What's important to you?
You might think that that is a simple questions and that you can readily come up with answers; however, the truth and your answers might not match. Let me make myself more clear... What do you THINK is important and what you TREAT as important.. are they the same things?
What fills you thoughts? What fills your social media? What do you take pictures of? What do you surround yourself with? I read awhile ago that "what ever you dream about, that's where your heart lies." I agree with that statement but I think it can actually be even more simple.
If you argue that you are a good parent and only want the best for your kids but buy yourself really nice and expensive things and your kids only buy "stuff" for your kids... You are more important than your children. Yes, I have heard parents argue that " Well, but my kid is gonna grow out of those clothes anyway." Yes, and someday you will be eating dinner and drop spaghetti sauce on that shirt and it will still be ruined. Your spending habits show a lot about you.
What do you talk about? I talk about my kid, my "babies"( students), school, my family, education, love, and life. I talk about all of those a lot. I use facebook, instagram, twitter, and blogger for all my social media needs. And all over all of those forms of social media, everyone can see references to my kid, my babies, school, my family, education, love, and life. I don't fill my social media with my ex. I don't passive aggressively bad mouth my family or enemies. I genuinely try to keep private matters between myself and who is involved.
I take this concept to the point where my classroom & home also reflect back on what is important to me. I surround myself with millions of pictures of my friends and family. I want people to know they are important to me. I want them to see themselves in pictures etc when they visit me. I don't want people to wonder about my love and emotional connection to them. I try to love people the way the need. I try to make others feel important and wanted.
I try to take care of my family. I cook almost all our meals, pack lunches, and overall care for them. I make dates. I have munchkin and mom dates. I bring home special candy to the boys to let them know they are loved. I make sure they have snacks. I try and put my effort into making them feel loved.
What do you think about?
What do you dream about?
What do you take pictures of?
What do you talk about?
That my friends is what you love.
That is where your heart is filled with.
Where you spend your time, energy, and put your effort into...
That's what you love.
It doesn't matter what your words say, actions speak louder than words.
Friday, April 25, 2014
Monday, April 14, 2014
Ask.
Something I have learned in life and teaching is the importance of being "asked."
Women want to be ASKed to get married.
Teenagers want to be ASKed to prom.
People in general need to be ASKed how they are in order to feel appreciated and important.
You wouldn't think that something as simple as asking would be that important. But the truth of the matter is that it's a little thing that is a HUGE thing.
When women get asked to get married it's not really the ring that matters. Shallow people will argue with me, but they're shallow. Any way... It's the fact that someone else puts them in a special place in their heart and wants to ASK them. The idea that a man will publically or privately ask a woman to share all his successes and failures not knowing what might bring... that's big. I personally am a fan of on bended knee... but have never had the joy of such a thing. It's fun to make plans as a couple but until their is an "ASK" you are just daydreaming and making plans "if." Once the ASK has taken place then the plans become real and gain substance.
People who feel they are alone want to be asked if they are okay. It helps prevent depression when they know someone else cares about their well being. The fact they are in fact a thought that crosses another human's brain. Their life matters. Many suicides have been prevented by someone asking the other person if they were alright or if they needed help. People need to know that they matter.
I ask my students about their weekend...
their lives... their parents... their new hair cuts...
what they want out of life...
I ask and ask
and ask some more.
Because the thought that that my ASKing could help or prevent them from feeling alone and might help them KNOW I care helps me feel better. Makes me feel like I matter too. Ironic how that works. Unfortunately, it's not enough for me to ask others if they are okay and have them tell me about their hobbies. I need people too. It's how I am built. In fact, I am pretty needy in general. I need to be needed. I love taking care of others and choose to be in a profession where I am. But, my neediness also needs to be asked about too.
I try to make a conscious effort to ask the darlings I share my home with about their day, their hobbies, what went wrong, what went right, what they are looking forward to in the next week, month etc. I hope by me doing this with my sweet munchkin he will do the same with his future babies ( far off future as he is only 5) and how that I am building a bedrock of care and ASKing in his future family.
To say it's been a rough year for me is an understatement the same way the Grand Canyon is a hole in the ground. I am trying to shake off my heaviness and still care for others.
But sometimes... I need to be asked too.
Hug the ones you love and ASK them about THEM.
Women want to be ASKed to get married.
Teenagers want to be ASKed to prom.
People in general need to be ASKed how they are in order to feel appreciated and important.
You wouldn't think that something as simple as asking would be that important. But the truth of the matter is that it's a little thing that is a HUGE thing.
When women get asked to get married it's not really the ring that matters. Shallow people will argue with me, but they're shallow. Any way... It's the fact that someone else puts them in a special place in their heart and wants to ASK them. The idea that a man will publically or privately ask a woman to share all his successes and failures not knowing what might bring... that's big. I personally am a fan of on bended knee... but have never had the joy of such a thing. It's fun to make plans as a couple but until their is an "ASK" you are just daydreaming and making plans "if." Once the ASK has taken place then the plans become real and gain substance.
People who feel they are alone want to be asked if they are okay. It helps prevent depression when they know someone else cares about their well being. The fact they are in fact a thought that crosses another human's brain. Their life matters. Many suicides have been prevented by someone asking the other person if they were alright or if they needed help. People need to know that they matter.
I ask my students about their weekend...
their lives... their parents... their new hair cuts...
what they want out of life...
I ask and ask
and ask some more.
Because the thought that that my ASKing could help or prevent them from feeling alone and might help them KNOW I care helps me feel better. Makes me feel like I matter too. Ironic how that works. Unfortunately, it's not enough for me to ask others if they are okay and have them tell me about their hobbies. I need people too. It's how I am built. In fact, I am pretty needy in general. I need to be needed. I love taking care of others and choose to be in a profession where I am. But, my neediness also needs to be asked about too.
I try to make a conscious effort to ask the darlings I share my home with about their day, their hobbies, what went wrong, what went right, what they are looking forward to in the next week, month etc. I hope by me doing this with my sweet munchkin he will do the same with his future babies ( far off future as he is only 5) and how that I am building a bedrock of care and ASKing in his future family.
To say it's been a rough year for me is an understatement the same way the Grand Canyon is a hole in the ground. I am trying to shake off my heaviness and still care for others.
But sometimes... I need to be asked too.
Hug the ones you love and ASK them about THEM.
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
My first born son...
I am incredibly lucky that my first born is a smart man child with great communication skills and a logical brain. However when he is arguing with me and using these skills against me, I consider just how cheap it is to make a replacement child....
Please don't get me wrong....I have no regrets about having my child. I have no thoughts that I did the wrong thing having my son with my ex even though to say we don't always get along with each other would be an understatement.
As a parent you want your child to be intelligent and to have a strong sense of what they want in hopes that they will be a leader and not a follower. You dream that they will be kind and bring you hope in the world. Sometimes I think how loud my home is and how I can hardly remember what it's like not to have noise constantly in it. I am amazed that I have this little piece of my heart that runs around outside of my body on a daily basis.
However,
-when my child argues with me and his logic is sound and perfect but NOT what I want him to do- I want to pull out my hair.
-when my house is quiet and my son is at school or with his daddy- I consider leaving the house because it longer feels like my house any more.
-when my son colors me a "pretty picture" but uses my eye liner or fancy markers I sorda wanna lock myself in my bathroom and cry. Its hard not to be mad but most of the time I am able to keep my focus and remember he won't be this size for long and in no time at all he won't want to make me art.
- when he falls asleep in the car and I get to carry his 50+ lbs of man child into the house I get frustrated right up until the point he bats those sleepy green eyes smiles that dimpled smile and says how much he needs me.
- when I am trying to hurry and get us ready to leave the house and he is in my way and I want to tell him he is IN MY WAY... and he smiles a dirty face little boy smile and tells me how pretty I look... I melt.
- when he is tried of shopping and being whiney and fussy and making me annoyed and he looks me straight in my eyes bats his lashes and says, " Momma these dresses aren't pretty enough for you." and I KNOW he is playing me... and I KNOW he is using psychology and flattery to get his way... but yet... I cave.
From holding him when he is sick even though I know I will be exhausted the next day...to cleaning up boogers and dirt... and God only knows what from his clothes...to finding rocks and leaves in my clothes dryer... I know I am loved, but being a boy mom is hard.
Please don't get me wrong....I have no regrets about having my child. I have no thoughts that I did the wrong thing having my son with my ex even though to say we don't always get along with each other would be an understatement.
As a parent you want your child to be intelligent and to have a strong sense of what they want in hopes that they will be a leader and not a follower. You dream that they will be kind and bring you hope in the world. Sometimes I think how loud my home is and how I can hardly remember what it's like not to have noise constantly in it. I am amazed that I have this little piece of my heart that runs around outside of my body on a daily basis.
However,
-when my child argues with me and his logic is sound and perfect but NOT what I want him to do- I want to pull out my hair.
-when my house is quiet and my son is at school or with his daddy- I consider leaving the house because it longer feels like my house any more.
-when my son colors me a "pretty picture" but uses my eye liner or fancy markers I sorda wanna lock myself in my bathroom and cry. Its hard not to be mad but most of the time I am able to keep my focus and remember he won't be this size for long and in no time at all he won't want to make me art.
- when he falls asleep in the car and I get to carry his 50+ lbs of man child into the house I get frustrated right up until the point he bats those sleepy green eyes smiles that dimpled smile and says how much he needs me.
- when I am trying to hurry and get us ready to leave the house and he is in my way and I want to tell him he is IN MY WAY... and he smiles a dirty face little boy smile and tells me how pretty I look... I melt.
- when he is tried of shopping and being whiney and fussy and making me annoyed and he looks me straight in my eyes bats his lashes and says, " Momma these dresses aren't pretty enough for you." and I KNOW he is playing me... and I KNOW he is using psychology and flattery to get his way... but yet... I cave.
From holding him when he is sick even though I know I will be exhausted the next day...to cleaning up boogers and dirt... and God only knows what from his clothes...to finding rocks and leaves in my clothes dryer... I know I am loved, but being a boy mom is hard.
Friday, February 21, 2014
Screw OCD... I have dishes in my sink!
I am impulsive and disorganized in so many ways that it makes all the OCD people I love and cherish crazy. It's not that I can not be organized. Its actually a lot more simple than that.
I do not have a natural drive to organize. I have a natural pursuit of memories of moments. I have a yearning to create a solid life. You see, I am the only child of a father who died young. But it's not that I am trying hard to make sure I live as much as I can just in case something happens to me. Its that I fully understand that I get ONE life. I get ONE chance to make enough memories to fill my head when I am too old to make more. I get ONE time to teach my son how to love, how to fight, and how to believe the that perfection can not be achieved, but happy can be.
My dad always believed that he would die young. He didn't fear it, for him it was just a fact that he had in his head. Because of this belief he made sure he had life insurance and savings and everything taken care of. He understand that life is precious. He understood that anything that prevents someone from LIVING is not good.
Because I am a follower of LIVING life and not just participating in it, I sometimes have dishes that sit in my sink over 24 hours. I occasionally have to turn my dryer on and let it "iron" the wrinkles out of my t-shirts and jeans. I want my son to remember the cuddling on the couch, me saying prayers with him before kissing him goodnight. I want him to hear me each and every one of the 1,001 times I tell him " I love you," in a day. I have 4,000, 2,000, and 103 pictures in my previous phones ( in that order) because I like to hold on to memories like air. I think that pictures help keep the moments alive. If you have ever been to my house (or in my classroom) you will notice that I have TON of pictures everywhere. If you are friend or family, please feel free to send me more. I will buy more frames.
What if some day I am cursed with Alzheimer's and begin to forget? Maybe the millions of pictures will be my memories, maybe the pictures will serve as a reminder to the care takers that I am a person and not just flesh and clay and air, maybe the pictures will be the bridge that connects my past to my present.
I'd rather die with dishes in my sink and a 1,000 pictures on my wall.
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Maybe it's time for another baby...
" YOU should have sex..."
This is the first thing MY brain hears when someone asks how many kids I have and how old my munchkin is. Then they follow up with a "MAYyyybbeee it's time for another one..." they often wink and follow it with, " maybe a girl this time."
First of all, truly in my head when someone tells me it's 'time' to have kids I literally feel like it's them telling me they approve of me having sex. And it's kinda awkward. Personally I don't feel comfortable telling or asking other people about their sex life. Because who you kiss and whether or not you chose to spend tons of money on a person you created is NONE of my business.
Also, my second thought is how terrible it must feel for people who WANT babies and children but can not have them. And that is also not a stranger's business. A person's struggle with infertility is often a very traumatic and personal battle. Truly my heart breaks for all the want to be mommies who haven't had babies. Your heart is soo full and you want your arms to look like it too. I don't think I would be able to be tactful to people. I might be rude and tell them that my kitty was broken or that the plumbing was internally off kilter.. I dunno really.
Also, like I have any control of what genitalia appears on my child. Go back to science.
I absolutely adore my son. He truly is the greatest choice I ever made. I was INCREDIBLY blessed to get pregnant easily with him. I have personally watched some of my friends and family members suffer from fertility issues and I just wanted to offer them my uterus ( And honestly, I did once.)
I also would like to have more children. I want another human that is the outpouring of my love for handsome dimpled husband and I. I want another person to add to my family tree. Whether or not we are ready and whether or not our life station is ready to receive such a miracle is none of the rest of the world's business until we decide and are blessed with such a monumentous blessing.
It doesn't bother me when my family, very close friends, and/or mom-in-law asks... because when they ask they are asking if we are planning on making a person that is apart of their family too. They are requesting another person to love and help be apart of that person's life.
However, random stranger on the street... Unless you are planning on discussing financially helping to support another human, my sex life, and whether or not there is a "goalie on the ice" in my uterus is non of you business.
You can smile and tell me what a beautiful family we have.
This is the first thing MY brain hears when someone asks how many kids I have and how old my munchkin is. Then they follow up with a "MAYyyybbeee it's time for another one..." they often wink and follow it with, " maybe a girl this time."
First of all, truly in my head when someone tells me it's 'time' to have kids I literally feel like it's them telling me they approve of me having sex. And it's kinda awkward. Personally I don't feel comfortable telling or asking other people about their sex life. Because who you kiss and whether or not you chose to spend tons of money on a person you created is NONE of my business.
Also, my second thought is how terrible it must feel for people who WANT babies and children but can not have them. And that is also not a stranger's business. A person's struggle with infertility is often a very traumatic and personal battle. Truly my heart breaks for all the want to be mommies who haven't had babies. Your heart is soo full and you want your arms to look like it too. I don't think I would be able to be tactful to people. I might be rude and tell them that my kitty was broken or that the plumbing was internally off kilter.. I dunno really.
Also, like I have any control of what genitalia appears on my child. Go back to science.
I absolutely adore my son. He truly is the greatest choice I ever made. I was INCREDIBLY blessed to get pregnant easily with him. I have personally watched some of my friends and family members suffer from fertility issues and I just wanted to offer them my uterus ( And honestly, I did once.)
I also would like to have more children. I want another human that is the outpouring of my love for handsome dimpled husband and I. I want another person to add to my family tree. Whether or not we are ready and whether or not our life station is ready to receive such a miracle is none of the rest of the world's business until we decide and are blessed with such a monumentous blessing.
It doesn't bother me when my family, very close friends, and/or mom-in-law asks... because when they ask they are asking if we are planning on making a person that is apart of their family too. They are requesting another person to love and help be apart of that person's life.
However, random stranger on the street... Unless you are planning on discussing financially helping to support another human, my sex life, and whether or not there is a "goalie on the ice" in my uterus is non of you business.
You can smile and tell me what a beautiful family we have.
Thursday, December 19, 2013
I was insulted and I need to vent...
A couple weeks ago after seeing Santa, I handed my munchkin a dollar to put in the Salvation Army bucket. The munchkin in his adorable innocence asked why we were donating money. The "gentleman" overheard my child and before I could blink told my child that "the money is to help buy presents for little boys and girls whose parents are not WEALTHY like your parents." I capitalized
wealthy because he over annunciated it and glared at us when he spoke the word.
I was livid. First of all, I am not a fan of someone judging me or my family. Second, both handsome dimpled husband and I work two jobs each...and then the really interesting homerun of facts, HDH and I both have jobs were we are public servants. I am a teacher and he is in law enforcement. In case you haven't been aware, neither one of us make big bucks in our careers. And the more I thought about it, the more I got mad. I was mad because "that man" didn't know us, and here he was telling my son things he had no idea about.
AND THEN... one day when I was wasting too much time contemplating complaining and writing a hateful letter to whomever would listen to my bitterness I had a couple of revelations.
First: That man doesn't know me or my family. He has no idea about us. He doesn't know that the reason we were there that day is because I was out of school for a snow day or that HDH was enjoying his day off by spoiling us and taking us to all the free festivities that Bass Pro offers at Christmas. He doesn't know that I work 7 days a week. He has no idea how hard we work for our family.
Second: Maybe... Maybe ... he was right. Just not in the way that he thought. I do not have a ton of money. We are able to pay our bills and put food on our table, which in itself is a form of wealth compared to many others.
BUT...
We are blessed in a safe and warm home with landlords who are like family.
We are able to provide for ourselves and make our ends meet.
We do have a family where if there is a problem, we sit down and discuss it without yelling and without disrespect.
We do have a home full of love and forgiveness.
I am rich that I have not one, but two handsome dimpled boys with my munchkin and my husband.
I am lucky to have two sides of family that I adore.
I am blessed that my son is healthy, kind, and has a heart and spunk like none other.
We are wealthy in happiness.
I am blessed that each and every night when we say family prayers that my heart swells so much I nearly cry.
My HDH works hard and thinks of us and our needs before his desires.
So, I guess that hateful bellringer was right, we are wealthy. We aren't wealthy in ways that can be monetarily measured but in happiness and love. Guess I need to stop being so thin skinned and focus on what is important.
wealthy because he over annunciated it and glared at us when he spoke the word.
I was livid. First of all, I am not a fan of someone judging me or my family. Second, both handsome dimpled husband and I work two jobs each...and then the really interesting homerun of facts, HDH and I both have jobs were we are public servants. I am a teacher and he is in law enforcement. In case you haven't been aware, neither one of us make big bucks in our careers. And the more I thought about it, the more I got mad. I was mad because "that man" didn't know us, and here he was telling my son things he had no idea about.
AND THEN... one day when I was wasting too much time contemplating complaining and writing a hateful letter to whomever would listen to my bitterness I had a couple of revelations.
First: That man doesn't know me or my family. He has no idea about us. He doesn't know that the reason we were there that day is because I was out of school for a snow day or that HDH was enjoying his day off by spoiling us and taking us to all the free festivities that Bass Pro offers at Christmas. He doesn't know that I work 7 days a week. He has no idea how hard we work for our family.
Second: Maybe... Maybe ... he was right. Just not in the way that he thought. I do not have a ton of money. We are able to pay our bills and put food on our table, which in itself is a form of wealth compared to many others.
BUT...
We are blessed in a safe and warm home with landlords who are like family.
We are able to provide for ourselves and make our ends meet.
We do have a family where if there is a problem, we sit down and discuss it without yelling and without disrespect.
We do have a home full of love and forgiveness.
I am rich that I have not one, but two handsome dimpled boys with my munchkin and my husband.
I am lucky to have two sides of family that I adore.
I am blessed that my son is healthy, kind, and has a heart and spunk like none other.
We are wealthy in happiness.
I am blessed that each and every night when we say family prayers that my heart swells so much I nearly cry.
My HDH works hard and thinks of us and our needs before his desires.
So, I guess that hateful bellringer was right, we are wealthy. We aren't wealthy in ways that can be monetarily measured but in happiness and love. Guess I need to stop being so thin skinned and focus on what is important.
Thursday, November 14, 2013
Why I eloped.
It's interesting that so many people are curious about the decision my handsome dimpled husband and I made to elope and not have a wedding. I have no problem explaining my side of our decision.When people feel the need to question why we got married or place judgment on us, I find it odd as marriage is a promise not for them and us, but he & I.
I am in love with the handsome & stubborn man that I am lucky enough to call my husband. I don't mean momentarily love, I mean "in love" and "love." Where I choose him over and over and over again. Yes, I did put handsome and stubborn side by side in my description of him. He is both parts handsome and stubborn. I am not foolish enough to see only his strengths or the ways that I find him perfect. I am aware of his stubborn and am rather fond of it. It means he has loyalty and when he makes up his mind to do something, it will be so. It means he is internally strong in ways that many other men fall short.
We made the decision to get married as adults; permission not needed. We made the commitment to each other. We didn't need a party to make our commitment more real. We didn't need to spend 10's of thousands of dollars to make it special.. I have been to many weddings and yet, this quiet, cold, perfect, morning under a huge evergreen is by far my favorite one. Our vows were perfect, my memories happy, and the moment sacred. It had all the elements we needed: a man and woman in love, laughter, love, a pastor, a high five, a kiss and God. Nothing else needed.
We eloped to eliminate drama, skip the chaos of who sits where, and this bridesmaid doesn't like that dress, and the best man got drunk and said inappropriate things about the mother of the bride etc. Too many people get caught up in all the silly things that don't matter.
What matters to me is that I get to come home every night to a man who looks at me across the room and we share a conversation, to a man that I can't imagine my life without him next to me because he is my best friend. The thing is, if tomorrow something were to happen and he were to forget me and I had to take care of him, I would. No bitterness, no anger, just do it. Because I love him.
I married him to share every bit of myself. For the first time in my whole life, I am sure. I am sure that there is no one else I have ever been more "me" around as I am around him. I do not edit me. I do not adjust who I am when I am with him. I'd face hell and high water with him because we are a team.
With this man I have shared, a break up, a make up, "dates" to Walmart because that's what we had time in our schedule for, jokes, frustration, I have taken care of him when he was sick, bandaged him when he was broken, listened to him tell me I was wrong without me getting upset (that in itself is a miracle), there have been tornadoes and thunderstorms, shooting matches and motorcycles, flat tires, a furlough or two, road trips, broken bones, stitches, movies, midnight taco runs, poetry, misquoted song lyrics sung too loudly, video games, dinner with the parents, lunch with grandma, jealousy and forgiveness, miscommunications, changes in addresses, birthdays, some snuggles, soo much laughter, countless kisses, and a promise to never lie, not even about dumb stuff. With this man, I'd trust my life, my heart, and my forever.
So yes, I married the man I love. I married him for all the goodness that comes with him, all the tough things we will face. I married him to love and more importantly because I cherish him. I am honored to be known as his. I choose him everyday.
Anyone who can not understand that, I feel bad for.
I am in love with the handsome & stubborn man that I am lucky enough to call my husband. I don't mean momentarily love, I mean "in love" and "love." Where I choose him over and over and over again. Yes, I did put handsome and stubborn side by side in my description of him. He is both parts handsome and stubborn. I am not foolish enough to see only his strengths or the ways that I find him perfect. I am aware of his stubborn and am rather fond of it. It means he has loyalty and when he makes up his mind to do something, it will be so. It means he is internally strong in ways that many other men fall short.
We made the decision to get married as adults; permission not needed. We made the commitment to each other. We didn't need a party to make our commitment more real. We didn't need to spend 10's of thousands of dollars to make it special.. I have been to many weddings and yet, this quiet, cold, perfect, morning under a huge evergreen is by far my favorite one. Our vows were perfect, my memories happy, and the moment sacred. It had all the elements we needed: a man and woman in love, laughter, love, a pastor, a high five, a kiss and God. Nothing else needed.
We eloped to eliminate drama, skip the chaos of who sits where, and this bridesmaid doesn't like that dress, and the best man got drunk and said inappropriate things about the mother of the bride etc. Too many people get caught up in all the silly things that don't matter.
What matters to me is that I get to come home every night to a man who looks at me across the room and we share a conversation, to a man that I can't imagine my life without him next to me because he is my best friend. The thing is, if tomorrow something were to happen and he were to forget me and I had to take care of him, I would. No bitterness, no anger, just do it. Because I love him.
I married him to share every bit of myself. For the first time in my whole life, I am sure. I am sure that there is no one else I have ever been more "me" around as I am around him. I do not edit me. I do not adjust who I am when I am with him. I'd face hell and high water with him because we are a team.
With this man I have shared, a break up, a make up, "dates" to Walmart because that's what we had time in our schedule for, jokes, frustration, I have taken care of him when he was sick, bandaged him when he was broken, listened to him tell me I was wrong without me getting upset (that in itself is a miracle), there have been tornadoes and thunderstorms, shooting matches and motorcycles, flat tires, a furlough or two, road trips, broken bones, stitches, movies, midnight taco runs, poetry, misquoted song lyrics sung too loudly, video games, dinner with the parents, lunch with grandma, jealousy and forgiveness, miscommunications, changes in addresses, birthdays, some snuggles, soo much laughter, countless kisses, and a promise to never lie, not even about dumb stuff. With this man, I'd trust my life, my heart, and my forever.
So yes, I married the man I love. I married him for all the goodness that comes with him, all the tough things we will face. I married him to love and more importantly because I cherish him. I am honored to be known as his. I choose him everyday.
Anyone who can not understand that, I feel bad for.
Friday, October 25, 2013
Scars
I notice scars. I do not mean to stare and take notice, but it turns out I often do. Its not that I am repulsed or even grossed out. It's the quite the opposite, I am fascinated by scars.
I find the presence of scars to be an example of strength; how far a person has come, what all the have seen, how much they can survive. I am drawn to them. I like to ask how they got there. I like to listen to the stories of survival and triumph.
I am like most people that I see large scars and take notice. But I also am curious about the teeny tiny scars that other people don't necessarily notice.
I personally have both of both sets.
Some of my favorite memories involve scars.I have teeny tiny scars above both eyebrows from the chicken pox I shared with my bff, Ginger when we were six,
the oval near my jawline that matches up with another similar one on the back of my head from a dog attack when I was even younger that was resolved by my dog "going to live on a farm..",
a navy blue line on my shin that looks like the start to an oddly placed tattoo where I accidentaly jammed a pencil led into my leg in Miss Frose's 1st grade class but was too shy to tell anyone because I cried every time I talked to the teacher, I like this one because that shy girl is no more. I wonder what she would think if she saw me standing at the front of my classroom everyday teaching,
a minimal slash and stitches through my ear from a wild bronco ride when I was four that I would have nailed the landing if it weren't for the coffee table disrupting my dismount,
a medium slash on my lower leg that I received at the state fair while making sand art with my bestie and near twin Camie Baxter when we were about 6th grade that originally was at the ankle but has grown with me and reminds me how much I miss her since her too early death. I think of her and I while shaving my legs almost every time. I think of her and I sharing baths, and swimming in her Jacuzzi, and how that summer she turned her usual golden tan and bleach blonde thanks to the summer sun and looked a lot like a Barbie, and I got third degree sunburns and my momma made me wear a tank top under my swimsuit the rest of summer,
I look at my hands at see the large scar on my right hand that ranges from one side to the other that has finally shrunk to only 1/4 of an inch wide and mostly smooth and remember how much I feel weak when I hold a rope for fear that a. I will not have the hand strength and b. for fear I will have another half inch wide and half inch deep scar if it were to happen again, I look at my left hand and the see pinky crooked and odd textured where the other rope came across and nearly severed it, and yet it is functional and most people never notice its weirdness. I remember asking my mother to pray for me and remember her laughing through tears as she told me she had been for hours and how mean she had to be when they wanted to amputate it and she said no, I look and see the ring finger and realize how thankful I am that it's there because I like the thought of being able to show others someday that I married a man I love more than anything.
I like seeing both hands and both sets of large and crazy scars and realizing how God has watched over me and kept me from harm.
I look on my hips and see my "tiger stripes"(stretch marks) and realize that they do in fact look like tiger stripes... and I remember how strongly I prayed for my son, how badly I wanted him, how I gave up soda, and hot dogs, and hair dye because I wanted to protect him. I remember praying for him so much and so often when he was in his belly home God prolly got tired of hearing my voice. I look at them and remember how amazing it was to be pregnant with him.I lok at them and think how fun it was to see and feel him swim around. How neat it was to listen to his heart beat on the stethoscope. How I use to play Aerosmith and Johnny Cash at the belly because it made him wiggle and dance. I remember what a gift my son is and I am thankful.
These are the are the reasons I like scars on others. I like hearing their tales of crazy, woe, survival, pain, and learning. I like seeing how far they've come and what they can live through. I like the idea that we are stronger and more powerful. I like reminders of how far we've come. I like looking and realizing that we have survived more than we ever thought possible. If you ever see me stare or you overhear me tell someone how cool their scar looks, I am admiring it. I am admiring their personal fortitude. I am in awe of the strength they have. I am in awe of how each one made them more unique and identifiable.
If you were to ask my mother how she would intimacy identify me, she would tell you if something were to happen to me and she had to identify my body. She does not need to see my face. She would ask to see my ear and the scar there, she would ask to see my toes and the toe rings I never take off, and she would ask to see my hands. I guess my mother and I think a lot a like.
I find the presence of scars to be an example of strength; how far a person has come, what all the have seen, how much they can survive. I am drawn to them. I like to ask how they got there. I like to listen to the stories of survival and triumph.
I am like most people that I see large scars and take notice. But I also am curious about the teeny tiny scars that other people don't necessarily notice.
I personally have both of both sets.
Some of my favorite memories involve scars.I have teeny tiny scars above both eyebrows from the chicken pox I shared with my bff, Ginger when we were six,
the oval near my jawline that matches up with another similar one on the back of my head from a dog attack when I was even younger that was resolved by my dog "going to live on a farm..",
a navy blue line on my shin that looks like the start to an oddly placed tattoo where I accidentaly jammed a pencil led into my leg in Miss Frose's 1st grade class but was too shy to tell anyone because I cried every time I talked to the teacher, I like this one because that shy girl is no more. I wonder what she would think if she saw me standing at the front of my classroom everyday teaching,
a minimal slash and stitches through my ear from a wild bronco ride when I was four that I would have nailed the landing if it weren't for the coffee table disrupting my dismount,
a medium slash on my lower leg that I received at the state fair while making sand art with my bestie and near twin Camie Baxter when we were about 6th grade that originally was at the ankle but has grown with me and reminds me how much I miss her since her too early death. I think of her and I while shaving my legs almost every time. I think of her and I sharing baths, and swimming in her Jacuzzi, and how that summer she turned her usual golden tan and bleach blonde thanks to the summer sun and looked a lot like a Barbie, and I got third degree sunburns and my momma made me wear a tank top under my swimsuit the rest of summer,
I look at my hands at see the large scar on my right hand that ranges from one side to the other that has finally shrunk to only 1/4 of an inch wide and mostly smooth and remember how much I feel weak when I hold a rope for fear that a. I will not have the hand strength and b. for fear I will have another half inch wide and half inch deep scar if it were to happen again, I look at my left hand and the see pinky crooked and odd textured where the other rope came across and nearly severed it, and yet it is functional and most people never notice its weirdness. I remember asking my mother to pray for me and remember her laughing through tears as she told me she had been for hours and how mean she had to be when they wanted to amputate it and she said no, I look and see the ring finger and realize how thankful I am that it's there because I like the thought of being able to show others someday that I married a man I love more than anything.
I like seeing both hands and both sets of large and crazy scars and realizing how God has watched over me and kept me from harm.
I look on my hips and see my "tiger stripes"(stretch marks) and realize that they do in fact look like tiger stripes... and I remember how strongly I prayed for my son, how badly I wanted him, how I gave up soda, and hot dogs, and hair dye because I wanted to protect him. I remember praying for him so much and so often when he was in his belly home God prolly got tired of hearing my voice. I look at them and remember how amazing it was to be pregnant with him.I lok at them and think how fun it was to see and feel him swim around. How neat it was to listen to his heart beat on the stethoscope. How I use to play Aerosmith and Johnny Cash at the belly because it made him wiggle and dance. I remember what a gift my son is and I am thankful.
These are the are the reasons I like scars on others. I like hearing their tales of crazy, woe, survival, pain, and learning. I like seeing how far they've come and what they can live through. I like the idea that we are stronger and more powerful. I like reminders of how far we've come. I like looking and realizing that we have survived more than we ever thought possible. If you ever see me stare or you overhear me tell someone how cool their scar looks, I am admiring it. I am admiring their personal fortitude. I am in awe of the strength they have. I am in awe of how each one made them more unique and identifiable.
If you were to ask my mother how she would intimacy identify me, she would tell you if something were to happen to me and she had to identify my body. She does not need to see my face. She would ask to see my ear and the scar there, she would ask to see my toes and the toe rings I never take off, and she would ask to see my hands. I guess my mother and I think a lot a like.
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
A Dangerous Question, "Will you marry me?"
"Will you marry me?"
I hadn't ever contemplated what it must be like for a man to ask such a dangerous question. I knew what it was like to see on TV and movies, had heard smoochie-fied cheeseball stories from people, and had even been asked a time or two.
But nothing can compare to the time I had a conversation with my "other mother." See Penny, (yes, her real name.) wasn't just anyone in my life, Penny was my bonus mom. She is both beautiful and wise and quite frankly stinkin' amazing when it comes to raising and dealing with men.
She and I were discussing life and responsibilities and being grown up. I thought I was a grown up back then... trust me... I wasn't.
She was telling me how many men don't really understand what it really means to ask a woman to marry them. I am positive my face gave away my confusion. She began to explain to me that when a man asks such a dangerous question that he isn't just asking for your hand to hold or even for someone who will look nice in family pictures... although he is asking those too.
When a man asks a woman to marry him he is asking...
- will you grow and bear my children?
- will you share and take my last name?
- will you cook my meals?
- will you put up with my mother?
- will you deal and share my family?
- will you clean and keep our home in order?
- will you love me if I get fat?
- will you share my address, regardless of where it is?
- will you love me when I am old &/or grey? or bald?
- will you take care of me when I am sick? even if I'm a big baby about it?
- will you take care of our kids if they are sick?
- will you have my back when no one else does?
- will you love me in spite of my stubbornness...temper... crazy... etc?
-will you think I am still the handsome man you met and married forever?
- will you share half of my everything even if we don't have anything?
- will you support me and my decisions?
- will you be there through thick and thin?
- will you sacrifice for me and our family?
- will you "love" on me?
- will you cherish me when I am at my lowest?
-will you love me for ALL of me?
I had never contemplated how dangerous and powerful a statement that ONE question was. She was right. Too many women want the girlie bits and bling, they don't LISTEN to the underlying questions he is REALLY asking.
Ladies, think long and hard before you answer a man. Not because you don't love him... but because you really need to know you are willing and able to be everything.
Gentlemen, don't ask a woman anything you don't really mean. Know how much you are REALLY asking a woman...
The bottom line is, "will you marry me?" isn't just a cutesy question that leads to a big party. It's a life changing question. Any man crazy enough to ask me such a dangerous question better know what he is asking, because I want know...
-will you kill the spiders in our home?
- will you love me when I'm pregnant and feel like a whale?
- will you tell me the truth about our finances?
- will you hold me after a long day?
- will you put up with me when I'm emotional and girlie?
- will you love me regardless of my hair color or weight?
- will you explain "boy things" to me without making fun of me?
- will you love when I need it most?
- will you need me?
- do you want to have a baby with me?
- will you listen to me?
- will you kiss me and make me weak in the knees?
- will you snuggle me and keep me warm at night?
- will you be there for me?
The thing is marriage is hard. It is also absolutely worth it, if you are with someone who will get there and support you no matter what. I could care less about the jewelry or party. Truth is, if I had it my way, I wouldn't have a wedding. I want a marriage. All the other stuff, well, it's just stuff. Stuff gets old and broken. I want to come home to the man of my dreams and just be us.
Gentlemen, don't ask if you aren't ready to be man she needs. Ladies don't say yes unless you are willing to be the helpmate he needs.
I hadn't ever contemplated what it must be like for a man to ask such a dangerous question. I knew what it was like to see on TV and movies, had heard smoochie-fied cheeseball stories from people, and had even been asked a time or two.
But nothing can compare to the time I had a conversation with my "other mother." See Penny, (yes, her real name.) wasn't just anyone in my life, Penny was my bonus mom. She is both beautiful and wise and quite frankly stinkin' amazing when it comes to raising and dealing with men.
She and I were discussing life and responsibilities and being grown up. I thought I was a grown up back then... trust me... I wasn't.
She was telling me how many men don't really understand what it really means to ask a woman to marry them. I am positive my face gave away my confusion. She began to explain to me that when a man asks such a dangerous question that he isn't just asking for your hand to hold or even for someone who will look nice in family pictures... although he is asking those too.
When a man asks a woman to marry him he is asking...
- will you grow and bear my children?
- will you share and take my last name?
- will you cook my meals?
- will you put up with my mother?
- will you deal and share my family?
- will you clean and keep our home in order?
- will you love me if I get fat?
- will you share my address, regardless of where it is?
- will you love me when I am old &/or grey? or bald?
- will you take care of me when I am sick? even if I'm a big baby about it?
- will you take care of our kids if they are sick?
- will you have my back when no one else does?
- will you love me in spite of my stubbornness...temper... crazy... etc?
-will you think I am still the handsome man you met and married forever?
- will you share half of my everything even if we don't have anything?
- will you support me and my decisions?
- will you be there through thick and thin?
- will you sacrifice for me and our family?
- will you "love" on me?
- will you cherish me when I am at my lowest?
-will you love me for ALL of me?
I had never contemplated how dangerous and powerful a statement that ONE question was. She was right. Too many women want the girlie bits and bling, they don't LISTEN to the underlying questions he is REALLY asking.
Ladies, think long and hard before you answer a man. Not because you don't love him... but because you really need to know you are willing and able to be everything.
Gentlemen, don't ask a woman anything you don't really mean. Know how much you are REALLY asking a woman...
The bottom line is, "will you marry me?" isn't just a cutesy question that leads to a big party. It's a life changing question. Any man crazy enough to ask me such a dangerous question better know what he is asking, because I want know...
-will you kill the spiders in our home?
- will you love me when I'm pregnant and feel like a whale?
- will you tell me the truth about our finances?
- will you hold me after a long day?
- will you put up with me when I'm emotional and girlie?
- will you love me regardless of my hair color or weight?
- will you explain "boy things" to me without making fun of me?
- will you love when I need it most?
- will you need me?
- do you want to have a baby with me?
- will you listen to me?
- will you kiss me and make me weak in the knees?
- will you snuggle me and keep me warm at night?
- will you be there for me?
The thing is marriage is hard. It is also absolutely worth it, if you are with someone who will get there and support you no matter what. I could care less about the jewelry or party. Truth is, if I had it my way, I wouldn't have a wedding. I want a marriage. All the other stuff, well, it's just stuff. Stuff gets old and broken. I want to come home to the man of my dreams and just be us.
Gentlemen, don't ask if you aren't ready to be man she needs. Ladies don't say yes unless you are willing to be the helpmate he needs.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Time for judging people...
I was told by another mother that I overshare.
I have not ever had a conversation with this woman of even 10 words and she felt entitled to inform me about...well..me. I must say I respect her backbone just not her action.
See, she felt the need to inform me that because I am unashamed of the path that my life has been through I should keep it quiet. Here's what she didn't know....
I am not ashamed.
The thing is, I have been married before. I have been through divorce. I have been in abusive relationships. I have experienced heartache and depression. I have been broken.
BUT... She failed to see the most amazing parts of my life because she was too busy suiting in her big black robe and thinking she could judge me.
She failed to see that I have survived. She wasn't on my porch the night the police had to be called to my house just to let me leave. She wasn't present for my VPO hearing where I had to swallow down tears stand tall while my knees shook so hard my high heels wobbled. She wasn't there any of the times I dropped my son off with a smile on my face and then cried the whole drive home. She didn't pay my bills when I planned out each and every piece of bread to make sure I had enough for peanut butter sandwiches for the week.
She failed to see that all of the things that I went through, are just things. They do not define me. Yes, they have effected me. Yes they have shaped and shifted and altered me into a different woman than I was 10 years ago. I am not even the same woman I was 6 mths ago. I am more. I am stronger. I am someone meaner... and I like me. I believe in me. I did not always. I fought tooth and nail to become this woman.
She prolly is the kind of woman who judges other people who had babies as teenagers... Funny thing, I judge them too. Just not in the way that she does. I judge that they are tougher than I am. I judge that they are made of sacrifices and love for their children that I respect. I judge that they truly know the things they gave up for their children and know that it was worth it. Many of my favorite people in my life are those children and mommas. I can not even imagine my life without them.
The thing with judging is that you weren't there. You don't know what you can handle until you are on the other side of the storm.
So to the woman who had the audacity to judge me.... Hats off to you.
However, I noticed that you didn't say them to my face which tells me you at least respect me enough to be BEHIND me...
After all if you're talking behind my back...
enjoy the view and feel free to pucker up princess.
I have not ever had a conversation with this woman of even 10 words and she felt entitled to inform me about...well..me. I must say I respect her backbone just not her action.
See, she felt the need to inform me that because I am unashamed of the path that my life has been through I should keep it quiet. Here's what she didn't know....
I am not ashamed.
The thing is, I have been married before. I have been through divorce. I have been in abusive relationships. I have experienced heartache and depression. I have been broken.
BUT... She failed to see the most amazing parts of my life because she was too busy suiting in her big black robe and thinking she could judge me.
She failed to see that I have survived. She wasn't on my porch the night the police had to be called to my house just to let me leave. She wasn't present for my VPO hearing where I had to swallow down tears stand tall while my knees shook so hard my high heels wobbled. She wasn't there any of the times I dropped my son off with a smile on my face and then cried the whole drive home. She didn't pay my bills when I planned out each and every piece of bread to make sure I had enough for peanut butter sandwiches for the week.
She failed to see that all of the things that I went through, are just things. They do not define me. Yes, they have effected me. Yes they have shaped and shifted and altered me into a different woman than I was 10 years ago. I am not even the same woman I was 6 mths ago. I am more. I am stronger. I am someone meaner... and I like me. I believe in me. I did not always. I fought tooth and nail to become this woman.
She prolly is the kind of woman who judges other people who had babies as teenagers... Funny thing, I judge them too. Just not in the way that she does. I judge that they are tougher than I am. I judge that they are made of sacrifices and love for their children that I respect. I judge that they truly know the things they gave up for their children and know that it was worth it. Many of my favorite people in my life are those children and mommas. I can not even imagine my life without them.
The thing with judging is that you weren't there. You don't know what you can handle until you are on the other side of the storm.
So to the woman who had the audacity to judge me.... Hats off to you.
However, I noticed that you didn't say them to my face which tells me you at least respect me enough to be BEHIND me...
After all if you're talking behind my back...
enjoy the view and feel free to pucker up princess.
Friday, September 20, 2013
Baby Daddies
I have heard/read/ and listened in on conversations that your first child looks more like the man than all other children. The reason (per the writings and studies) is that pre-scientific evidence, the men would be able to know, even in cave times, that the child was THEIRS.
I find this concept interesting. Where does that leave people like me? I have previously been married and had the most amazing child. Yes, my son does in some instances resemble his father/my ex, however; my son looks and acts sooo much like my father that I am a believer in the NATURE versus nurture debate. His actions and logic is beyond where my brain usually ventures. He is logical and rational and uses reasoning like a weapon. I am in awe of this more often than I will admit in public very often. I am non of those. I am emotional and moved by my heart. We are near opposites when it comes to choices and making decisions. I do not wish to change him, but there are some times that my emotional and heart led brain struggles to explain "WHY." to my logical and reasoning child.
Back to my original idea, if my son did not necessarily follow this idea, does that mean that my next child will not ? I find this sad. I kind like the idea of being able to look at baby pictures of a man I love and know that the possibility of my next child looking like said loved man . My ex husband had the most dominate genetics ever. His eyes, hair, skin all are considered "dominate" per the whole Mendel's dominate/ recessive notion about predicting the outcome of offspring.
BUT.. my son is not dark, does not have dark eyes, and does not have dark hair. He is the genetic hopscotch king and skipped all of that. Let me pause for a moment and address a weird and wonderful thing. My son came out, DARK.. hair, skin, eyes, everything. He could have been a doppelganger for his dad.... BUT within a small window he no longer is any of those.
I confess that I have a personal weakness for men with brown eyes. I even somewhat hoped my son ( prior to his arrival outside of the belly home) would have them. I have NO complaints that my child looks nothing like what I assumed he would look like because I think he is altogether amazing and handsome in a way I couldn't have imagined.
I wonder if men hope their children will look like them? How does that work? If you are in a committed relationship and make babies, do the men still dream that the offspring will look the most like them? Do daddies even think about that? Has the genetic tide pool shifted over time? Has the need for children to look like their fathers receded over time?
I sometimes wish I had a magic ball and could look into what I hope to be my future life and see if my subsequent babies look like their dad or like me...
I sorda hope that they look like their father. Why wouldn't I want a kid(s) to look like the man I love?
;)
I find this concept interesting. Where does that leave people like me? I have previously been married and had the most amazing child. Yes, my son does in some instances resemble his father/my ex, however; my son looks and acts sooo much like my father that I am a believer in the NATURE versus nurture debate. His actions and logic is beyond where my brain usually ventures. He is logical and rational and uses reasoning like a weapon. I am in awe of this more often than I will admit in public very often. I am non of those. I am emotional and moved by my heart. We are near opposites when it comes to choices and making decisions. I do not wish to change him, but there are some times that my emotional and heart led brain struggles to explain "WHY." to my logical and reasoning child.
Back to my original idea, if my son did not necessarily follow this idea, does that mean that my next child will not ? I find this sad. I kind like the idea of being able to look at baby pictures of a man I love and know that the possibility of my next child looking like said loved man . My ex husband had the most dominate genetics ever. His eyes, hair, skin all are considered "dominate" per the whole Mendel's dominate/ recessive notion about predicting the outcome of offspring.
BUT.. my son is not dark, does not have dark eyes, and does not have dark hair. He is the genetic hopscotch king and skipped all of that. Let me pause for a moment and address a weird and wonderful thing. My son came out, DARK.. hair, skin, eyes, everything. He could have been a doppelganger for his dad.... BUT within a small window he no longer is any of those.
I confess that I have a personal weakness for men with brown eyes. I even somewhat hoped my son ( prior to his arrival outside of the belly home) would have them. I have NO complaints that my child looks nothing like what I assumed he would look like because I think he is altogether amazing and handsome in a way I couldn't have imagined.
I wonder if men hope their children will look like them? How does that work? If you are in a committed relationship and make babies, do the men still dream that the offspring will look the most like them? Do daddies even think about that? Has the genetic tide pool shifted over time? Has the need for children to look like their fathers receded over time?
I sometimes wish I had a magic ball and could look into what I hope to be my future life and see if my subsequent babies look like their dad or like me...
I sorda hope that they look like their father. Why wouldn't I want a kid(s) to look like the man I love?
;)
Friday, September 13, 2013
Everything happens for a reason...
I am a true follower of the idea that everything happens for a reason.
I am also wise enough to know that there are things I won't understand now, and some that I may never understand. I am not a fan of thinking that there are things in my life that will never make sense. In fact, if I let myself contemplate it for ever a short moment of time it begins to agitate and bother me enough to cause me true anguish.
I wish I had some magic fortune tellers ball and could look into and give people answers. I wish there were moments someone was there to hold my hand and tell me that it will all makes sense in the end. But the thing I believe, the truth, is that not everything will make sense and sometimes the reasons why things happen are so far removed from me that I will never see the cause that effected me.
Then the idea that some things HAVE to happen to make me (or them) better. For example if I'd given up and decided not to have my munchkin with my ex...What if my son has a destiny to be something so great and change the world, but I robbed the universe of it because I changed my mind after we decided to try to make a kid? And because I hadn't yet my son I didn't know what I was missing?
I believe that God has a sense of humor, I believe that he knows I flex without breaking, and that I make a fantastic punchline. I also think that sometimes he allows me to go through things because it makes me stronger even though when I am going through it I feel weaker.
I truly believe that all my jobs I had prior to teaching helped to equip me to be a teacher.
Grocery store cashier- ability to answer multiple questions, deal with conflict and see people at both their best and worst and treat them equally
Waitress- help others, listen to 15 people all at once, keep track of information, and do it all with a smile
Photography studio- see the best in people, celebrate life's events, be there in the right moment
Jewelry Sales- find out the needs of others, figure out what they can do, help them to see they can do it, make them happy with their accomplishments
Children's Shoe Sales- meet the needs of others, find the best fit, handle crying and snot, and gross things with ease and act like nothing even phases you, breathe and handle everything that comes my way
Marketing- ask and answer a ton of questions, learn names and faces rapidly, convince others I/ we are great at what we do
I think all of these things are integral pieces of what makes me good & also love my job.
everything happens for a reason. I did not love all of those jobs, but they all taught me something. I think the same is true with people in my life, everyone is there for a reason. Some people are there to teach me, others to keep me sane, some to hold me in check, and others I am apart of their life to teach, help, love them.
I believe that every moment in my life has led me to this place... this moment.. this time...
if I had changed one step I might never fall in love...
never had had my son...
never become a teacher...
everything happens for a reason, sometimes the reason is above what my feeble brain can understand.
I am also wise enough to know that there are things I won't understand now, and some that I may never understand. I am not a fan of thinking that there are things in my life that will never make sense. In fact, if I let myself contemplate it for ever a short moment of time it begins to agitate and bother me enough to cause me true anguish.
I wish I had some magic fortune tellers ball and could look into and give people answers. I wish there were moments someone was there to hold my hand and tell me that it will all makes sense in the end. But the thing I believe, the truth, is that not everything will make sense and sometimes the reasons why things happen are so far removed from me that I will never see the cause that effected me.
Then the idea that some things HAVE to happen to make me (or them) better. For example if I'd given up and decided not to have my munchkin with my ex...What if my son has a destiny to be something so great and change the world, but I robbed the universe of it because I changed my mind after we decided to try to make a kid? And because I hadn't yet my son I didn't know what I was missing?
I believe that God has a sense of humor, I believe that he knows I flex without breaking, and that I make a fantastic punchline. I also think that sometimes he allows me to go through things because it makes me stronger even though when I am going through it I feel weaker.
I truly believe that all my jobs I had prior to teaching helped to equip me to be a teacher.
Grocery store cashier- ability to answer multiple questions, deal with conflict and see people at both their best and worst and treat them equally
Waitress- help others, listen to 15 people all at once, keep track of information, and do it all with a smile
Photography studio- see the best in people, celebrate life's events, be there in the right moment
Jewelry Sales- find out the needs of others, figure out what they can do, help them to see they can do it, make them happy with their accomplishments
Children's Shoe Sales- meet the needs of others, find the best fit, handle crying and snot, and gross things with ease and act like nothing even phases you, breathe and handle everything that comes my way
Marketing- ask and answer a ton of questions, learn names and faces rapidly, convince others I/ we are great at what we do
I think all of these things are integral pieces of what makes me good & also love my job.
everything happens for a reason. I did not love all of those jobs, but they all taught me something. I think the same is true with people in my life, everyone is there for a reason. Some people are there to teach me, others to keep me sane, some to hold me in check, and others I am apart of their life to teach, help, love them.
I believe that every moment in my life has led me to this place... this moment.. this time...
if I had changed one step I might never fall in love...
never had had my son...
never become a teacher...
everything happens for a reason, sometimes the reason is above what my feeble brain can understand.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Boobies
I discovered a lump in my boob about December of last year. I asked the man I was with to check and see if he felt anything and he refused and told me I was just being dramatic and that there was prolly nothing there.
Mostly, He "foo foo'd" me off.
I decided maybe I was crazy...
And so... I waited.
January in a quiet and yet dramatic course of events I left said man.
July I went in for my "girlie" exam where they examine my ladies, check under the hood, and make sure everything is fine. As my Dr, is chatting away with me and discussing life, love, my munchkin, how blessed I am, etc. and she is feeling me up like a easy prom date she pauses in the conversation.
She says... "Do you do your monthly self breast check ups?"
Me: "Yes...............(silence)......why?"
She Dr. "Have you noticed this before?" concern on her face and voice tense
Me "yes. I found it in December but previously mentioned ex told me I was crazy and being dramatic."
She Dr. " I'm sure it's nothing...BUT... we need to get this checked out.
For those of you unfamiliar with the "BUT statement rule" let me enlighten you. Anything said before the 'But' should be ignored because it's just there to sugar coat the truth. I am aware of the "BUT statement" rule of conversation and have to begin concentrating on breathing as I am panicked.
A quick couple texts to people I adore and trust and a few 5 calls to get the "just check this out" appointment scheduled, some promises from my BFF to get new bigger fake boobs if it's a bad lump and I am at the Oklahoma Breast Center in OKC.
I arrive for my appoint and get taken back to a quiet freezing room and get topless, a lovely nurse brings me a heated blanket and we begin to look and discuss at the inside of my boobs.
She explains everything, shows everything, labels everything, and is amazing. However, she also feels like the head Dr. man needs to come in and feel me up too
At this point 3 separate people have seen and felt me up, none of which have brought me dinner or even a snack. Sighhhh.
After much discussion we all agree that there IS a lump. It IS noticeable. It IS hard. It IS about the size of a marble. We discuss and evaluate as a team (a team for my boobs!) and decide a mammogram is next. The have me move across the building; still topless; and a nice new lady feels me up and puts cut flower stickers on the lump and they do a mammogram. Yes I have heard the horror stories about mammograms and heard how they "squish" your boobs and make them feel like pancakes... but a. I am not enormously blessed b. my lady was amazing c. I kept giggling at the way my boobs looked squished between two clear pieces of glass. I kept thinking of fish faces squished across the wall of an aquarium d. my alarm from the day before went off and we enjoyed "Boston" by Augustana and it helped relax me.
4 people have now played with my boobies and still no snacks or treats or offers for a date.
I am taken back to a room where mister Dr. man, ultrasound lady, and the mammogram film all are. We all look, talk, analyze, and decide that there IS a bump. It IS hard. It doesn't look bad, but all of their years of experience tell them to check ONE more way. I get taken over to scheduling where we discuss my cycles and they ask some really in depth questions and am actually able to answer them with 100% answers because I have an app for that. ;)
We schedule my MRI for the next day.
I have a problem with needles.
A LARGE problem.... when I arrive on Thurs a lovely nurse has me get topless ( naked boobies seen by person number 5) and we discuss if I have tattoos, piercings or any other internal metal, etc. She begins my IV, I look away and concentrate on breathing and on our discussion about tattoos and babies. I feel myself get heavy and my eyes start to spot... I let her know about 1 min. before I pass out. I wake up 5 min. later, a little hazy about where I am, surrounded by 3 more people, still topless.
Number of people who have seen or felt my boobies in one week, 8.
I get relaxed, we do the MRI. I think about the man I crush on, music lyrics, the last time I cuddled anyone, the heated blanket on my legs, the annoyance of laying my body weight on my rib cage, and wait.
Turns out, after 8 people have seen or felt up my boobies in a week, and non of them even offered me a stick of gum, I am thankful that my the only thing wrong with me is I'm lumpy like bad mashed potatoes at Gramma's Thanksgiving.
However, I will also not take my boobies for granted. I will be thankful that I breast fed my son for almost a year. I am blessed that while I have bad genetics I have the gift of prayer and people who love me and help handle my whiney stressed out self. I am blessed that my insurance didn't need a pre approval and I was able to get answers in the same week .
God is good even if my boobies are lumpy. :)
Mostly, He "foo foo'd" me off.
I decided maybe I was crazy...
And so... I waited.
January in a quiet and yet dramatic course of events I left said man.
July I went in for my "girlie" exam where they examine my ladies, check under the hood, and make sure everything is fine. As my Dr, is chatting away with me and discussing life, love, my munchkin, how blessed I am, etc. and she is feeling me up like a easy prom date she pauses in the conversation.
She says... "Do you do your monthly self breast check ups?"
Me: "Yes...............(silence)......why?"
She Dr. "Have you noticed this before?" concern on her face and voice tense
Me "yes. I found it in December but previously mentioned ex told me I was crazy and being dramatic."
She Dr. " I'm sure it's nothing...BUT... we need to get this checked out.
For those of you unfamiliar with the "BUT statement rule" let me enlighten you. Anything said before the 'But' should be ignored because it's just there to sugar coat the truth. I am aware of the "BUT statement" rule of conversation and have to begin concentrating on breathing as I am panicked.
A quick couple texts to people I adore and trust and a few 5 calls to get the "just check this out" appointment scheduled, some promises from my BFF to get new bigger fake boobs if it's a bad lump and I am at the Oklahoma Breast Center in OKC.
I arrive for my appoint and get taken back to a quiet freezing room and get topless, a lovely nurse brings me a heated blanket and we begin to look and discuss at the inside of my boobs.
She explains everything, shows everything, labels everything, and is amazing. However, she also feels like the head Dr. man needs to come in and feel me up too
At this point 3 separate people have seen and felt me up, none of which have brought me dinner or even a snack. Sighhhh.
After much discussion we all agree that there IS a lump. It IS noticeable. It IS hard. It IS about the size of a marble. We discuss and evaluate as a team (a team for my boobs!) and decide a mammogram is next. The have me move across the building; still topless; and a nice new lady feels me up and puts cut flower stickers on the lump and they do a mammogram. Yes I have heard the horror stories about mammograms and heard how they "squish" your boobs and make them feel like pancakes... but a. I am not enormously blessed b. my lady was amazing c. I kept giggling at the way my boobs looked squished between two clear pieces of glass. I kept thinking of fish faces squished across the wall of an aquarium d. my alarm from the day before went off and we enjoyed "Boston" by Augustana and it helped relax me.
4 people have now played with my boobies and still no snacks or treats or offers for a date.
I am taken back to a room where mister Dr. man, ultrasound lady, and the mammogram film all are. We all look, talk, analyze, and decide that there IS a bump. It IS hard. It doesn't look bad, but all of their years of experience tell them to check ONE more way. I get taken over to scheduling where we discuss my cycles and they ask some really in depth questions and am actually able to answer them with 100% answers because I have an app for that. ;)
We schedule my MRI for the next day.
I have a problem with needles.
A LARGE problem.... when I arrive on Thurs a lovely nurse has me get topless ( naked boobies seen by person number 5) and we discuss if I have tattoos, piercings or any other internal metal, etc. She begins my IV, I look away and concentrate on breathing and on our discussion about tattoos and babies. I feel myself get heavy and my eyes start to spot... I let her know about 1 min. before I pass out. I wake up 5 min. later, a little hazy about where I am, surrounded by 3 more people, still topless.
Number of people who have seen or felt my boobies in one week, 8.
I get relaxed, we do the MRI. I think about the man I crush on, music lyrics, the last time I cuddled anyone, the heated blanket on my legs, the annoyance of laying my body weight on my rib cage, and wait.
Turns out, after 8 people have seen or felt up my boobies in a week, and non of them even offered me a stick of gum, I am thankful that my the only thing wrong with me is I'm lumpy like bad mashed potatoes at Gramma's Thanksgiving.
However, I will also not take my boobies for granted. I will be thankful that I breast fed my son for almost a year. I am blessed that while I have bad genetics I have the gift of prayer and people who love me and help handle my whiney stressed out self. I am blessed that my insurance didn't need a pre approval and I was able to get answers in the same week .
God is good even if my boobies are lumpy. :)
Monday, August 26, 2013
Sleep is for the Weak
I am a fan of sleep. My sleep schedule on the other hand, is not a fan of me...
This may sound like a crazy thing to say; however, I have a terrible time sleeping. I stay awake at night thinking. I think about what I should be doing if I'm not gonna sleep (dishes, laundry etc). I consider the "deeper" meaning of song lyrics. I prolly give more "additional" meanings to songs than I would care to admit in polite company.
Here's the thing... I don't think it's really a sleep problem. I fell asleep last week in like 2 seconds in the middle of a living room floor face down. I haven't slept face down in ages. Normally the only time I sleep face down is when I physically don't fell well. My momma swears its my version of the fetal position bc she says she laid me down that way back in the day. Anyway, I do have a hard time falling asleep in strange places. In fact, the first night on a vacation or just about anywhere I am not familiar with, I don't sleep much.
However, I have noticed that there are exceptions to the "me no sleepy" thing I've got going on. It has nothing to do with thread count in the sheets, nothing to do with the firmness of the mattress- remember I slept like a rock face down on the living room floor last week... I think it's more about who I am around. It's a comfort level.
At first glance I thought it was just that I was around persons I am comfortable with. I am casting off that idea as if that were true I should sleep well at home, also I slept nearish a friend of mine a while back but still had nightmares. Thus it's not just comfort. And it's not about being safe or not because all of the locations that I attempt sleep I am safe.
The only difference is who I am near.
Put me near people I am comfortable with and have not single secret...
and BAM!
I'm sleep like the survivors after a zombie apocalypse.
The idea that my sub-conscience is more in control of my sleep than my conscience...
now that...
That will give me plenty to ponder tonight when I am tossing, turning, and contemplating life.
This may sound like a crazy thing to say; however, I have a terrible time sleeping. I stay awake at night thinking. I think about what I should be doing if I'm not gonna sleep (dishes, laundry etc). I consider the "deeper" meaning of song lyrics. I prolly give more "additional" meanings to songs than I would care to admit in polite company.
Here's the thing... I don't think it's really a sleep problem. I fell asleep last week in like 2 seconds in the middle of a living room floor face down. I haven't slept face down in ages. Normally the only time I sleep face down is when I physically don't fell well. My momma swears its my version of the fetal position bc she says she laid me down that way back in the day. Anyway, I do have a hard time falling asleep in strange places. In fact, the first night on a vacation or just about anywhere I am not familiar with, I don't sleep much.
However, I have noticed that there are exceptions to the "me no sleepy" thing I've got going on. It has nothing to do with thread count in the sheets, nothing to do with the firmness of the mattress- remember I slept like a rock face down on the living room floor last week... I think it's more about who I am around. It's a comfort level.
At first glance I thought it was just that I was around persons I am comfortable with. I am casting off that idea as if that were true I should sleep well at home, also I slept nearish a friend of mine a while back but still had nightmares. Thus it's not just comfort. And it's not about being safe or not because all of the locations that I attempt sleep I am safe.
The only difference is who I am near.
Put me near people I am comfortable with and have not single secret...
and BAM!
I'm sleep like the survivors after a zombie apocalypse.
The idea that my sub-conscience is more in control of my sleep than my conscience...
now that...
That will give me plenty to ponder tonight when I am tossing, turning, and contemplating life.
Friday, August 23, 2013
Quiet is my conscience
I hate the quiet. Genuinely. I am rarely comfortable with it. I am perfectly happy if there is music in the background, a tv creating noise, a fan while I sleep, a dishwasher while I type.
I am very uncomfortable with absolute silence. The truth is the only time I ever choose quiet is when I drive and no one else is in the car. Then it feels like peace. Maybe bc I am not forced to think of the dishes in the sink or the fact that my bed needs made... (and for the person who thinks it's a criminal act not to make his bed, you are wrong. ) I just drive.
I don't like quiet because I think of all the "perfect" answers to questions I have been asked, I think of all the better things I could have said, all the times I should have swallowed my pride, should have let go of my fear and told the other person how I REALLY felt... quiet is like my own personal purgatory where I relive all the pieces of my life where I should have... could have.... done or said something different.
I guess the truth really is much more simple than I am making it out to be. For me, quiet is the accumulation of all the wrong choices, perceived wrong choices, and bad ideas I had. I'd like to tell you that once and a while I decide that I occasionally decide I did the right thing, but that would be far fewer and far between and thus it would be a lie.
Quiet is my conscience. I overthink, overanalyze, worry, compare, and contemplate. If I could just turn off m brain I might be safe however; until then I will turn on music, flip my fan off and on...anything to make a sound.
I am very uncomfortable with absolute silence. The truth is the only time I ever choose quiet is when I drive and no one else is in the car. Then it feels like peace. Maybe bc I am not forced to think of the dishes in the sink or the fact that my bed needs made... (and for the person who thinks it's a criminal act not to make his bed, you are wrong. ) I just drive.
I don't like quiet because I think of all the "perfect" answers to questions I have been asked, I think of all the better things I could have said, all the times I should have swallowed my pride, should have let go of my fear and told the other person how I REALLY felt... quiet is like my own personal purgatory where I relive all the pieces of my life where I should have... could have.... done or said something different.
I guess the truth really is much more simple than I am making it out to be. For me, quiet is the accumulation of all the wrong choices, perceived wrong choices, and bad ideas I had. I'd like to tell you that once and a while I decide that I occasionally decide I did the right thing, but that would be far fewer and far between and thus it would be a lie.
Quiet is my conscience. I overthink, overanalyze, worry, compare, and contemplate. If I could just turn off m brain I might be safe however; until then I will turn on music, flip my fan off and on...anything to make a sound.
Thursday, August 15, 2013
Thoughts like a lava lamp
I don't think that my internal thoughts are exactly the same as everyone elses'. No I do not believe that I am some stellar genius, far far from it. And I don't think I am a psychopath. I just think that maybe my thought process is unique and unusual. I like to think of it as a gift in the same way that people describe some birth defects "gifts". They are not good or bad but rather just apart of my dna.
Anyway back to my brain and it's inner workings. I used to get frustrated that people don't understand how my brain made it's "leaps" and I can jump from one subject to another with grand rapidness. I have come to terms with this now. I do sometimes struggle with the fact that rarely do people like my randomness. And often my leaps make me seem scatterbrained. The truth of the matter is completely opposite. I overthink things. I overanalyze things. I think 15 things but only mention 3. I have found it makes people less uncomfortable and less apt to look at me with the crazy face if I only explain the 3.
For example, I walk down the hall at school. I see a kid with a turquoise shirt and think of shopping with the roommate, I think of my favorite Easter dress in 6th grade, I think of finding Robin's eggs shells when I was 5, I think of that blue eyed boy I kissed at Czech Fest in 7th grade with the sun on my face, I think of the sky before the storm, I think of the blue sheets I ordered for my first big girl bed when I was 4 or 5 with the sleeping puppies on them, I think of that one man and that one shirt he wears and how he looks hot in it and how I lose my cool with him, I think of a thousand things that are all either blue or turquoise and I get lost in my head for about 5 min. Yes, 5 min.
Yes, most people have triggers in their head that are caused by memories. A lot of people have scent memories. What I mean to say is memories that are triggered by scent. For example certain soaps or perfumes that make them think of baking cookies at Grandma's house. Or the cologne the boy they crushed on it 8th grade wore and sat in front of them in Geometry. But for my brain... it's like the old "Family Circus" comic with the little boy who visits 20 places just to get from the mailbox to the front door. Now take that kind of internal triggering, add a visual memory, a sensitivity to color, add that fact that I am emotional and love life and the fact that memories are only stored IF you have an emotional reaction....
Needless to say what you end up with is a constantly over working brain that looks like a kaleidoscope inside a lava lamp....and the whole thing set on EXTRA crazy.
Glub..glub... clink.
Anyway back to my brain and it's inner workings. I used to get frustrated that people don't understand how my brain made it's "leaps" and I can jump from one subject to another with grand rapidness. I have come to terms with this now. I do sometimes struggle with the fact that rarely do people like my randomness. And often my leaps make me seem scatterbrained. The truth of the matter is completely opposite. I overthink things. I overanalyze things. I think 15 things but only mention 3. I have found it makes people less uncomfortable and less apt to look at me with the crazy face if I only explain the 3.
For example, I walk down the hall at school. I see a kid with a turquoise shirt and think of shopping with the roommate, I think of my favorite Easter dress in 6th grade, I think of finding Robin's eggs shells when I was 5, I think of that blue eyed boy I kissed at Czech Fest in 7th grade with the sun on my face, I think of the sky before the storm, I think of the blue sheets I ordered for my first big girl bed when I was 4 or 5 with the sleeping puppies on them, I think of that one man and that one shirt he wears and how he looks hot in it and how I lose my cool with him, I think of a thousand things that are all either blue or turquoise and I get lost in my head for about 5 min. Yes, 5 min.
Yes, most people have triggers in their head that are caused by memories. A lot of people have scent memories. What I mean to say is memories that are triggered by scent. For example certain soaps or perfumes that make them think of baking cookies at Grandma's house. Or the cologne the boy they crushed on it 8th grade wore and sat in front of them in Geometry. But for my brain... it's like the old "Family Circus" comic with the little boy who visits 20 places just to get from the mailbox to the front door. Now take that kind of internal triggering, add a visual memory, a sensitivity to color, add that fact that I am emotional and love life and the fact that memories are only stored IF you have an emotional reaction....
Needless to say what you end up with is a constantly over working brain that looks like a kaleidoscope inside a lava lamp....and the whole thing set on EXTRA crazy.
Glub..glub... clink.
Sunday, July 21, 2013
Why I stopped saying the big 3: I love you
I have in my past been a bit of an “I love you” slut. I used
it casually and didn’t put forth as much effort as I should have. I used it
with people I loved, but was not in love with. I do still use it a lot with my
friends, my family, my munchkin, and honestly, my students… because I have no
doubt that I do very genuinely love them. I will admit that I care about
people. Although, how deeply I oft leave off. That does not mean I do not care,
and it does not mean that I wouldn’t endure bone marrow transplant for those
people ; which I hear is supposed to be one of the most painful medical
procedures and involves needles… I have a fear of needles and am a whimp when
it comes to pain. I wanted to get back to a purer version of “I love you.” I wanted the people I
said it to, to KNOW I meant it with the absolute bottom of my heart. I wanted my actions to stand for more. I
wanted my intentional choices to be a reflection of my heart. I dunno that I
had actually expressed or explained that to the person or person(s) who needed
to know it, but in my head I knew.
“The truth is rarely pure and never simple.” Oscar Wilde
It’s funny how you remember some things but not others. I remember that quote
as clearly as the day I sat in the library working on a research paper in high
school about Mr. Wilde. I can picture the black ink pen in my hand, the green
book from which I was copying it, and the white unlined notecard in front of me
as I scrawled it out word for word. I
think part of why I remember the quote is because I was at first taken about by
the idea of it. My brain couldn’t fathom it at first and so I sat staring at
it, contemplating it. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. The
more truth and weight it held. Before that moment I hadn’t ever pondered the
idea that the truth could be anything other than “truth.” I remember tucking
the card along with about 15 others into my binder and throwing it all into my
ever crammed backpack. That one card had started the thought army and its
descent on the beaches of Normandy of my brain…creeping in where I wasn’t
armed… sneaking under other thoughts that were seemingly unrelated. .. hidden
behind things that were what I had previously thought were simple.
I bring all this up to try to explain my personal lockdown
and fear of the phrase, “I love you.” I
have come through a couple ugly relationships. I do not say that as an excuse
for pity. I say it as a way to preface why the phrase “I love you” has shifted
in my mind and become a more meaningful thing than it was previously used
before.
I do feel the “I love you” rise up inside of me. I do almost
say it. I did hear it screamed in my head as I snuggled in for bed. I did feel
it as I kiss the face I adore goodbye. When the perfect hand is laid on my leg,
I nearly choke on the words…but… I swallow them down. It’s not that I don’t
want to say them. It’s not that they are not true. They are so pure and so honest,
to say them scares me. I am afraid that if I utter them, the other person whom
I care so deeply about that I can’t sleep at night will not understand and that I have waited to say them because
this time they are the exact perfect thing. What if I say them and the other
person says they were “only joking” and I am so hurt that I nearly cry…sigh.
What if they say them and it’s just a trap to have me confess my feelings only
to have them make fun of me for being so foolish? What if my heart is just a
game to be won like a game of tic tac toe? What if I let go and tell them that
I don’t just care about them, that I do in fact, love them, and they don’t feel
the same and the whole thing gets all weird and awkward and we stop talking?
And here’s where I
get back to Mr. Wilde. The truth about all this isn’t simple; and it’s not
totally pure. I don’t say it not because it’s not true…and it’s not because
they don’t know I care. I have been pretty open with the fact that I do
genuinely care. I just can’t seem to let go of my fear. And until I can let of my fear.. I try to let
my actions say what my heart beats say everytime we talk.
The truth about me isn’t simple.
And my crazy isn’t pure.
My feelings and emotions are genuine.
I care more than I have understanding and more than I have
the ability to verbalize.
Not the silly “Luv ya.”
Not the non personal, “Love you,”
Not the”lol, you know I love you but…”
Real ..true..
“ I love you”: I miss you when we aren’t together. I miss
seeing you. I am in love with you. I worry about you. I pray for you daily.
Friday, July 19, 2013
Happy
Question I overheard at the library today got me to thinking...It wasn't a big question...
It was simple.
"Are you happy?"
It wasn't directed at me. It was merely one I overheard as the munchkin and I were enjoying the city library. It sent my mind to a whole other dimension in self contemplation.
Am I happy?Yes...no... somewhat...
And better questions..
WHY NOT?
What can I do to change that?
So I did the only "logical thing" and I looked up what happy meant.
Merriam Webster describes "happy"as
HAPPY: favored by luck or fortune
It was simple.
"Are you happy?"
It wasn't directed at me. It was merely one I overheard as the munchkin and I were enjoying the city library. It sent my mind to a whole other dimension in self contemplation.
Am I happy?Yes...no... somewhat...
And better questions..
WHY NOT?
What can I do to change that?
So I did the only "logical thing" and I looked up what happy meant.
Merriam Webster describes "happy"as
HAPPY: favored by luck or fortune
2: notably fitting, effective, or well adapted
3a : enjoying or characterized by well-being and contentment
b : expressing, reflecting, or suggestive of happiness
c.glad or pleased
d : having or marked by an atmosphere of good fellowship : friendly
4a : characterized by a dazed irresponsible state
b : impulsively or obsessively quick to use or do something
c : enthusiastic about something to the point of obsession
I dunno that I have really considered my self "lucky" although I do consider myself very fortunate. I am fortunate to have a roof over my head, food in my fridge, an amazing kid that I adore so much it makes me what more kids... etc. I am NOT what I would consider "well adapted.." so I fail on that front. I do think I try to reflect happiness. I am more oft than not glad. I have pretty good fellowship, I miss a few people, and rarely get brave even to say it but I do. I often feel dazed and irresponsible but that has more to do with my ability to overanalyze and over think... LOL.. I AM IMPULSIVE. that one is an absolute score for team happy.... and I dunno about that last definition. Honestly, It's a bit odd for me.
I guess overall I am relatively happy. I miss people and I am not bold or brave as I'd like to be nor am I well adapted. I wish I knew a few more of "well adapted" people who could teach me, but I think I'd make them loose their cool, so.. meh.
I noticed something amazing that WASN'T in the definition. It didn't ask me if I had regrets, or if I'd made mistakes, or if I'd done dumb things, it never asked if I gave my heart to the wrong person, it never accused me of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, or the right thing at the WORSE time...
I find that very refreshing. Its nice to have a checklist that is tangible to help keep my thoughts in check. Turns out, happy is not something hard to find. Happy is a state of mind.
I am happy, a few potholes in my path, but happy nonetheless.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
Apologies and Guilt
There are some words and phrase that are powerful to me. Some that I frequently use, " I love you," there are ones I think about often and don't always use because I feel vulnerable using them, "I miss you," then there are two that I am not fond of using... and sadly, they often go hand in hand
"I was wrong."
" I'm sorry."
...all of the above phrase can change relationships between friends and love(s) but I think the ones I need to use more often are the last two.
I don't like to be wrong. That in itself is an understatement. I hate it. I literally hate it. Most people assume it's because I am vain. The truth is far more odd. It makes me mad at myself, not because I am wrong so much as the idea that I let someone down or misled them. I let myself look foolish. I am a fan of telling people the truth. I am a fan of being honest to the point of embarrassment ( most of the time.) However, I despise being wrong.
I don't hate saying "I'm sorry" as much as "I was wrong." Maybe because if I am at the point where I need to say I'm sorry I have already come to the conclusion that I have hurt or injured someone. I am not a fan of hurting people. I will avoid it. (Side note: I avoid confrontation bc I am a whimp and often overreact)
I think I view "I'm sorry"as a healing thing and less of an admission of guilt so I am more comfortable with it. I will apologize when I think I have offended, when I have hurt, or when I feel it appropriate. But those words, " I am wrong..." Dear me... they nearly burn my tongue.
I have been told many times that I am stubborn and often need to admit I was wrong more. I have been told by friends, loved ones, exes, co-workers... and every time... EVERY one... it makes me angry. I dunno if it's bc I am stubborn or that I am too much like my father. Maybe it just happens to be my main character flaw.
If my flaws are simple like this, I think I am doing okay. I think I personally consider pride to one of the worst character flaws. I am not really prideful. Actually, I fear pride. It prolly has a lot to do with teaching and studying English and seeing so many of the epic heroes creep up on their failure like a roller coaster edging it's way to the top because they were too prideful. Or worse, they were too proud to admit they were wrong and get help from others. Hmm.
Look out world... I might be on a roller coaster of doom after all.
Here is me admitting I am wrong.
I am wrong. A lot.
Here is me apologizing.
I am sorry.
( trust me the list I have of people who deserve to hear this is long and extensive )
Today I make the goal to stop being so stuck on not admitting I am wrong.
Hopefully, I am not wrong in making it. ;)
"I was wrong."
" I'm sorry."
...all of the above phrase can change relationships between friends and love(s) but I think the ones I need to use more often are the last two.
I don't like to be wrong. That in itself is an understatement. I hate it. I literally hate it. Most people assume it's because I am vain. The truth is far more odd. It makes me mad at myself, not because I am wrong so much as the idea that I let someone down or misled them. I let myself look foolish. I am a fan of telling people the truth. I am a fan of being honest to the point of embarrassment ( most of the time.) However, I despise being wrong.
I don't hate saying "I'm sorry" as much as "I was wrong." Maybe because if I am at the point where I need to say I'm sorry I have already come to the conclusion that I have hurt or injured someone. I am not a fan of hurting people. I will avoid it. (Side note: I avoid confrontation bc I am a whimp and often overreact)
I think I view "I'm sorry"as a healing thing and less of an admission of guilt so I am more comfortable with it. I will apologize when I think I have offended, when I have hurt, or when I feel it appropriate. But those words, " I am wrong..." Dear me... they nearly burn my tongue.
I have been told many times that I am stubborn and often need to admit I was wrong more. I have been told by friends, loved ones, exes, co-workers... and every time... EVERY one... it makes me angry. I dunno if it's bc I am stubborn or that I am too much like my father. Maybe it just happens to be my main character flaw.
If my flaws are simple like this, I think I am doing okay. I think I personally consider pride to one of the worst character flaws. I am not really prideful. Actually, I fear pride. It prolly has a lot to do with teaching and studying English and seeing so many of the epic heroes creep up on their failure like a roller coaster edging it's way to the top because they were too prideful. Or worse, they were too proud to admit they were wrong and get help from others. Hmm.
Look out world... I might be on a roller coaster of doom after all.
Here is me admitting I am wrong.
I am wrong. A lot.
Here is me apologizing.
I am sorry.
( trust me the list I have of people who deserve to hear this is long and extensive )
Today I make the goal to stop being so stuck on not admitting I am wrong.
Hopefully, I am not wrong in making it. ;)
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Fighting for what I don't want.
The truth is... I fail.
A lot.
I make choices all the time not really sure of if I am doing the right thing. I figure that if I get it all wrong and fall at least I will have a better view when I look up again. I try to do the right thing. I attempt to be the bigger person; however, I am not always a fan of this.
I fail.
I try again.
I fail.
I try again.
I fail.
And then sometimes I actually learn a few things about myself.
I have learned that when there are two paths... I usually whimp out and choose the one I think is the safest option. The saddest part about that is that the "safe" option is not usually the one I want in the long run. I am tired of choosing safe. I am tired of trying to be the person that I am "supposed" to be to fit other people's ideas of who or what I should be. I am not really that girl.
I am a believer that everything happens for a reason and that the reason is USUALLY beyond what my feeble brain can understand. I agree that we accept what we think we deserve instead of fighting for what we want.
I think I often fight when I shouldn't and run when I should fight. I have been thinking about this a lot lately. It's really pretty simple. If I fight for the things I know I shouldn't and I lose them I haven't really lost. It's like buying cookies I like, but don't love that way I can easily not eat them and stay "skinny." I give up too easily on the things/people I want most because I am afraid that they will figure out that I am not really that great and will leave or hurt me.
I read a quote not that long ago about how when we truly care about someone we show them the truest most intimate and weakest parts of ourselves and then hand them the knife and hope that they won't cut us. It's been a some time since I really let someone into that aspect of me. I nearly did a short time ago and then looked for an excuse to run..and did just that. I ran. I ran because my "ally" What-If started whispering in my ear again; warning me I could be truly broken by this scenario.
What if my fears are right... what if he doesn't really care... what if I let go and tell the truth about what/how I feel...
what if ..
what if..
what.............if.....
I am a paint by number picture except the numbers seem to be written in Mandarin and I don't understand Mandarin and so I guess instead of asking the right people the right questions.
Here's to leaps of faith...
Here's to letting go fear...
Here's to following my heart.
Here's to fighting for what I desire.
A lot.
I make choices all the time not really sure of if I am doing the right thing. I figure that if I get it all wrong and fall at least I will have a better view when I look up again. I try to do the right thing. I attempt to be the bigger person; however, I am not always a fan of this.
I fail.
I try again.
I fail.
I try again.
I fail.
And then sometimes I actually learn a few things about myself.
I have learned that when there are two paths... I usually whimp out and choose the one I think is the safest option. The saddest part about that is that the "safe" option is not usually the one I want in the long run. I am tired of choosing safe. I am tired of trying to be the person that I am "supposed" to be to fit other people's ideas of who or what I should be. I am not really that girl.
I am a believer that everything happens for a reason and that the reason is USUALLY beyond what my feeble brain can understand. I agree that we accept what we think we deserve instead of fighting for what we want.
I think I often fight when I shouldn't and run when I should fight. I have been thinking about this a lot lately. It's really pretty simple. If I fight for the things I know I shouldn't and I lose them I haven't really lost. It's like buying cookies I like, but don't love that way I can easily not eat them and stay "skinny." I give up too easily on the things/people I want most because I am afraid that they will figure out that I am not really that great and will leave or hurt me.
I read a quote not that long ago about how when we truly care about someone we show them the truest most intimate and weakest parts of ourselves and then hand them the knife and hope that they won't cut us. It's been a some time since I really let someone into that aspect of me. I nearly did a short time ago and then looked for an excuse to run..and did just that. I ran. I ran because my "ally" What-If started whispering in my ear again; warning me I could be truly broken by this scenario.
What if my fears are right... what if he doesn't really care... what if I let go and tell the truth about what/how I feel...
what if ..
what if..
what.............if.....
I am a paint by number picture except the numbers seem to be written in Mandarin and I don't understand Mandarin and so I guess instead of asking the right people the right questions.
Here's to leaps of faith...
Here's to letting go fear...
Here's to following my heart.
Here's to fighting for what I desire.
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