with me every day.
But also, these physical forms we walk around in, these squishy, fragile, sacks of meat with faulty parts and an expiration date, these are nothing. Even those who are not religious know that we do not linger here when our bodies expire.
And eventually there will come a time when we are each forgotten. For some it may take long, some are forgotten in a single generation.
No, do not buy flowers for to decorate a marble or granite slab of stone resting atop six feet of dirt. You might on day but a body in that box, with a full suit, nicely done hair, and makeup to hide the death. But eventually that box will hold nothing but old bones and ratty textiles.
Not only do I not want to be an expense or a burden while alive—at some point I’ll no longer be able to work and will be taking up space—but don’t waste your hard earned money on something I’ve left behind.
Like a hermit crab out grows it’s shell and leaves it behind, once we die we don’t linger. So, unless necromancy becomes mainstream, compost me (unless of course state law STILL forbids it). Otherwise, toss me in an oven and roast me at 1400 degrees Fahrenheit until crispy.
Then take what’s left and do with it what you will. There are options.
Before mom died, she’d said, amount other things, to spread her ashes at a lighthouse. She had a particular one in mind but could never remember it. I know she’d have been happy with where we chose.
But, I also think, that despite her desire to not have money “wasted” on her, she would have been perfectly content with the money spent. Because all four of her kids were under the same roof, and did something together, because of her.
Amount of Money doesn’t determine how much love there is.
Just because you spend hundreds of dollars on flowers, every single year, to decorate a stone above a box in the ground, doesn’t mean that you’re honoring that memory any better than anyone else. There are more meaningful less commercial ways to do it.
But as I always say, I’m no expert, and I’m no one’s boss (except The Kid, but that’s a post for another time). If it makes you happy, and you have the means to do so, honor the memory of your loved one how you see fit. Just don’t judge others for the way they do it.
And don’t wait until THE WEEKEND OF MEMORIAL DAY to do it and expect YOUR LOCAL RETAILER to still have what you want.
She told me that I had been her rock. She had been in and out of the hospital for four months and I’d been there for most of it. I was there for her because it made me feel better to be near her when she was sick.
Mostly because out of all four of her kids, I lived the furthest away, and wasn’t able to see her as much as I would have liked.
Those were the last words she said to me. She’ had said them as I left her in the hospital, by herself, hours away from home. I had no idea the next time I saw her she would be in and out of consciousness.
I know those were her last words to be.
It hadn’t occurred to me at the time that they’d be her last. Had I known that’d be the last time I’d hear her voice I wouldn’t have left that room.
Thinking about it now I realize I haven’t grieved for her in a while. Not just felt sad that she’s not here anymore. I do that daily. But really grieved. I remain wrapped up in my own frustration and depression and honestly constant physical pain of some sort.
Oh and mindlessly watching short videos on the internets.
I have a tick tack.
On Tuesday (4/19) it’ll be four years since she died. I have to work that day. It’s my least favorite work day. I hate Tuesdays. I’m sure I’ll be my usual borderline angry but trying to hide it self.
But with a touch of sad.
She would have loved my Kid’s gap-tooth grin. She would have loved watching the grandbabies hunt eggs, and my oldest nephew being a goofball. She would have enjoyed sitting with us outside while the kids played. She would have liked my brother‘a fiancé, I think. I’ve only met her a few times. But mom liked everyone, at least until they did her dirty.
I had no idea that writing a blog post about her would be hard. I’m laying next to my my sleeping Kid, writing this, trying not to cry.
The pain of loss, of losing someone you love so much, it never goes away. It is a wound that never heals. And it can never heal because we keep—whether intentional or not—picking at the scab that covers it. We let it bleed a little.
But I will not lie and say that it doesn’t get a little easier to cope with the pain. Over time, you get used to it. It’s like an uncomfortable buzzing sound coming from your ceiling fan. But you cannot sleep without the cool air so you leave it on. And eventually you forget it.
Or how you can always see your nose, your brain just erases it.
All I know is that every day for the last four years my heart has ached and wished she was still here. Eventually I stopped crying every day. But sometimes I hear a sad song, or watch the video from her surprise 60th Birthday party. And I peel away the scab and let the wound bleed.
Doing so sometimes feels like a little bit of therapy. But then I calm down, dry my eyes. And maybe I should start remembering that I’m her rock. Even if rocks gotta cry.
I’ve been pretty sick recently. Okay all of 2022, actually. But lately it’s been the flu. She got it from school and passed it on to her family. Mostly me. So yesterday, my day off work, I said, “I’m going to sleep all day and read.”
So after her and the hubs left for school/work, I went back to sleep. At around 10:30 I woke up and stretched, which caused the start of a devil cramp (a persistent muscle cramp in my legs that cannot be easily ended or reversed by stretches, that also hurts like hell).
I already felt like trash, sinus pressure in my head, coughing, etc. and I just wanted to sleep. But I had to get up and walk off this cramp instead of flexing it away and going back to sleep. So yes. I cried.
Eventually it went away and I made a big old cup of ice water and a sandwich and had lunch.
Fast forward to the afternoon (I took another short nap later) and I’ve picked the Kid up from school and we’re doing homework. Now, when she has a bad day her teacher emails me after school. These emails, while greatly appreciated, usually don’t come until too late. IE after we’ve finished homework and she’s gotten her iPad time.
If she’s had a bad day, and we know in advance, we do not let her have iPad time and we have a conversation about her behavior and what can be done.
I did not get the email until after she was in her iPad and we were having dinner. We had the conversation anyway, and I made sure she understood that had I know beforehand about her behavior, she wouldn’t have had her iPad.
But it turns out her bad behavior began at about 10:30. The same time I had a mini emotional breakdown due to a muscle cramp.
Now, she has been sick lately and is on the tail end of getting over the flu (her school excuse had her going back today). So it could be and was still feeling off and needed to transition back into her school routine. in fact this was probably it.
But the exact same time?
Anyway I’ve been thinking about this for some time now, and I’m going to experiment. Today is Tuesday. My least favorite day at work, and I tend to have emotional breakdowns, just not visibly, on these days.
My experiment will be me trying to have the best day ever. Let’s see if she does too.
So I was sitting here, I’ve been up since 6am, and I’m trying/struggling to not fall asleep because The Kid has been sick and I wanna be awake if she needs me.
And I decide to do I tiny bit of self care and massage some of my homemade all natural nail and cuticle balm (shameless plug) into my nails, and the lavender scent is not helping my wakefulness. My whole plan was to stay awake as long as possible by reading. Haven’t stayed up late reading in a long time.
But somehow I manage to start thinking about how sometimes when my dad would drive me back to college after my bi-weekly home visit (I was unlicensed to the extent my learner’s permit—which took five tries to get the first time—expired, and grocery and laundry money coincided with Dad’s paychecks) we would stop at this little ice cream stand in a small town not far from home, and we’d get milkshakes.
Dad also liked to count the dead animals, laugh about “shoo poke cat” skunks, and point out flocks of turkeys in the hills.
He also quite enjoyed the “scenic routes”. That man knows how to get anywhere in all kinds of ways. I swear there’s a hillbilly GPS in his noggin with the longest routes with the best views highlighted.
He can fix just about anything and if he can’t do it he know someone who can. He knows literally everybody, actually.
Except the time he told me I didn’t need to flip the breaker to change a ceiling fan, I’d trust him with anything. Almost.
He’s put new doors on our house—cutting them to fit when necessary. He installed a new-to-us window when I was angry and threw a popcorn tin on my bed, which bounced into my window. He wasn’t happy about it.
There was this one time, we bought a computer off my uncle. It worked fine (for Windows MILLENNIUM EDITION) but I wanted to use the floppy disc drive (yes, I’m old) to save stories too. But I couldn’t get the disc into the drive.
So my dad, who could barely read, never touched a computer, got a screwdriver, opened it up, popped the face off , and shined a light inside.
My small cousins had shoved A PLASTIC MILK JUG RING AND A DORITO into the floppy drive of the computer. No wonder we got it so cheap. They thought they ruined it with the millennium edition update.
From swapping out engines and transmissions in vehicles, to using black electrical tape on open wounds, to knife making and wood carving, my dad could do just about anything.
Also that “can barely read” thing? Yeah he taught himself how to read so he could get his concealed carry permit.
Oh and can’t forget to mention how proud he was of his new dentures.
No idea why my daddy suddenly came to mind. I don’t call him enough, and I feel like a bad daughter for it. But I do think about him a lot. He’s almost 70, his health isn’t what it used to be, and after a heart attack, a quadruple bypass years later, diabetes and a lifetime of smoking it wasn’t much to begin with.
He retired after mom died, and I’m starting to believed when he says he shouldn’t have stopped working. Not that he could have worked much longer, but it kept him busy and gave him a purpose.
Thanks for reading this mini tribute to my silly old dad. Had absolutely no plans to post today, but he came up. I’m gonna see if I can convince my kid to come sleep with me.
Here’s a poorly shot and zoomed in video of a cardinal.
So, once or twice a week my kid’s teacher has her students write their numbers. This week it’s 401-500. The Kid struggles with it because “it’s boring”. Also the ADHD doesn’t help. I, however, have discovered ways of distracting her into thinking it’s a game. One such way was telling her I would write a story while she wrote her numbers. And I wanted to see how many she could write before I finished the story.
The random words were: Unicorn, Honey badger, and Potato. This is that story.
Once upon a time, Huey the Honey Badger was looking for dinner. He was running through the forest, his tummy was growling. He stepped in a hole abs rolled down a hill into a part of the forest he has never been in before.
When he picked himself up, he looked around. What he saw could only be described as magical! There was a pond sparking with glittery pink water. The trees were hung with mysterious and delectable looking fruit, and the gentle breeze smelled of cotton candy.
Huey was so hungry he couldn’t decide whether he was dreaming or not. Then from between the blue and yellow trees there stepped a beautiful creature he had never seen before. “Are you all right?” It asked. It was white with rainbow hair and tail, and silvery horn in it’s head.
“I’m okay,” Huey said. “Where am I?” He asked.
“You are in Candyland. I am Ursula the Unicorn.”
Just them Huey’s tum rumbled. “Oh dear,” said Ursula, “you sound hungry! But if you eat anything here you can never leave!” She said.
Huey was sad. He had friends back home.
“Oh wait!” Ursula said. She used her nose to push something toward him. “This plain brown thing is not of this land. Perhaps you can eat it and return again!”
Huey looked at the brown thing. “Oh that’s just a potato!” He said. “I love potatoes!” Huey munched on the potato filling his empty stomach. “That was satisfying, thank you!”
“You’re welcome!” Said Ursula. “If you leave you will be able to return and we can become friends!”
Huey found his way home but promised to return so he and Ursula could become friends. It took many days for him to find the hole he had tripped him, that caused him to fall down the hill into Candyland. But he made sure to take a tasty potato snack when he went!
And Huey the Honey Badger, and Ursula the Unicorn did become best friends!
It worked.
I managed to drag it out for a bit so she could “beat me” and she finished writing the rest of her numbers!
This story is absolutely silly, completely bonkers, and total nonsense. But I kinda love it. If I had more time in my hands and the skill with which to do it, I would illustrate it!
Anyway, that’s my post for today, even if it’s after 10pm and I’m about to doze off! Have a good one, folks!
Crash Landing 