No Excuses!

I am in Ohio this weekend to visit my family. I have seen them all except for my mother who still refuses to speak to me. She also still refuses to speak to my aunt simply because my aunt still insists on being in my life. All of my family, in fact, insists on continuing a relationship with me. I don't deserve them but they do see that I have changed and am trying to make ammends with them.

I spoke in length to my daughter last night. She is 22 years old and I have not been in her life for some years. Some of these years were because of extenuating circumstances that were not entirely my fault. I had obstacles in my way but I know that they were obstacles that I could have overcome had I invested the time and energy. I gave up. No excuses! I just simply lost the will to fight. Yet my children should have been the one thing that I should never stop fighting for. No matter my faults and flaws, they love me still. I know that they love me because I love them so fiercely.

I have made it a point in my life to never speak ill of their father. He may have been a lousy husband but he has always been the best father that he could be. I know this because my children have grown to be the wonderful people they are today. I did, however, decide to relate a small portion of my experience of being married to their father last night when I spoke candidly to my daughter. I prefaced the conversation by telling her that what I was about to say was not meant to change her feelings toward her father. I only wanted for her to realize the pain that he caused me without sharing every hurtful moment of our marriage. She cried because she felt empathy for me. I cried because she felt empathy for me. I did not use these events to make excuses for my choices. I used these events so that she would understand my decisions in life. My decisions may have been wrong but at the time I felt that I did the best for my children. I also told her that some of my decisions were based on pure selfishness on my part.

I truly believe that my honesty has increased my newfound relationship with my children. They may not agree with my decisions, as I have not agreed with all of my decisions, but they respect the fact that I am honest and not making excuses for my behaviors. I hope that they have learned that making mistakes is part of life but admitting them and learning to grow from them is what makes a person respectable. I still make a lot of mistakes but I am learning and growing. My children understand that and it makes me feel joy that I had not felt in a very long time. Finally we are able to share our lives, our laughter and our love in spite of our decisions.

Sugar, Sex, Magic

I am unable to partake in many guilty pleasures that I once loved. While most of these pleasures I have forsaken are well worth the sacrifice, I miss them none the less. I can go without the cake, ice cream, candy, doughnuts and chocolate. I have lost 70 pounds by sacrificing these goodies that once were my comfort foods. From time to time I do have a craving for the objects of my affection. The one thing I am really missing is sex.

Since I do not have a significant other at the moment I am seriously deprived. I believe that I am a relatively attractive mature woman and I do not doubt that I could find a man that would happily fulfill my desires. Since my slutty slut days are long over, however, I believe that I should at least wait until I have dated a man a few times before rolling in the sheets with him. The part I dread is the dating. I don’t relish the idea of enduring small talk, sharing stories and getting to know each other just to discover that we have absolutely nothing in common. I am not looking forward to shaving my legs every day (or week for that matter), spending an hour in the bathroom mirror or wearing something other than my granny panties (I prefer comfort over sexiness and I am quite fond of my cotton briefs). I am also not looking for a relationship at this particular moment. Quite frankly, it is just too much work. I am not enthused about expending that much energy on the pre-game when I really want to hit a home run and enjoy the seventh inning stretch.

Since I am unable to revert back to my wild days, I guess I am going to muster enough strength to find my keys, hop in my car and drive to the local 7-11. I hope that they have the super, duper economy pack of batteries. It may just be an all-nighter!

Mother's Day

Mother’s Day is tomorrow and I have many mixed emotions about motherhood. Honestly, I doubt that I would ever be nominated for Mother of the Year. I have made so many mistakes when it comes to parenting. Some decisions I made because I truly believed that I was doing the best by my two children. Some decisions I made out of sheer selfishness. I basically abandoned my children when they were still young. I always loved them more than my own life but I was too obsessed with my own misery. I blamed my own childhood for many of my mistakes, but finally came to realize that I am the only person responsible for my mistakes. Believe it or not, my only great desire in my life was to have a family. A normal, happy family; one that I felt I had been deprived. Unfortunately I ended up making the same mistakes that my own mother made with me. The biggest difference is that I love my children and will do anything to rectify my mistakes. One mistake that I vow to never make is to be unforgiving of my children. There has never been, and never will be, anything that I would hold against my children. I love, and will continue to love, my daughter and son unconditionally. I wish that my own mother would offer me the same.

I still struggle to accept the fact that my mother does not love me nor will she ever love me unconditionally. I just cannot wrap my brain around this concept. I always thought that a mother would automatically love her child. I have searched my soul to understand what I have done to make her not love me. I have felt worthless and unlovable. I have cried countless tears. I have endured dysfunctional relationships just so that someone would love me.

Today I vow to love myself and realize that if someone does not love me then that is their shortcoming and not mine. I vow to never allow another person to make me feel any less than I truly am. I truly am human and I make mistakes but that does not make me unlovable. Today, at this moment, I promise to live my life, laugh as often as possible and love myself!

Destination Happiness

I was wondering today about the exact moment I fell out of love with him. Then I thought about that saying, “fell out of love.” It isn’t really like falling. Falling implies a fast movement when it is actually a slow, agonizing process. I think it is more like being hit by a bus. It hurts like hell but then you get up and cross that street again. The next time you have to cross that street you look both ways, always aware and cautious of your surroundings. But one day you get lazy and the bus hits you again. It hurts like hell, it takes a little longer to get back up, but you do. The next day you decide to take another route, hoping that the bus won’t be on that street. For days, weeks, maybe even months the bus is nowhere in sight. Then all of a sudden, “Bam!” it hits you. Funny, though, it doesn’t hurt as much as it once did. You get up, shake yourself off and keep walking; walking like your feet are covered in molasses. Finally you stand in front of the bus, daring it to hit you, just so you can kill the love that hurts so badly. I have been standing in the middle of the road for quite a while now waiting to be hit by that damn bus. That is until I realized that I could get on the bus, get the hell out of town and move forward with my life. I just hope it is not the short bus!!

I'm Coming Home...

I write a lot about my past in this blog, probably because I am trying to relive happier times for me or maybe to gain some introspect for my current situations. Either way I know that I am not really in a happy place right now. I miss my family fiercely. I long to be closer to them. I believe that being near them will bring me back to my happy place. I don’t think that I will be running from my problems; simply running towards the people able to support me emotionally. I have never allowed my family to know the true me. I am not sure the reason for this. But now I want them to know me, love me and be with me.

For me it has always been about wanting a man in my life; someone to love me and support me. Unfortunately I have not chosen the kind of man that is able to do this and I don’t blame them. I need to love and support me before I am able to choose a man that is capable of doing the same. I need to love and support my family before I can be truly happy. So, family, if you are reading this, and I know you are, I am coming home. Not just to you. But to me!

Dream Analysis

When I was about four or five years old, at the most, I had a nightmare that has been embedded in my mind for my entire life. I always wondered if there was any meaning to it. It must have some meaning rooted in a deep seeded fear. I have analyzed every moment of it from time to time all of my life. I have not decided exactly what it means.

I was playing with a tube of lipstick and my mom warned me not to make a mess with it. I am sure she thought that I would try to apply the ruby red lipstick on my lips. I, on the other hand, began rubbing it along her carpeting. As I rubbed it harder and harder the tube ignited and fire shot across the room and down the shared hallway of her apartment building. When the blaze burned out my Nanny lay helpless at the far end. Two paramedics were raking up blackened leaves while they shook their heads from side to side. I ran to my Nanny as she lay on a gurney. In a weak, almost inaudible voice she repeated a solitary word. “Why?” Paralyzed by fear, I could only look sadly into her eyes. I had no explanation for hurting her so.

I have concocted a couple of theories regarding the meaning of the dream. Maybe I had, or would, hurt her beyond any imagination. Perhaps I would disappoint her so that she would be heartbroken. I suppose I did break her heart many times during her lifetime. But the way I imagined she would be the most heartbroken was if she knew how I longed to be with my mom. I loved my Nanny deeply but my deepest desire was to live with my mom. In my imagination the fire emanating from my tube of lipstick was my burning desire to be with my mom. The blackened leaves represented the ashes of my Nanny’s broken heart. I wonder if, when I did leave her home to live with my mom, she was as devastated as she was in my dream. I hope that she knew I loved her deeply and that she forgave me for my perceived betrayal.

Laugh in the Face of Despair

I have written about having panic disorder a couple of times but I have not told much about being diabetic. Growing up I had never known anyone suffering from this disease. I never thought that it was a serious condition, until I became diabetic four and half years ago. Now I know that diabetes is a real bitch! It can kill you if you do not take care of yourself. I get discouraged by my condition but then I remember my Nanny and the debilitating illness she had, Multiple Sclerosis (MS), and the way she survived the hand Mother Nature had dealt her.

When I was a young girl her illness was quickly escalating. I remember her walking with great effort, using a cane to aid her, using a walker to get around, confined to a wheelchair and finally completely bedridden. Through all of the indignities, my Nanny always had a smile spread across her sweet face. One of my favorite stories she told was when she was working one day and had to leave early. When I asked her the reason she responded, with a hearty giggle, that she has shit herself. She said that it had oozed down her leg to rest in her pantyhose just above her ankle. Then she broke out in laughter just remembering the event. Now, if this had happened to me, I would never have been able to return to my job.

One time we had finished running errands in our town and were returning to her car. She stopped about fifty feet from the car, unable to go any further. She held on to a phone pole and announced that she was about to go down. She slithered down the pole while she exclaimed that she felt just like a wet noodle. She did show some signs of embarrassment when I suggested that I ask our dentist, who had an office one hundred yards from our location, for his assistance. She obviously did not want him to see her in distress; this from a woman who wasn’t embarrassed about messing in her pantyhose. This experience would be recanted many times by her and our family.

No matter how badly she felt or what indignity her disease offered, my Nanny’s coping mechanism was laughter. Today I vow to become more like her by coping with my illness by laughing in its face. Her life, laughter and love shall carry me through the difficult times.

Panic Button

As I have mentioned I suffer from panic disorder. They come upon me fast and lately I have had them when I wake up every morning. People ultimately ask me what the catalyst is for the panic. Was I afraid of something, did something happen just before the attack or was I in a stressful situation? My answer is always that nothing triggered the panic. When the attack begins I am usually feeling calm and peaceful. If I knew the cause of the onset I would develop a coping mechanism. I have pondered the cause for years and I am still unsure of the catalyst. I do, however, know the exact reason for the feelings to escalate.

I have an overwhelming, irrational fear of dying. When the attack begins the symptoms mimic physical distress. My heart races, my breathing seems shallow and I usually have some type of pain. My incoherent brain is convinced that I am suffering a heart attack or maybe even a stroke, depending on the location of the pain. I try my damnedest to rationalize my thought and reassure my crazy head that it is just a panic attack. At times I am able to allay the fears and calm myself down. Other times I find another outlet to deter my thoughts. Then there are those times when I make a complete idiot of myself. Those are the times that I am left embarrassed and ashamed. How do you explain the circumstances surrounding these attacks? How do you tell people that you are afraid to die, especially when there is absolutely no physical ailment? Do you think this makes me crazy? Because going crazy is yet another fear I have when I am having a panic attack. Perhaps the catalyst to my panic attacks is ME!!

Thinking Positive

I enjoy my job, on most days. As with any job, however, I do get a bit discouraged, and of course irritated. I am not actively pursuing a change in employment. With today’s economy I am basically just thankful to be gainfully employed. In the past couple of weeks I have been asked to apply for a couple of open positions. The opportunities have been very appealing and I have submitted my resume. I was excited about the prospects of the first position when the recruiter from the placement agency requested a pre-interview to find a match for their client. The potential employer offered an attractive compensation package. During my interview the recruiter informed me that I was the best candidate and he would present my resume to his client. The next day I was told that, unbeknownst to the recruiter, their client filled the position. I was disappointed but not surprised. I had hoped I would be offered the job but I pretty much knew that it wouldn’t work out for me. I think that the position was out of my league; too good to be true for me.

Now I shouldn’t get my hopes up that the most recent position will be offered to me either. It has an even better compensation package and is in the non-profit industry. I was previously employed in this industry and I did find it rewarding, and at times stressful. Maybe my lack of self confidence will keep me from being offered this position but I honestly believe that I will not have a better career at this time. I suppose that I should have more faith in myself and be more positive. And yet, that old familiar pattern of self doubt creeps back in and I convince myself that hoping for this opportunity is simply a pipe dream. Think positive, think positive, think positive... Okay, I am positive that I am going to be thankful that I am gainfully employed in a position that, on most days, I do enjoy and it pays the bills.

Outlaw Barbie

Barbie is about to celebrate her 50th birthday on March 9th. I have fond memories of playing with these dolls for hours on end when I was a small child. I loved them so much that I used to beg my nine year younger sister to play with Barbies with me when I was in high school. She hated playing with them but I always convinced her to drag them out and play dress up with them. I never really thought of Barbie as having the perfect body that in reality no woman could actually attain. I never fantasized about looking exactly like her. She wasn’t the reason I was unsure of my looks. She was just a welcome escape from a dysfunctional family. I never dreamed that she would be the focus of a political debate.

A state delegate in West Virginia is pushing for legislation to ban the sale of Barbie Dolls. This moron is actually spending our hard earned tax dollars on this stupid shit. He said the dolls have encouraged girls to value their physical appearance more than their education and intelligence. His bill, HB 2918, would make it illegal to sell Barbie dolls "and other similar dolls that promote or influence girls to place an undue importance on physical beauty to the detriment of their intellectual and emotional development." While I may agree with the fact that many young girls do place more value on their physical beauty, I do not for one moment believe that this evolves from a doll. Society in general has more influence on our youth than one simple toy.

But by all means ignore that we are in one of the worst economic crises our country has ever witnessed and focus your efforts on a doll. Who cares if our state is the second poorest state in the nation? By all means throw our state into national headlines so that the rest of the country will have proof that West Virginians are stupid hicks! Didn’t the “Road Kill” law make us look dumb enough? Yes, we have a law that makes it legal to scoop up dead animal carcasses, haul them in our pick-up trucks and fry up a mess of possum for dinner.

My Melt Down!!

I may have made a brief reference in an earlier post that I suffer from panic disorder. About fifteen years ago I was having three to four attacks a day. Since then I have learned to control them, most of the time. The rest of the time I, unfortunately, allow them to control me. Yesterday was a perfect example of losing control. Alarmingly, I was at work when it happened. I also suffer from migraine headaches every once in a while. If you have ever had one you may know that some people have what are called auras before the headache.

It began yesterday morning when I was having trouble focusing on my work. I knew that the aura was soon to follow. Just realizing that I would soon become practically blind my mind began to race. I started to panic because I knew that I would lose my eyesight. I absolutely despise this feeling. My brain does not rationalize that this symptom will disappear in time. I always imagine the most terrible scenarios; I will have a stroke or a heart attack or become blind. When in actuality I will simply have a horrific headache.

So there I am at work with my mind racing but trying to remain calm. I work for a health and wellness company and have medical personnel at my disposal. I went to one of our nurse practitioners and requested that she take my blood pressure. Since I am also diabetic her first question was about my blood sugar levels. I knew that my levels were fine. She took my blood pressure and it was normal. This fact failed to reassure me. She also told me that the aura was normal for the onset of a migraine. Still this did not calm my fears. Picture if you will, there I am lying on the floor in her tiny cubicle for all to see. She was holding my hand and instructing me to breathe. I tried my damnedest to not freak out. I was so embarrassed that I wanted to run out of the office, hop in my car and speed away. Unfortunately, this was not an option since I basically could not see. Luckily a coworker was able to take me to an urgent care.

At the urgent care they gave me a shot of Demerol and Phenergan to relieve the pain and nausea. Now I am really not one to take any medication, except for my diabetes. I was given the shots and started freaking out because I did not like the feeling at all. I felt so out of control with these drugs in my system. My poor coworker, who stayed with me the whole time, had to witness my total melt down. I am sure now she knows what other people know. I am a complete freaking nut!! I am so glad that everyone at work probably think that I have become totally unhinged. Welcome to my Crazy World!

Fostering Love

My mom called me today to ask for my assistance. She needed to fill out a referral application for my sister and brother-in-law so that they can become foster parents. If you have followed my blog you know that my sister and her husband have been trying for years to have a baby of their own, only to be heartbroken. They buried three baby boys within a ninth month period. She went to the doctor last week and he told them that they could undergo in-vitro fertilization again and the doctor believes that she will be able to carry one fetus to full term. Until they are able to go through the treatment again they will be foster parents.

The child(ren) that may be placed with them will be very lucky to say the least. They both have so much love to give. I worry some times that they will be devastated if they become attached only to lose another child. Most of the children in foster care have been abused or neglected by their birth parents. I admire them for opening their home to a child who may have severe issues. They are currently taking classes to teach them the proper way to handle these issues. What is amazing to me is that anyone can have a child and not required to take classes. To help other people’s neglected children you must take these classes and be investigated. Not that they care to do either. They simply wish to share their life, laughter and love with a special little girl or boy. I know that any child that will share this life will be the blessed child ever!!

Pride In The Midst of Despair

I work in downtown Charleston, West Virginia. My office is located in the center of the city, next to our county library. Since I began working here I have encountered many beggars in the area. I have heard every sob story in the book. Usually they regale tales of homelessness and being hungry. At first I would hand them a couple of bucks because I am gullible like that. After several weeks of believing the sad stories I thought that this was probably not helping them at all. I began to wonder the true purpose of the money I had so freely given. Yet I was unable to deny them altogether. I decided at this point to offer them something to eat instead. When they told me that they were so hungry that their blood sugar was dropping and they risked passing out, I informed them that I would take them to a local take-out joint for a meal. Some took me up on the offer and some did not. I simply could not turn away another human being in need of food.

I have since noticed a few true homeless men who wander the downtown streets, carrying all of their worldly possessions in makeshift luggage. One man sits in a doorway of a long ago abandoned storefront watching businessmen and women rushing from one appointment to the next. I always look at him, smile and offer a greeting. Another homeless man hangs out on the steps of the public library. He is usually listening to music through his earphones and seems to be enjoying his own world. He also makes his rounds; digging through every trash can along each street. The third man walks along the sidewalks in wholly shoes searching for cigarette butts to stockpile and smoke later. I have never witnessed any of these men begging for money or food. I suspect that they have too much pride to ask for help. Maybe they prefer to be looked at in disdain than to beg for assistance. I respect these men. They are after all still human beings; not people to be pitied or loathed. Just before this past Christmas I tried to give one of these men fifty dollars as a gift. He refused, saying that he had money. After he walked away I feared that I had embarrassed him. I pray that he realizes the respect I honestly have for him. It simply broke my heart to watch him dig through trash cans for half eaten morsels of food.


CHARLESTON, W.Va. -- The number of homeless people increased in West Virginia between January 2005 and January 2007 more quickly than almost anywhere in the nation, according to a study released Monday by a Washington, D.C.-based group.
Homelessness in the Mountain State rose by 58 percent, according to the new report from the National Alliance to End Homelessness. Only Kentucky had a higher rate, with a 63 percent increase.
The state had 2,409 homeless people in January 2007, according to the report. West Virginia was one of 18 states where the number of homeless increased. (excerpt from The Gazette Newspaper)

Psychic or Psychotic - You Decide

I have always loved the idea of marriage, or maybe romanticized the concept. I’m not exactly sure. I do know that I wanted to be happily married with 2.5 children, living in the house with the white picket fence and a dog. At the ripe old age of eighteen I married my high school sweetheart. I think I chose to marry this young man because his parents had been happily married for twenty years – and they are still happily married today. I was, and remain, in awe of their relationship. I had hoped that their son had taken lessons from his parents, but alas he did not. I should have known from the wedding that our union was destined to fail. One month before our nuptials I had a dream that the florists forgot our flowers and postponed our wedding. I actually even expressed my concerns about this haunting foreshadowing two weeks before the wedding. We all had a chuckle about it since it was perceived as bridal jitters. The morning of our big day we patiently waited for our flowers to arrive. Guess what? They did in fact forget them. I honestly believe that I should have been forewarned of the inevitable destruction of my first marriage.

I waited a full seven years before I finally decided to marry again. Yet again I should have known on my wedding day that this union was also destined to fail. We decided to be wed on his parents’ property, and let me inject here that his parents have been married over fifty years. When I arrived to take our vows I found my groom’s hand wrapped in a large wad of gauze. The night before, he had cut every finger of his right hand on a large butcher knife. I came this-close to running far away during our vows. Again I chalked this feeling up to jitters. Again my second marriage turned sour and we divorced ten years later.

The lesson I have learned is that, if I ever decide to take the plunge again, I will run screaming from my groom if everything is not perfect. My current boyfriend and I have discussed getting married but I am still reluctant. Third time could be a charm, but it could also be three strikes and you’re out for life. I might add that his parents have also been happily married for over fifty years. Maybe I should just steal the fathers away from their wives and finally have my “happily, ever-after!”

My Not So Secret Love Affair

I learned the other day that my high school reunion is being planned for this summer. Although I didn’t realize until later in life, I was a pretty hot young lady. Of course that was twenty-five years ago. Three pregnancies and seven surgeries later, life has taken its toll and everything has gone south. Not helping matters is the fact that I have had a love affair for forty-some years. I am absolutely in love with food, especially junk food. I was raised in a house that had every form of junk food you could imagine, refrigerator full of sugary soda, chips, ice cream, and candy. Four years ago, however, I was diagnosed with Diabetes, a disease I had never encountered.

Since then I have lost approximately sixty pounds by making better life choices. While I am glad that I only have about twenty-five pounds more to lose, the task seems daunting, at best. I know exactly what to do and eat to lose these extra pounds but my love for food is still so strong that I fear it may be impossible. I also despise expending much energy to burn more calories than I consume. I always want that easy way out; to eat my cake and have it too. Ah, to actually be able to cake now!!

Yesterday I took my first step to my new weight loss goal. My boyfriend has been lifting weights to gain weight, a task that is difficult for him (The Bastard!). I decided to work out with him. Even now, after only two days of lifting (very little weight, I might add), it is difficult to lift my arms and type this post. When your upper arms feel like Jello-O, it isn’t easy to convince them to move! But, I am nothing if not determined to have a body that comes close to resembling the one I had during school. I am not sure exactly why this is so important to me. It just is!!

Tick, Tock, Tick, Stop

Those hideous colors, that I am sure were all the rage in the 60’s and 70’s, consumed the walls, floors, and windows of that kitchen. The bright orange signified the joy in that room. The dark brown reflected the cruelties of that room. Two colors that are diametrically opposed had been perfectly chosen. How could one room provide so much happiness and so much sorrow in just a few ticks of the clock? On the other side of that clock my Nanny had painted a picture on the wall; almost hidden from the world. It was a brightly colored lemon tree. Her energy, light and sparkle lay just beyond that clock. The clock that kept ticking by the hours, measuring the stolen times of laughter and joy. If only that clock could stand still in time, stopping at 4:49pm. If only we weren’t conditioned to crane our necks to constantly check the time. Maybe then the whole kitchen could be painted in bright lemon trees.

Looking at the picture of five generations of surviving women, posed in the kitchen, has me feeling orange and brown. We had all escaped that house as survivors, save for the two women flanking the photograph. Don’t misunderstand me, these two women were still survivors. They simply chose to survive in his cruel world. They deemed it necessary to stay in that kitchen, hoping that the clock would simply stop ticking. Until then we would sneak longing gazes beyond the clock; enjoying our life, laughter and love in the world of brightly colored lemon trees.





(Great-Great Grandma May sitting just in front of the lemon tree)
















“All art is a kind of confession, more or less oblique. All artists, if they are to survive, are forced, at last, to tell the whole story; to vomit the anguish up.” -James Baldwin

To All The Men I Loved Before

I love men. I mean I absolutely LOVE them. They may be their own unique creatures that I will never fully understand, but that is why I love them so. And if you have read my blog you will know that I was destined to feel this way. I have also known quite a few men in my life; as in the biblical sense. These men have come from all different walks of life and culture. That is the reason they excite me so. I love change and new adventures. Today I am going to give my opinion about the different men I have known.

Chinese Men: Can completely satisfy you in bed, leaving you spent. After about an hour, however, that feeling will fade and you will need to do it again.

Redneck, Hillbilly Men: Love to do it in the mountains. Just make sure you duck when you have finished so he can spit his tobacco out the car window.

Tall, Skinny Men: Usually have the biggest wangers. Unfortunately I despise weighing more than my partner.

Small Wanger Men: Not able to do a whole lot with the equipment but they are willing to do anything to make up for the size.

Italian Men: Hot in bed and can cook a great meal afterwards. Make sure you eat their food after sex. The garlic breath will kill the mood.

Young Men: Not as experienced but you can certainly train ‘em well.

Old Men: Cannot always perform. If unable to rise to the occasion, they usually have deep pockets that can buy you some great gifts.

Irish Men: Really know how to kiss that Blarney Stone!

Ex-Husbands: My favorite because you can keep screwing ‘em by collecting the alimony and not have to put up with their shit!

Will Work For Love

I have been wondering lately about love; the love between a woman and a man. Do people really stay together, happily together? How much work does it take to stay with that one special person for the rest of your life? Should you really have to work for it? Shouldn’t it just be natural and easy? Shouldn’t two people be able to coast through their lives together, all the while sharing those stolen passionate moments?

In my life I have not been witness to long lasting love between a husband and wife. I have yearned for this is my life. I want it so badly, that at times it physically hurts. Unfortunately, it just seems to be so much hard work. And I like to take the easy route to everything. I have spoken to couples that have that long lasting commitment and they acknowledge that it does indeed require effort. Perhaps there is no such thing as uncomplicated, easy love. I suppose that if I want to have the love I have searched for, I will have to mend my ways, buckle down and work for it. They say anything worth having is worth working for.

St. Valentine's Day Massacre

I may be a forty-something grandma but I am still quite the romantic. I enjoy romance, flowers, late night sex romps and small, meaningful gifts. Maybe that is why Valentine’s Day is so important to me. I love what this holiday represents. I don’t expect fancy, expensive presents, just something that lets me know that my man knows me. That is why it really pissed me off that my boyfriend did not give me anything for this special day.

I bought him something small but something I knew he would enjoy; a gift that was meaningful and thoughtful. I would have been happy with a card. Of course I would have expected him to search through all of the cards the store had to offer just to find that one that said something from his heart. Alas my special gift for Valentine’s Day was an excuse. An excuse of why he was unable to give me anything. As usual, I let him off the hook. He is, after all, a man. Most men just do not get it. I decided instead to educate him and he decided to be defensive. Hence, there was no late night sex romp for either of us.

Maybe I expect too much for him. After all, he is a man. And really, maybe I expect him to read my mind. I am, after all, a woman. Hopefully, one day he will “get me.” That is really my greatest desire: to teach him to “get me.” Is that asking too much? Perhaps. Perhaps, I should wake up from this fantasy existence and realize that men and women are just two entirely different creatures. Perhaps I should just be happy with the strange monkey love that he is so good at!

My Resurrection

I wonder if my children resent me in the same manner that I resented my own mother. They definitely have every right to harbor ill feelings towards me. I abandoned them, hurt them and I fear that I have not given them many gifts throughout their lives. I would like to think that, as my mother did for me, I gave them the most amazing relationships. I have been incapable of providing them the relationship that they yearned to have; the relationship between mother and child.

My mother has said for years that when I buried my first daughter, she also buried me. I was never the same person I had been. My joy, that was once so prevalent, had seeped out of my soul. My death was quiet. I moved through my life; functioning like a robot. I lost all of my senses, forced to shut down in order to survive. Not even an adult, I had endured the greatest loss a person should never be forced to endure. And yet I was totally obsessed with having children, certain that their love would cure me.

I gave birth to two beautiful children, only eighteen months apart. I loved my little girl and little boy more than I loved my husband and certainly more than I loved myself. Because of my lack of emotional and physical intimacy, my marriage fell apart. I fled from my husband and took my precious babies with me. One day he picked them up for his weekend visit and refused to bring them back. Since we had no court order there was nothing I could immediately do to get them back; another loss that was too overwhelming to overcome. I truly believed, at the time, that it would be better for my babies to stay with him. I refused to allow my children to be pawns in the destruction of our marriage. I would not play tug-of-war with my babies. It was the worst decision I had ever made.

It was the first bad decision followed by a long procession of mistakes. I sank further into depression. Where I was previously numb I was now devoid of any emotion except for self-pity and self-loathing. I distanced myself from all of my family. My second death was also quiet but much more painful. I had too much despair to live but not enough courage to end my physical existence. Slowly, I ended my relationship with my children; two victims of my twisted wreckage. I was incapable, or perhaps too selfish, to accept the pain I caused.

As my children grew up, I made the decision to straighten out my pathetic life. A long time passed until I was finally ready to change my circumstances. I still struggle with my emotions and correcting my mistakes but I am closer each day to becoming healthy. I have been re-establishing my relationship with my children. They are adults now and more able to understand and accept me. My greatest hope is that one day I will be capable of giving them the greatest gifts. Gifts of sharing our life, our laughter and our love!

The Long Journey From Resentment To Appreciation

When I was in therapy my counselor looked at me one day and bluntly told me that I had a lot of resentment. My first thought was, “How dare you tell me that? I have been wronged throughout my life and you should be taking pity on me instead of judging me!” my second thought was, “How dare that woman? She didn’t live the life I lived!” my third, fourth, fifth and hundredth thought were all along the same vein. It took me quite a few sessions for the concept of resentment to sink into my head. I was so wrapped up in my own self-pity I could not, or would not, realize the truth. Probably the most difficult thing I ever had to do in my life was look past all of the injustices I had to endure throughout my life.

The object of my biggest resentment was my mother. I blamed her for everything that happened to me during my childhood and all the mistakes I made in my adulthood. It was always her fault that my life had turned out so miserably. If she had not abandoned me with my grandparents I would not have witnessed the cruelty that happened in that house. If I did not have to care for my little sister so many nights I could have had the youth my peers lived. If only she had loved me I wouldn’t feel so worthless. My life was filled with “if only’s.” Until one day I came to realize the truth about my mother.

My mother, like the rest of us, is not perfect. I think every child wants that one perfect parent that exists only in the land of make believe, or better known as television. Once I stepped back from my self-pity I saw the many wonderful gifts she had given to me. If she had not left me in the care of my grandparents I would not have had the unbreakable bond between me and my Nanny. I had felt that my mother was selfish when she went away. Now I realize the totally selfless act her heart wrenching decision must have been. She also rescued me from my Papa’s cruelty; he never abused small children, so my mother came back for me when I was seven. If I had not spent so much time with my sister, nine and half years younger than I was, I would not have had the close, loving relationship that I share with her to this day. I am certain that I would never had the love of these women in my life.

I have learned that all the mistakes I have made were my choice. I chose to be miserable and negative. Today I choose to view life from a different angle. An angle that looks at the blessings in my life instead of the misfortunes. Now that I have come to these realizations, I appreciate her, flaws and all. She is my best friend, biggest supporter and loving caregiver. My mother has given me the greatest gifts in my life. She gave me life, laughter and love.

STOP!! In The Name Of The Law!

I was out in the parking garage at work today, smoking with a coworker. All of a sudden we heard a small crash and turned around and witnessed a hit and run against an unoccupied parked car. I noticed that the hit and run driver was unable to make a speedy getaway since two cars were in front of her, stopped at a red light. Feeling like justice must be served I ran out into the street, grabbed my cell phone and took a picture of the back of the car. I also memorized the license plate of the offender. Luckily, I was in pants and loafers so I was able to snap a picture of the perp's car (see how I am already adapt with the lingo of a wanna be cop?). Now the meter of the damaged car is about to expire so we stand around and wait. And wait. And wait. The meter man pulls up and, to add insult to injury, he tickets the poor car. I doubt the owner realizes just how bad your day is about to get.

About an hour and a half later, on my way back from lunch, I notice the owner of the car walk up to it and grab the note of the windshield that we had left. I tell her the story, she calls the police, and we wait for an officer to arrive. Fortunately, it must have been a slow crime day since we didn't have to wait very long. I seriously doubt that the officer will move mountains to find the hit and run driver, but I feel as though I have done my civic duty for the day. Just remember one thing when you feel the urge to break the law in my town: "There is a new sheriff in town and she is not taking any prisoners!"

Shoulda Just Said NO!

I was outside smoking today with a couple of coworkers. Ironic that we all work for the company that provides products and support for the state funded tobacco quit line. The three of us were reminiscing about our young and stupid days, mine being two decades ago while theirs were more like two years ago. I wondered if they would have ever imagined that, at one time, I did, in fact, have a wild side. Nights filled with drinking tequila, dancing on bars and picking up men. Days consumed with hangovers, shaky hands and serious regrets. I did, however, remain somewhat responsible; never missing a day of work.

I also dabbled, just a bit, in trying drugs. When I was married to my first husband, I smoked pot. My husband absolutely loved his weed. I, on the other hand, was not very fond of it. I mean, seriously, how could you enjoy something that makes you so miserable? I was already morbidly obese, so wanting to eat everything morsel of junk food available did not seem advantageous to me. Looking out of the living room blinds, knowing that the police would be knocking on my door to arrest me for smoking a joint, did not seem like much fun. Going out in public, imagining that everyone knew what I had been doing was just too nerve wracking. Smoking pot turned me into a paranoid, fatter mess.

When I was with my second husband, he used cocaine on a recreational basis, maybe once or twice a year. I knew very little about this drug, never had even seen it before. I did know, however, that it didn’t make you want to eat everything under the sun. Since I had been told that it would help me lose weight, and I was still obese, I figured that it may be a good thing for me to try. I accompanied him to the home of his connection. My husband handed me a tray with white powder on it and showed me how to consume it. I was very hesitant to try this drug. I snorted a very small amount, probably about three or four granules. Very soon after I consumed the cocaine my heart began to race and the room started to spin. Did I mention that I suffered from panic disorder? I asked my husband to get me out of the house. Once outside, I was so freaked out that I began running around in circles in the side yard. I must have been quite a sight, running around the drug dealer’s yard, in broad daylight like a crazed maniac begging my husband to take me to the hospital. Needless to say, that was the last time I ever tried any type of drug.

I would have made the perfect poster-child for educating our youth against drugs. Just say NO or you will end like me. A chicken dancing, window peeping, maniacal, nut job!!

Give the Lady Anything She Wants...

I am the ultimate consumer. I love to buy, but am not really all that crazy about shopping or spending much money. I adore finding a bargain. I rarely ever purchase anything at full price and proudly announce the cost of any new find. I believe that I inherited this from my late Grandpa Pat. He also loved to find a good bargain and letting everyone know how much he paid for it. My family and coworkers usually have a good little chuckle over my finds. I think they enjoy hearing my tales of the “art of the deal.”

Whenever I receive excellent service or find a worthy product I am the first one to heap praise on the product or service. If I am not pleased with either I am, however, the first to voice my opinion. I will express my desire to receive some type of compensation for the defective product, rude service or ineptitude of an employee. I have received many free items for my opinions, ranging from a free laptop to replace the one I dropped and broke, free meals at local restaurants, to discounts at hotels, repair shops and stores. It is amazing the gifts a harried manager will bestow upon me just to get me to shut up and leave them alone. If I am not satisfied with the first offer I simply find an upper management member willing to provide me with a better offer. The trick is to find that one person too busy with more important matters than an irate women that refuses to take no for an answer. I never yell, curse or threaten anyone with bodily harm. The whole trick is persistence. Or should I say nagging, a trait I inherited from my mother.

As I walk on stage to accept my award for “Cheapest Bitch Alive,” I wish to thank my mom and grandpa for the lessons they have taught me. I must cut my speech short. The award statue is a bit tarnished so I need to call the manufacturer! I guarantee I will get a better statue!

Military Man

My brother-in-law turned 45 today. John has been married to my sister, Kendra, for about nine years now. He is retired Army, where he was a recruiter. My sister is pampered and spoiled by him, the way she deserves. He absolutely worships her, the way she deserves.

I honestly believed for the longest time that he didn't really care for me much. A sentiment that I totally understood. He and Kendra have been very close to my two children at a time when I was too selfish to be the mother they needed. They provided the stability and nurturing environment that I lacked. Last week he proved my theory wrong. When I was in Ohio visiting my granddaughter in the hospital, John presented me with a gift from the two of them and my mother. He was shopping at the jewelers, for yet another diamond for my sister. He came across a bracelet with "Live, Love, Laugh" inscribed on three charms. The gift was completely his idea and just knowing that he took that part of his day to purchase the bracelet for me means more to me than he will ever know. It was the symbolic gesture I needed to reassure me that I am accepted by this amazing man.

John is caring, comical, compassionate. My one wish for he and my sister is to be blessed with the child they deserve. Since they are unable to have a child of their own they have decided to become foster parents. Any child (or children) will be fortunate to share his wonderful life, infectious laugh and abundant love. I know that I am lucky to have him in my life!!

Adopting Amanda

Amanda has seen too much sorrow for such a young age. Her mother died tragically when Amanda was still a young child. Sadly, they never had the chance to know each other. The passing of her mother did afford her the wondrous opportunity to be raised by her father's parents. Amanda's own father was not capable of caring for such a young girl. She called her grandmother Mom. Her "mom" could not have loved her any more than if she had given birth to her. During school Amanda met my sister, Kendra, and they became fast friends (pictured from left to right: Wendy, Amanda and Kendra). Amanda fit into our family as if she were born into it. She spent many hours and days amongst her "second" family. She is effervescent, expressive, exciting. As soon as you meet her, you just know that you will love her forever.

When Amanda was only nineteen years old she lost her "mom." That is when she officially adopted my mom as her own. We all embraced her as a member of our family. I feel so fortunate that she has chosen our family. Yesterday I opened my mailbox to find a package from her. Inside were the most thoughtful gifts I have ever received. She had found a photo album and wall plaque with "Live, Laugh, Love" emblazoned on them. Just the knowledge of her taking the moment to find the perfect gift brings a smile to my face and a tear to my eye. The greatest gift she has given to me is accepting us as her family. My life is enriched by her devoted life, heartfelt laugh and enduring love!

Be Careful of The Eggshells

I am sitting at my little, green and yellow table in one of the tiny green chairs. Papa must have dressed me that morning because I am wearing an orange and brown striped turtleneck with yellow and brown checkered, polyester pants. The outfit never bothered me until years later when I look at myself in slightly faded photographs; memories such as these, once suppressed, but now flooding my consciousness.

The kids are home from school and the house is abuzz in a flurry of activity. Grandma Millie cleans the dishes while Nanny prepares the evening’s meal. Aunt Kerry sets the table, six place settings placed perfectly around the table. I would like to help but I am too young and may not be able to make the dinner table as perfect as he likes. I am, however, just as content to be a part of the animated conversations happening in the brown and orange kitchen. The family is laughing while my aunt and uncle recall their day at school. I love to hear my Nanny laugh, so light and contagious.

Suddenly the atmosphere changes. The house takes on an eerie silence as one by one we turn to see the time on the clock above the doorway. He will be home in ten minutes. The food has a final taste test, the place settings are carefully examined and smiles are replaced with furrowed brows. Avoiding an unpleasant situation is our main objective.

At precisely 5:05 pm the green station wagon rolls up the driveway. He is home, dinner is placed on the table and he strolls into the house. He appears weary from work but not unhappy. This is a good omen. Dinner begins uneventful but the moment is fraught with tension as he discovered a miniscule spot on his spoon. We collectively hold our breaths. He retrieves his napkin, removes the residue and continues with his meal. Another catastrophe has been averted.

After dinner he walks back and forth to the garage with a specific purpose. He is convinced that the family is unaware of his little facade. We all know. We simply choose not to discuss it. The uneven gait that intensifies with each trip to the garage belies the charade. After a dozen or so trips he passes out in his favorite chair. The family begins to relax. He awakens after an hour, stumbles up the hall, and falls into bed. We can finally breathe easy. Tonight was uneventful. What will tomorrow bring?

The Scrapbook - Part I

I went home to Ohio this weekend to be with my daughter, Miss Megan, and granddaughter, Little Layla Marie. Little Layla was taken to the hospital, suffering from a seizure. Thankfully it appears as if it was a one time event. I witnessed my own miracle, the kind you hope for, pray for, beg for. As I have said before, I certainly do not want these two girls to suffer the heartache that the rest of my female relatives have.

Being with my mom, however, provided the perfect opportunity to reminisce. My mom pulled out boxes of old pictures. Some made me smile, some made me sad, but most made me a bit melancholy. I want to share some of my favorites with my readers. I hope that it will help to put a face with the descriptions I have given in earlier posts.

These are the members of my female perspective. In the back row is my mom, Kathy, holding me. In the front row from left to right are my great-great grandma, Millie, my Nanny, Dolly, and my great grandma, Louise

Above: Great-Great Grandma, Millie

Right: My Nanny, Dolly, just after she met her first husband, my grandpa, Pat

Kathy, my mom, at 21 years old

What Is A Miracle?

I strongly believe in miracles and that they happen around us every day. I am not speaking of the Red Sea parting or the dead rising again or the people surviving incurable diseases. Those are the types of miracles that everyone can recognize; the kind people talk about for years. Those are the miracles that we pray for, beg for, plead for, but too often never receive. Instead we witness the little miracles, not appreciating the splendor of them.

I watched it snowing this week, listening to traffic updates on my radio as I traveled back and forth to work. Every day I made it to work and back home safely. To me that is a miracle in itself. I have bitched and complained about yet another failed relationship. My family and friends still listen to me, sometimes begrudgingly, but still concerned and empathetic. That is definitely a miracle, since I am sure that I wear them out. My sister, who has seen too much sadness the past year, makes me laugh, encourages me, consoles me, loves me. It is a miracle that she is able to lay aside her grief to do all of that for me. My mom worries about me, nags to me, interrogates me, loves me, laughs with me. Considering all that I have put her through, it is a miracle that she is still willing to accept and love me. My children live productive, happy, solid lives. Because I was not always there for them when they needed me, it is a miracle that they became such wonderful people.

I vow to stop at least once a day to look around for those miracles that I have taken for granted. And not just look, but really see them and appreciate that I was a part of them. What miracles did you witness today that others may have not even noticed?

Second Childhood?

Some days I feel my age, some days I feel old, but most of the time I feel like a kid. Or maybe I just act like one. I strive to be childlike and not childish. There is, however, a thin line that separates the two. Most of the time I am balancing on that line, teetering dangerously close, but trying not to cross it. If only the line were delineated more clearly, then I would know that I have gone too far. Inevitably in relationships, my toe inches across that point and does not seem to stop. I am fine until my mouth falls into the land of childishness.

Today is a perfect example of toeing the line. My significant other and I have been disagreeing a lot lately. He thinks he is perfect and I know I am less than perfect. He assumes he is always right and I admit I am wrong but try to make things right. I have attempted to be a reasonable grownup. I have debated a fair fight to no avail. It frustrates me to reason with someone that will not listen to reason. When the rational approach doesn’t work I ultimately sink to a new level. I become so disheartened by the sheer craziness of it all I jump in the boat to reside in Crazy Town with him. I know the importance of coffee in his life; not because I ever drink it. It is just a fact. So, what did I do? I grabbed the coffee off the shelf and hid it. I didn’t resort to breaking anything valuable. I simply wanted to inconvenience the man I had claimed to love. Now this may seem like a trivial, insignificant action on my part, but I must say that it worked. It took practically no time at all for my cell phone to ring this morning while I was at work to ask me what I did to his coffee.

“What coffee?” I innocently responded. “Oh, the coffee I dropped on the floor and had to clean up?” I lied. After we hung up a slow smile spread mischievously across my childish face. I pictured him pulling on his coat, hopping into a freezing car and driving down the street to get a nice cup of coffee. Score one for the kid. My work here is done. Time to get the hell out of Crazy Town. But I am positive that I will visit again……..

AND SOON!!

Wistful Thoughts of Home

My family has been trying for years to convince me to move back to Ohio. On several occasions I have been thisclose to relenting. Inevitably, something keeps me here in West Virginia. What is that something you ask? I would love to give you some reasonable answer to your question. Things like: a fabulous career, unbreakable bonds of friendship, a terrific home, roots of my other (biological) family. Alas, it has always been about a man. I couldn’t leave my second husband and he refused to move. When I did finally end that dreadful union I met another man. I cannot seem to leave him and he is unwilling to uproot from his family. I don’t hold that against him.

Writing this blog has made me incredibly homesick. Memories of being young and carefree surrounded by loving family and friends have punctuated my every thought as of late. Writing has brought me closer to my family and yet I feel distanced from them. If only my muddled, mixed-up brain could finally make a decision and stick to it. I want to leave, I want to stay, I want someone else to make the decision for me. Why is it so damn difficult? What keeps me with a man and away from my family? I know how to be alone and not feel lonely. I am sure that I am able to brave the world without a man next to me. I am not really a love-craving, sex-starved, middle-aged woman.

Okay, so maybe I am all of those things. Okay, so maybe I appear more confident than I am inside. Perhaps I am just the teenager that longed to be loved and accepted. Unfortunately, I continue to search for fulfillment with the absolutely wrong men. Men that cannot, or will not, accept me for the person I truly am. The woman, who, at times, lives too hard, laughs too hard and loves too hard. Just to keep from dying too much, crying too much and hating too much!

The Finer Things

I, like probably most people in this world, take the little things in life for granted; things that we never give a second thought. I suppose that some may appreciate running water, working plumbing, or even the taste of ice cream on a hot summer day. But for most of us, we just don’t consider the little things in life as a luxury. I grew up in a middle class suburb with practically every material item I could want. Maybe that is why I simply considered certain things a given; that it was a right to have water flow from the faucet when you turn the knob. I didn’t really know anyone in my young life that struggled to survive. I am sure that I saw these people every day and I just hadn’t realized their struggles. Just part of growing up with affluent family and friends.

When I first moved to West Virginia I was exposed to a different way of life but I still did not fully comprehend the difficulties of simply living to survive. Then I met my second husband, Pat. I have no idea now what it was that really attracted me to him. He was just a backwoods, country boy raised in a poor but good family. He wasn’t rich but he certainly was no longer poor. That is why I was surprised to see his home. It was actually more like a shack. The outside was just insulation; the inside was simply particle board. The bathroom had no bathtub or shower, a broken toilet and a sheet for a door. That is why it is so amazing that this spoiled, city girl decided to share my life in this ramshackle home.

The land that the house sat on was breathtakingly beautiful, totally isolated from the outside world. I would take walks through the meadows, through the woods and to a point where I swear you could touch the clouds. I spent hours sitting on the peak of our mountain convening with nature, trying to find myself. Or maybe I was trying to escape the hardships of living in a home with barely running water, a husband that was so much more charming at first sight and a past to overcome.

Maybe I did find myself during my years of isolation. I realized that living like I was a neighbor to Mary Ingalls was not the life I had foreseen. Living with a man who turned out to be emotionally devoid of compassion and lacking the intelligence I yearned for finally convinced me to move back to the city. Now that I am in the metropolis (okay so Charleston, WV is not that big) I have come to appreciate the finer things in life: a flushing toilet, running water and stores within walking distance.

Growing Up or Bust!

I thought that with the introductions of my family I would be satisfactorily done with my reminiscing for a little while. Then I happened upon Facebook. My sister, Kendra, convinced me to try it out. I swear my family enables my addictive personality. Do they not realize that blogging and Facebook are now the objects of my obsession? I am placing blame for my lack of sleep and the insistent clicking from one email address to another (one for Blogspot and the other for Facebook) squarely on my family. Listen up family, “Stop offering me suggestions of joining this and writing there or my fingers will be permanently stuck to my keyboard.” When I am lying in the gutter begging the random passerby for internet access, you will have only yourselves to blame.

I joined Facebook on Saturday and already have acquired eleven friends. With the exception of my sister and my son, the rest are all old classmates from high school. I have looked through all of their photos; their lives looking so perfect to me. I wonder if they remember any of the angst of our teenage years. I wonder what memories they have of me. I remember them as being the best friends, the boys I mooned over for hours on end and some that glided through school hoping to be recognized or even hoping to slide through in virtual anonymity.

I mostly remember the one thing that seemed to set me apart from the other young girls in my class. BOOBS! I had them since the fifth grade. Fellow classmates, male and female, would gaze at them often, both sexes wishing they had them, for different reasons. All of them were so fascinated by them that they garnered various nicknames for me, ranging from “Puffs,” they swore I stuffed, “Bahama Mama,” chanted as I walked down the hallway or “Boobla’” derived from my maiden name of Sibla. They were also obsessed with my bras, the “Over-The-Shoulder-Boulder-Holder.” My undergarments saw more places than I did. Their views ranged from the top of a flagpole, inside of freezers, and ultimately on someone’s head.

I was convinced that my breasts were actually a totally separate person just attached to me for a symbiosis relationship. I can prove this theory because they had their own anatomy. My breasts have eyes because everyone stares at them. They have ears because everyone talks to them. And they definitely have a mouth because every time I reach across the dinner table they plop into the mashed potatoes.

Having these two incredible beings attached to me did make me very popular in school. I wonder if my friends from Facebook still remember me or just my breasts. Either way, I remember them fondly as the cute young boys who tried to kiss me and the sweet young girls who befriended in spite of the two objects they coveted.

My Little Boy Became a Man

After I had Megan I knew that I had to have another child. I honestly loved being a mother; definitely more than I loved being a wife. When Megan was only nine months old I discovered that I was pregnant again. My husband and I were both too young and not yet established and yet I instinctively knew that we could handle another child. Another tiny life that would love me and that I would love completely. I thought that we would have another little girl. I sometimes wished that it would be a girl. Not that I could love a little boy any less. Our family just seemed to produce girls and I thought that I was better equipped to deal with another daughter. But as soon as I laid eyes on my handsome little boy I knew that I wanted this child more than another girl.

“Mister” Corey was an amazing baby. He rarely ever cried, did not demand much attention and was good natured. I never had experience the “terrible twos” with this little guy. If I told him not to do something, he would back his rear end into the corner, stick out his lip so far I feared he may trip over it, and look at me with such disappointment. He never, however, did whatever it was I had scolded him for doing. He did not test my limits as his big sister did. He was quiet, not really speaking for the first couple years of his life. He actually didn’t need to; his sister did all of the talking for him. She was motherly towards him throughout their lives.

He was agreeable, considerate and loving. Sometimes I felt a little distant from him but he didn’t seem to need attention as some young children did. I feel as though I should have paid more attention to him but he hasn’t verbalized any mistakes I have made.

Now that he is a young man I realize the compassion and caring he shows to everyone. He is at his best with young children, the disabled and the elderly. I notice that he opens doors for his girlfriend (ah, chivalry is not dead in his generation). He expresses his gratitude often and easily without having to be encouraged. My little boy has become a man that I admire and respect. Corey lives life caring for those he loves, laughs easily with loved ones and loves without abandon. I am privileged to be “Mister” Corey’s mom!

Father Figure

After Kathy divorced Ronnie, she married, divorced, remarried and divorced again. My suggestion to her was not to marry again; just live with a man. She took my advice when she met Rich. She fell in love with this handsome, charming man. They had just enough in common to enjoy each other’s company, yet they possessed enough differences make their lives interesting.

I call them “The Bickersons.” As I have previously noted, my mom, Kathy, likes to nag and Rich likes a good argument. They usually fight a good fight together and their relationship has usually grown because of it. Some relationships couldn’t withstand a good argument from time to time, but not these two. Maybe it is the making up they enjoy. Maybe they just need an outlet to deal with the pressures of every day life. Whatever the reason, their occasional disagreements helps their love grow stronger.

Rich loves my mom with a passion she has never known before. He has a relatively laid back nature, without being boring. He is outgoing, scrappy, amorous. Even though my sister and I are not his own, he has always shown us love and respect. We have come to love and respect him, adopting him as our dad. His own children are not very close to him, and since that is their own choice, I am convinced that it is definitely their loss. Maybe they do not appreciate what I can see so clearly.

Rich has not forsaken, judged, or been cruel to me any way. He has always been giving, loving and accepting. Where my dad, Ronnie, has a tendency to be aloof and distant, Rich expresses his love openly and passionately. Though he may not have legally adopted me as my dad did, I have embraced him as my dad. He has been a profound influence in my life and for that I am extremely grateful. He has lived a devoted life, laughed a hearty laugh and loved a tender love. Thank you, Mom, for sharing this wondrous man’s love with me for the last fifteen years and for the rest of our lives!

Mis(ter)Conception

When Kathy was young and trying to escape a home that had caused so much pain, she met a young man. He was from West Virginia but working in Ohio. He was ruggedly handsome, dark, but highly intelligent. For about fifteen minutes he made for a pretty good distraction. As suddenly as he appeared into her life, he went back to the hills of West Virginia. He wanted to take her back with him but Kathy could never leave her metropolitan roots for a single-wide trailer nestled in the middle of nowhere. That is the way she pictured his homestead.

Kathy was now alone and pregnant. He had chosen his place in the backwoods, hill country. He must have lived really deep in the holler because I didn’t see him until I was thirteen years old. He spoke this foreign language that I was unable to understand. I think it was called “Hillbilly-eez.” My biological father was a complete and total stranger to me. I recognized, however, the profound resemblance between us.

I spent one week each summer with him, his wife and my younger sister and brother. We looked like a family. We all shared the same dark hair and almost ebony eyes. For that one uncomfortable week each year we acted like the perfect tv family, all polite and smiling. But there was just no substance to our time spent together. Maybe because we did speak in different tongues. We had no memories to share. Those memories that bind a family. They had their own only family and I had mine.

After my first failed marriage, my biological father offered me a place to live. I had longed to be a part of his family for my first thirteen years. Years filled with angst, yearning for a sense of belonging. Seeking a relationship with a man I hardly knew, I moved to West Virginia and fell in love. I would like to say that I fell in the love with the man who helped to create me. With no memories to share, we were as we had always been, strangers. We did come to share one thing. We both loved West Virginia.

Even though my fantasies were more satisfying than reality, I have made my life here in West Virginia. I have not seen my father in quite some time. I have no ill feelings for him. How do you feel ill towards a complete stranger? I am thankful that our relationship brought me to the place I call home. My father gave me the gift of living, laughing and loving in the state of “Almost Heaven!”

Peaceful, Easy Feeling

Probably the most difficult decision my mother, Kathy, ever had to make was turning my care over to Dolly and her second husband. She knew that they would love and care for me, but it was heartbreaking for her. A lesser woman would have went on with her life, free to do as she pleased. Not Kathy. Her determination to be with me grew stronger with each passing day. She forged her plan for us to be reunited. She worked and saved, convinced that one day she would be with her little girl.

She met and fell in love with a couple of men while we were apart. While these men were good companions for her, she inherently knew that they would not be the best father for her child. Then one day she met the man that would be a good husband and, more importantly, a perfect father. Ronnie was capable and willing to love a child that was not biologically his own. After they married and became established Kathy brought me home with them.

Ronnie was devoted, docile, dependable. He had a strong sense of family and definition of his role. Ronnie was determined to support his family. He worked many long hours to provide for us. We never wanted for anything. Never being a stern disciplinarian, his manner of parenting was laissez-faire. I honestly only remember one time during my childhood that he raised his voice to me. I was heartbroken for days, knowing that I had disappointed him by my behavior. Unfortunately, I am sure that I disappointed him many times throughout my life. It was not anything her ever said or did to make me feel this way. I just knew!

Everyone who ever encountered him fell in love with him. He had a gentle nature with a soft, easy laugh, undoubtedly the best I have ever known. While their union did not last after I grew up, my mother gave the gift of having him as my dad. Ronnie lives a quiet life, laughs an easy laugh, loves a gentle love. My world has been a better place with his peaceful spirit.

Not Just Another "Pee" in the Pod

The oldest child of Dolly, my Nanny, and Papa was my Uncle Kip. They had not really given him a middle name, just “E.” As a term of endearment, he was called Kippie. I was, however, unable to pronounce his name so I just called him “Pee.” Of all the children Pee probably most resembles Dolly, in looks and personality. He is charismatic, comical, caring.

Pee was popular during school and college. If you scanned his high school yearbook you would notice that his pictures were prominently displayed throughout. He was a class clown as his younger sister, Kerry. To balance the sadness that loomed in the household, we had to find humor wherever we could. After Kathy left, Pee was most often the subject of Papa’s cruelty. This made his tender spirit all that more astonishing.

Pee was companion as I grew up. When I wanted to play he would lightheartedly exclaimed, “Go play in traffic, kid!” Then he would pick me up gently throw me on the floor and wrestle with me. One of my favorite pastimes was listening to him play his treasured guitar. He was very passionate about his music, usually “The Who.” I always knew that pain touched his life, as it had the rest of us. Only fleetingly could I see a faint glimpse of sadness in his eyes. Mostly I only saw his wide smile and heard his gentle laugh.

Pee escaped his father’s home when he reached adulthood. He, like Kathy, was anxious to begin his new life in his own world. I know that I lived a better life because he was a part of it. The love an affection he gave to me will never be forgotten. Even though I only see him rarely, his love stays with me. Pee has lived a joyous life with a joyous laugh to love joyously. My memories of my former playmate will live with me forever.

His Softer Side

Sometimes it is difficult to remember the good times with some people. My Papa was just such a man. I have been thinking a lot lately about the man who fell in love with and married Dolly, my Nanny. Unlike Pat, Dolly’s second husband was more suitable to her. Where she was flirtatious and outgoing, he was solid and serious. Where her focus may have been haphazard, his focus was squarely on her. Even though he may not have known how to show it, he loved her so deeply that he must have ached to watch her deteriorate before his eyes knowing that she would never be the woman she once was.

He had a difficult time expressing his love to his children. He was, however, at his best when we were young. He was never better than when he loved my Uncle Mickey, regardless that he was not his biological son. Mickey had been stricken early in life with Meningitis rendering him deaf and mentally impaired. Mickey knew of him only as “Dad.” He would never comprehend, or have the slightest inkling, that Papa was anything less. Maybe Papa loved him because he would always remain a young boy.

Papa and Kathy, my mom, never really saw eye to eye and he could be cruel to her throughout her life. That may be the reason it was so perplexing that he loved me so. He may not have been my biological grandfather but he was nonetheless my Papa. His love for me brought out the best in him. For as long as I could remember he called me his little “Schnootzer.” I never wanted to be far from him. His strong arms would hold me tightly as I would sit on his lap in his favorite chair. He smelled of Old Spice and, for me, he always wore a smile. Maybe I was the escape from his ordinarily disconsolate existence. The family never truly understood the reason for his unhappiness. The creed of our family was not to discuss such matters.

Papa was a paradox of conflicting traits. He could be formidable, severe, unpredictable. At the same time he was also passionate, affectionate, affable. My promise to myself is to honor his memory by recalling the best of him as often as I can. He may have lived a difficult life, laughed not nearly enough and loved a different kind of love. For today, however, I choose to see beyond his faults and remember his softer life, softer laugh and softer love.

He Loved Abundantly...

Now that I have introduced the six generations of women in my family I must describe the men in my family. Millie’s husband, Sam, and her son, Frank, were both deceased by the time I was born. I only knew them by the few stories I had heard of them. Sam, I was told, was a kind man. I believe that Millie was the domineering partner in the marriage. After his death she never remarried. She did not feel the need to have a man in her life. She had Dolly to focus all of her energy. Millie never spoke of Frank much. His suicide was just too painful for her. Maybe because it hurt Millie so, Dolly didn’t speak much of him either.

Dolly met her first husband, Pat, when they were still teenagers. Pat had movie star good looks and more charm than Clark Gable. He was gregarious, entertaining, passionate. He and Dolly were so much alike, probably too much so. Dolly would say that he took her humor away from her. He would spend hours on end mastering and showing off his magic tricks. She did not relish the competition. Their marriage only lasted a short time. Pat went to the store one day and never came back. He really had not abandoned her. She had left him long before he left her. I believe that the end of their marriage was heartbreaking to him. Dolly, on the other hand, moved on with her life.

Leaving Dolly was probably the best decision for Pat. He met a beautiful, reserved young woman, Betty. She loved him and the five children they had together. With her love and support he became a self-made millionaire. She devoted herself completely to her husband and family. She loved him more than anyone before or after her. Sadly, it just wasn’t enough for Pat. Her passion was just too different to suit his needs. He was always a good man and she was always a fine woman, yet he was still searching for that one woman.

During this time, Pat became known to practically everyone in his community. Undoubtedly any place he patronized someone always recognized him. Unlike Dolly, however, he always knew their name. He was respected and revered. He also encountered a woman that could match his passion. Not long after they met, Pat fell in love and married Jean. Unfortunately, her desires were not always focused on Pat. They divorced after her many indiscretions.

He briefly married another woman. The pairing was so insignificant I am unable to even recall her name. Then to Pat’s surprise he met the woman that he would proclaim the love of his life. She was forty-four years his junior. She, like Pat, had led a hard scrabble life. He loved to entertain her, his family and the entire neighborhood singing karaoke in their garage. His sounds rivaled those of Sinatra, Nat King Cole and Tony Bennett. To his utter dismay, his love did not prove enough for her. During their union, through no fault of his own, he lost his empire. Then he lost her. His fiery Denise. Until the day he died he never truly got over her.

In his last days he lived with his daughter, my mom, Kathy. They had never really know each other but they became best friends in his final years. He became closer to all of his children. When he passed away he had no regrets. Pat discovered that his one true love was actually his devoted family. He had lived many lives, laughed many laughs, and loved many loves. Our family is grateful that he lived with us, laughed with us and loved with us.

A Brand New Year

My heart was broken after the death of Ashley, my beautiful little girl, my dream. Because of the black void in my life, I was consumed by thoughts of having another child. I have read that when a person has a limb amputated they are still able to feel it. I could feel the way she felt in my arms, her smell and her serenely, beautiful face. I physically ached for her. Unbeknownst to my new husband, Ashley’s father, I tried to conceive another baby. It was an all consuming desire to have a new dream, a new baby, a new sense of completeness.

Within two years I discovered that I would finally have the child I so desired. I loved the feeling of life growing inside of me. On December 31, 1986, I went into the hospital for a scheduled Cesarean. As I lay anesthitized, I dreamed that when I awoke I would be holding Ashley in my arms, as if the last 2 ½ years had never happened. When the effects of the anesthesia wore off, the knowledge that Ashley was gone forever was overwhelming. Thankfully, however, the doctor told me that I had given birth to a little girl, Megan. I had a brand new little girl for a brand new year. My celebration of life, laughter and love.

Miss Megan was the most beautiful baby I had ever laid eyes on. As was customary, she had only a small of amount of hair, pale blonde, but her head was perfect (the shapes of heads in our family was always worrisome to my family). Megan’s eyes were the brightest, most sparkling blue. Nurses would comment on this, naming her “Bright Eyes.” She loved to be held, spoken to and rocked for hours on end. She was also perfectly content to lay in her crib and studying her surroundings.

As she grew older, she was imaginative, audacious, zealous. She had a habit of testing her limits and mine. She was, above all, loving and affectionate. My mom has always said that you didn’t visit with Megan, you wore her. That has always been my favorite trait of hers. She, along with her younger brother, filled the void in my life. She completes me.

Now my Miss Megan has a daughter of her own, Little Layla. I only pray that they never have to survive the ordeals that her feminine ancestors had been afflicted. I hope that they may lead a happy life, filled with laughter and love.

The Little Girl I Never Knew

Like my sister, Kendra, I doodled baby names on blank sheets of paper, imagining a tiny person that would love me completely. A baby that I could love completely. The women in my family loved our children fiercely. And a baby accepts you just as the person you truly are. That unconditional, untainted, all-consuming devotion to each other. Unlike my sister, I didn’t wait until my world was established. I discovered that I would have this child that I longed for at an early age. Sweet sixteen and embarking on a new journey. Was I scared? Hell, yes!! Was I worried that I would be unable to provide for all of a baby’s needs and wants? Again, Hell, Yes!! Did I know that I would love this tiny life that grew inside of me? Undoubtedly, Hell, Yes!!

For nine long months I wondered if I would be blessed with a beautiful little girl or a handsome baby boy. I imagined every feature of this miracle inside of me. I dreamed of the future we would share. I hoped for a world filled with happiness and tiny peels of laughter. I envisioned the baby’s smile, the baby’s cry and the baby’s personality. I secretly wished that this child would be the solution for the emptiness that, late at night, would sometimes consume me. This wondrous child would complete me.

On a balmy May day, accompanied by my mom and boyfriend I went to the hospital to finally lay eyes on my baby. The excitement filled the car as I utilized my Lamaze breathing. We giggled and laughed and shouted out the window, “We’re having a baby today!” Childbirth did not instill fear in me. Any fleeting amount of pain would not deter from the miracle that was about to happen. Little did I know that I was destined to experience a lifetime of pain beginning that fateful day.

The fear began when I saw the nurse’s eyes as she informed us that there was a problem with the baby’s heartbeat. Time agonizingly ticked by as if someone had the moment viewed in slow motion. Waiting, waiting, waiting for the doctor to arrive. He rushed into the room and announced that the baby was in distress and that he had to perform a Cesarean section. I reassured my mother that the baby and I would be fine. No one would take my baby away from me now, not after all of my dreams and plans of the future.

Ashley Marie was born that day while I dreamed of her. I was only permitted to see her briefly as my family delivered the dire news. She had been deprived of oxygen during labor and had to be whisked away to another hospital. I watched in terror as she was wheeled away. I only touched her briefly but I could still feel her on my fingertips.

For an entire month we hoped, prayed, wished, demanded that she survive. After all, we were a family filled with female survivors. After all, I wanted this precious little girl more than I wanted for anything before.

Looking around the hospital ward she shared with tiny, premature babies, we were encouraged that she would be healed. Considering she was twice or three times larger than her roommates, she had to have a better chance at healing and living. Her features were so perfectly formed. She was breathtakingly beautiful lying in her incubator so serenely. Unlike the baby girls born into our family, she had a more than modest amount of golden brown hair. Her face was not pinched, her skin was not red from the trauma of her birth. It was unfathomable that this perfect little creature could have left this world without ever knowing it. She passed from this earth only a month after fighting her way into it.

My last memory of Ashley was her lying in her tiny coffin. There should never be a need of a coffin so tiny. She laid so peacefully inside wearing her pink and white bonnet. Tragically Ashley never had the opportunity to live, laugh love. Even more tragic is the fact that I will never know of the joy of sharing her life, her love and her laughter.

My Greatest Christmas Gift

In Dolly’s heart I was always the baby, never having to relinquish my status with her. Even when I left her home to share my mom’s brand new world. I always felt like the treasured little girl I was raised to be.

My mom met and married a man that she knew would be the perfect supporter of her little girl. I began my new adventure with them when I was seven years old. Two and a half years later my mom and dad, as I called her husband, welcomed a new baby girl, Kendra. In our younger years I felt the need to compete with Kendra with my mom and new dad. A Christmas Eve baby, Kendra had a sprinkling of bright red hair and sparkling grayish blue eyes. She fit into the mold of my new family, where I may not have. My mom and dad also had red hair. I looked like a square peg in a round hole with my dark eyes and hair. Kendra was not an overly beautiful baby. Her head was a bit too square and her expressions a bit too serious. Her face was usually pinched and her wails pierced the household on most occasions. Of course, she was always placated by her daddy. He loved her so.

Kendra grew into a precocious, sassy little nymph, with red corkscrew locks. Our parents indulged her every whim. With them she could be whiny and spoiled. But no so with me. I, as Millie had been to Kathy and Kerry, became her disciplinarian. On many occasions, I was left as her charge. In the beginning she resented my methods but later in childhood she came to love and support me. We forged a bond that cannot be broken by anyone or anything.

She has always been my protector. When she was only four years old, my mom was upset and yelling at me in the family bathroom. Kendra rushed my mom from behind and landed a blow with her tiny fist in mom’s back and exclaimed, “Don’t yell at my Krisy!” She has also stood staunchly behind me even when I was wrong. To her, I believe, I can do no wrong. With her encouragement, I am able to do anything I dream to do. My deepest desire is to be just like her when I grow up.

Kendra is affectionate, devoted, impassioned. As the women before her, she has seen too many tragedies at too early an age. Naming her future heirs when she was just a small child, her dream has always been to hold her own child. Her dream nearly came to fruition but was soon extinguished with the deaths of her three infant sons. If you look very closely you can see an inkling of clouds behind her sparkling eyes. She is determined, however, to dream another dream, live a different life, love a new love and laugh through it all.