7 posts tagged “family”

The party pics:

Nate had fun yesterday.  I am struggling with some grown up emotions over the fact that I invited over 20 families to this party, spent nearly $300 on it, and only 5 children came.  It's probably nothing more than a "summer birthday" party thing.  However I came home and seriously mourned my previous life... the friends, the family events, the social circle... At nearly 33 years old, this is not the life I imagined.  All my friends have pretty much disappeared since my divorce and I haven't had time to make new ones... my family is either too busy or wrapped up in their own bitterness about their lives (my mom) to spend time with... and my love life is in the proverbial trash can. 

I keep remembering back to birthday parties from a few years ago... we would have 50 parents and kids... everyone loved coming to our house or to a party we hosted.  People looked at John and I as the model couple, we had the house, the cars, the friends, the supportive family.  How did it all fall apart?  My life is so very different now and somehow I lost the majority of my support system. 

And now I feel like everything I do is doomed to failure... And I feel like my kids are the one's suffering for it.  I know they want that "family" aspect of our life back too.  When John and I get along and start talking on the phone, Jenna will ask "Are you and Daddy getting back together?".  When Blue and I were together, they were constantly asking him when he was going to marry me and move to Texas.    And God it's sooooo much work doing it all by myself.  I just wish I had someone to share the everyday ups and downs... someone to sit next to at the end of the day and lean on.  Usually, I overcompensate for that by spending a little of each evening cuddling with the kids on the couch and reviewing our day.  Giggling and Sharing.  Loving and Laughing.

Now, the kids will be with their Dad all this week for one of his two weeks this summer (he gets them again for a week in August).  You would think I'd be excited about a prospect of no kids to take care of for an entire week.  Instead I am just really sad and lonely.

And someday they will grow up and have lives of their own.  And I guess just thinking about it... all that I've lost... all that I had planned for my life and haven't achieved... well it's overwhelming and depressing. 

I really do hate my life sometimes. 

I was eight years old when I learned about the "birds and bees."

It was a sunny afternoon, I had just dropped my backpack down at the front door and went straight to the kitchen for a snack.  My mom was in there getting some stuff ready for dinner, I could hear my little sister in the back room playing with her dolls.

"Mom, what's a 'virgin'?"

She looked up from the stove at me with wide-eyes and then slowly narrowed them, spatula in the air.  Her shoulders slumped and she said, "Give me just a minute here and we'll talk about that.  Where did you hear that word?"

"I was at Bible Class today and they kept talking about 'The Virgin Mary'.  Why did they call her a 'virgin'?  ... Oh and I heard it on a T.V. show the other day too, but that time they were talking about a guy at their school."

She quietly finished making dinner, set it to the side to stay warm and told me to come sit on the couch in the living room.  She brought a pencil and a pad of paper with her.  Man, she meant business.  This was not going to be any explanation.

Curiously I looked at her as I sat down, feeling a bit apprehensive at her seriousness. 

A few diagrams later she had thoroughly explained the female reproductive system, the male reproductive system and how they delicately worked together to make a baby.  Following that was a stern lecture about how this process was meant by God to be an act between a husband and wife that loved each other. 

And then she began to cry. 

Tell an eight-year-old little girl that a penis goes in a vagina to make a baby and THEN start crying... and you have pretty much engraved the moment into her mind forever.  And possibly scared the living day lights out of her.

The reason for the tears was soon explained.  My mother put her hand on my shoulder as tears streamed down her face and said that sometimes people who weren't married fell in love and made babies.  That it was NEVER a mistake, it just wasn't the way God intended it and made it much harder for everyone involved.

A light bulb began to go off in my head.  I realized that most kids probably don't remember their parent's wedding day like I did.  I remember it because I was 3 years old on that day.  And the man I now called "Daddy" didn't actually meet me until I was old enough to know I was the only kid in nursery school that didn't have a daddy.

I looked at my mom and I started to cry too.  "Who is my daddy?"

She hugged me and told me that someday when I was old enough to know, she would tell me more, and if I wanted to meet him, that she would be okay with it.  For now, my Daddy was the man that came to every school program, that took us to the zoo, and who was the only person I wanted when I fell off my bike and skinned my knee.  She said that making a baby didn't make you a daddy... loving a child like they were your own did.

Finally I sighed and wiped my tears, looked back down at the drawing my mother had made me.  An hour or so had passed since I had gotten home from school.  From the drawings I looked back at my mothers face, eyes rimmed red with tears, but with a soft smile on her face. 

"But, I still don't know what 'virgin' means." 

At that, my mother started laughing and so did I.

Just stopping in to share a few photos from hanging poolside yesterday and my sister's BarBque last night.  Fun times.  Not sure what we'll do tomorrow... maybe the pool again, but I am still a little pink from yesterday, so we'll see.

Hope everyone is enjoying the long weekend!

I was just thinking about what made me want to become a writer.  My earliest short-story was written in second grade, for Mrs. Walker, as an extra credit assignment.  It was right before Christmas, and I had decided to get my "My Little Pony" stamps out and illustrate a story about Jesus's birth, including some of my favorite pony characters, instead of the usual sheep and donkey.  The pink and red ponies decorated the outer margins, surrounding a magical story about a baby's birth and how the ponies traveled back in time to witness it.  I still have it packed away in a memory box somewhere.

Mrs. Walker was very impressed with my creativity, grammar and imaginiation (but not so much my spelling - I still struggle with that).  Her praise and encouragement became a drug and it started a habit and joy of writing and sharing. 

In Junior High I dabbled in poetry.  Sappy prose about kissing boys and losing a best friend.  Much of it was unoriginal, but it did all rhyme, even if the tempo was a little faulty at times.  I could sit for hours composing them, filling my head with words and emotion and then putting it down on paper.

High School brought out my true voice through writing.  I was both on our newspaper staff and in a Creative Writing class, as well as an Advanced-Placement Honors English.  Every waking hour was about reading, researching, anaylzing and writing.  And I kept a detailed journal of writing that wasn't school assigned as well. 

This was all pre-computers, and we didn't own a typewriter, so my middle finger on my right hand still bears a rough callus from years of putting pen to paper, literally.  Most of the time the tips of my fingers and the bottom of my hand was stained with ink or pencil shavings.  I always had a notebook in hand... in order to interview someone for a story, or just to write a long love letter to my boyfriend.  I wrote pages and pages everyday.

It wasn't until recently that I realized what inspired my love of story-telling. 

While I was sitting down, trying to think of something to write about, dozens of interesting stories about my mother's life became flooding back to me.  I am sure this is because my mom and I stayed up until 3 am on Saturday going through family history and geneaology on both sides.  Names and stories I've heard hundreds of times sitting at the kitchen table with her came flooding back.

Of course I am a writer... a story teller... my mother had such a descriptive way of telling a story when we were children, it just came naturally to me.  Someday I'd like to write her memoirs.  She has led such a hard, but intersting life.  I want to carry on her legacy and family history for generations to come.

Thanks mom for not only giving birth to me, but for sharing a part of yourself through your stories, so that I could find who I needed to be.

I've decided it's impossible to get three people to look at the camera, smile and keep their eyes open all at the same time.  Especially when two of them are children.  Even if I have a tripod and a remote control.  Well I tried my best.  Ha.

Today is hard.  Every year of my life, Christmas Eve has been a HUGE day.  Preperations, wrapping, cooking, dressing up, church, family, presents, music, laughter.  This year there will be none of that.

I am trying to view it as just another day.  We had our family celebration on Saturday (pics below).  It was great, and just like every other Christmas Eve with them... however it WASN'T Christmas Eve.

Today is.

And I am alone.

I let John keep the kids for an extra day and they won't be back until later tonight.  My sisters are with their husband and significant other's families.  My parents are just taking it easy... they didn't even put a tree up at their house this year.

I know our lives are going to change.  I accept this.  It just sucks.

I think Mimosa's for breakfast sound good. 

Today I forgive you. 

You are my father that never knew me.

You are the drunk frat boy that raped me.

You are the husband that cheated on me.

You are the love that lied to me.

You are the friend that betrayed me.

You are the mother that turned her back on me.

You are the sister who critisizes me.

You are the boss that made my life hell for a year.

You are a gossiper.

You are the self-righteous.

You are me.

I forgive you.