Hey blog followers, I have started a go fund me account to help raise money for me to surprise my active duty brother in Korea. If you’d like to kick in, check it out!!
I see you laughing at me world. Trying to get me down. Trying to get the win. Kicking while I am down. You think you’re funny, don’t you. See how much I can handle. See if you can keep me from writing. See if you can keep me from telling my story. I know what you’re doing. It’s been working. My inspiration has been lacking. My dance ticket has stayed pegged at salsa in the wrong shoes for too many hours on feet that cannot even begin to spell salsa. What I mean is, I’ve been busy. Too busy to notice that I haven’t been writing. Too busy to notice that days have been trickling by at the speed of the newest Boeing jet.
Not only has time just begun pouring through the hourglass, the tests have been getting harder and harder! Sometimes I find that I skip blogging because I don’t want to hurt people’s feelings, or call them out for the world to see, but that really doesn’t benefit me at all. And afterall, isn’t this blogging business FOR ME? Not only that, let’s be realistic… there are not even that many people still reading this post.
I’m a bad friend. I’ve found that to be true. Hurts to say it outloud, or… in black and white… but it’s true. I am a bad friend. I don’t call as often as I should. I forget birthdays, anniversaries, etc. I have an ability to have a friend for a short amount of time, and then eventually drive her off in some way. Usually by being a selfish ass. It’s in my DNA. Not blaming my parents, just saying that’s how I am wired. I don’t have time for most women, they bug the shit out of me. So that leaves me with 2-5 people that I can really talk to at any given time. I feel lonely a lot. Not a pity party statement, just truth.
I get lost looking at the world. I stare off into the distance a lot. Wondering. Daydreaming. Wishing. Time spent in my cubicle feels like I am serving a sentence. Somehow I nearly forget that they compensate me for doing it, and they compensate me entirely too much. Which is weird. But it makes me come back over and over again.
My kids are all doing good, not good, kind of good, kind of crazy, kind of living…. kind of not. Weird sentence, I know. Let’s start with the baby.
Faith (the athlete) has been developing her soccer skills to new heights. She’s fucking really good at soccer. Good to the point that at tournaments, other team coaches have noticed her. There’s been talk of her moving to the Alabama Elite Team, that would play ball for the state, and travel nationally. This is all good. And fine. Except that this is massive, monufuckingmental time commitment. She’s on A Honor Roll. She wants to play college level soccer, possibly Olympic soccer. She also wants to be a doctor. No small feat in her future. She is a funny kid, smart, and determined. But she also has the attitude that follows big shot athletes. She feels like someone should do the small things for her. Like tie her shoes, carry her bag, make sure she’s under an umbrella. Sometimes I want to punch her in the face. All while being so proud of her for knowing that she’s “got it” that she’s worth it. She won’t ever learn to cook. She won’t ever make a Thanksgiving dinner. She’s that girl. She’s a 2015 woman already. She appreciates the women that burned their bras and fought for the right to vote, and she has shown no signs of slowing down as she continues to want to set records and break the rules wrapped around every sentence that starts with, “girls can’t”. But when you ask her to stop juggling the soccer ball in the kitchen, she rolls a mascaraless bright blue eye at me, and flips a gorgeous blonde ponytail as she turns around, and I find myself shooting her the bird as she walks out of the room. But I love her.
Hailey (the drama queen) is a flawless actress. She’s convincing in all roles. She’s funny, and mesmorizing. But her flair for the dramatic is caught somewhere between Heath Ledger, Brittney Spears, and Marilyn Monroe. She’s beautiful and knows it. She wants you to tell her. She wants everyone to tell her. She wants to be talked about. There is no such thing as bad publicity in Hailey’s mind. If people are talking about her, they’re talking about her. She’s wreckless and consequences be damned. But opposite of her sister, she will stop and help the little old lady cross the street. She will play with the crying baby in the stroller. She would notice someone’s tears. Although she cannot see her own. Her risky behavior is enough to keep me in a forever state of mother’s worry, mixed with nausea. One minute I am laughing with her, then at a funny joke she’s told, then I am laughing delusionally in shock and awe at the insanity of her actions. I think this must be how all crazy/genius people’s family must feel. On the verge of insanity themselves just from watching the daily train wreck.
Ryan (The Czar) is a junior through and through. He was born to be a leader. But right now, he’s learning how. Learning how to lead without being the asshole. Learning to lead by example. Learning to lead while walking the right path. He’s getting it. His maturity seems to have come swooping in all in a quick thunderstorm of bad choices he was making. Bad decision, bad results, bad things said by his dad and me. And just like a flower that was being choked out by weeds, he emerged brighter, more beautiful. His patience is growing… dare I say, I can see that the seeds have taken hold of him.
I don’t know when I am supposed to be blogging anymore. Time seems like a really expensive wine, that I don’t have the luxury to buy. I can see it up on the shelf, but I keep having to grab the $3 bottle on the bottom shelf, the one that gives a fucking hangover from hell. I know, I know, these days they pass. The busy ones. I know that. That’s the problem. In like 5 minutes I am going to wake up and be 40…. how the hell do I make the busy stop? Unwind, unravel… without completely unwinding and unraveling? I’m not even sure if I’ve done laundry this month. What month is it? Fuck, I’ve got to go.
Lately, I see things, or hear things… and all I can think is, WTF world? The stupidity, the lameness, the lack of any emotional response at all, is rampant. It’s a fat kid with a big stack of pancakes and two gallons of syrup, artery clogging mess. And we just keep swallowing. And swallowing.
So ISIS has two Japanese kids that they want 200 million dollars for, from Tokyo or they are going to shoot them in the head. In Missouri a 5-year-old just shot his 9 month old little brother in the head with a 22. Paris wants to sue Fox News. Seth Rogan compares American Sniper to Nazi Germany. WTF WORLD?
Walking through the grocery store, listening to kids argue with their parents, watching their parents on the phone… playing games, checking Facebook, doing anything except dealing with that banshee of a child.
Scan through my kid’s friends on their phones and iPods, listen to the stories of high school drugs, sex, and craziness. Kids showing up to class on meth. Teachers and schools have padded the grading scale to the point that failure is damn near impossible. We will just dump these idiot children out into society at 18. Kids that thought they actually did pass school, because they did pull D’s, after their teacher gave them extra credit for the 27th time and forced them to do it. Which by the way, the extra credit assignment was simply signing a piece of paper, worth 200 point test grade. WTF WORLD??
Entitlement. Oh dear Lord the entitlement. It’s vomit worthy. It’s nauseating.
I can’t stand the thought that tonight is another President Speech. No one cares. What the talking head says never seems to pan out. Change. Togetherness. Blah blah blah. Exhausting. Disgusting. Entitled. Sick of listening. Turn it off. Go play with my kids. Wait for the rapture. Or the zombies. Whatever, whichever. However. WTF world???
I just found a journal entry from a year or so ago… thought I would share….
It’s 1991. The address is 1991 as well, mom says it’s a sign. My brother, sister and I are running through the brush and shredding our legs on wild blackberry bushes. My 3 year old sister is easily distracted by the fruit, her hands and face already stained a brilliant purple. My brother is running from tree to tree, examining them for possible fort locations.
My parents are standing on the red dirt road watching us play on the land that will soon be our yard. They’re hugging, giggling, and daydreaming outloud.
“We can put the mailbox here,” she gleams.
“And Christmas lights in all of these trees,” he follows.
They’re in their own world. A world sparkling with possibility. As the year floats by; the land is cleared, a well is dug, water pipes lain, power trenches dug, septic tank installed, all by our hands. They would laugh and instruct us, as we helped by carrying our little sand buckets of dirt and gravel.
“One day this yard will be nothing but grass, you’ll be able to run barefoot,” she would say. Us kids would make cuckoo expressions behind her back when she would talk about the imaginary grass.
As the days continued to pass, I would watch from the kitchen window of the trailer as I did the dishes. She would work the soil, spread the seeds, water, and grow. She brought life to the yard. Planting, pruning, growing. The same was happening inside the house…..
that was it, the end of a rambling journal entry… but I loved it. Wanted to share!
There are these moments when your children are small, when they throw tantrums or vomit down the front of your white pantsuit… that you simply forgive and forget. The reason you do this is because 20 minutes later, that same day, their cheeks look like cherubs, they snuggle in your lap and tell you how much they love you, or they fall asleep and look like sunshine breaking through on a cloudy day. My point… little kids have a way of being beautiful after they’ve been monsters. So you keep loving them. You keep feeding them. You keep allowing them oxygen.
But, the darndest thing happens. The monsters just keep getting bigger. One morning you wake-up to find that a full-fledged teenager has rolled out of bed in your child’s room. No more cherub cheeks. No more sunshine. Nope. They’re always cloudy. They walk through the day with a rain cloud above their head and at any given time they can call lightning down to strike you where you stand if you happen to disagree with them, don’t hand them food, or dare I even whisper…. ask them to wash a cup.
Your natural instinct is to run from these beasts. To arm yourself with kitchen knives and a helmet. To sleep with your door locked, naturally wild beasts are nocturnal. They’ve lost their means to communicate, becoming grunting, glaring, eye-rolling zombies of the sweet angelic faces you can vaguely remember from their youth. From somewhere in the back of your mind, the words to an old song you know comes forth and smacks you with the truth, “You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave….” oh dear Lord. I’m trapped.
I tiptoe through the house, daring wake the monsters. Let them sleep. Or meditate. Or whatever it is they are doing while they float 6 feet above their bed, pentagrams drawn on the floor. I have clean laundry. Dare I knock? I stand and throw it toward their bed, they’ll never notice anyway, as it mixes with the clean/dirty laundry already there.
I need a hero.