Fat Bottom Girl Said What

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Archive for the category “Family”

On Children

On Saturday my son flies back to Washington, where he has resided with his dad for the last 2 years, and I am already sad.

Even though it ripped my heart out to let him go live with his dad, it has turned out to be a very good thing.  He is maturing, and growing into the amazing young man I always knew he had the potential to be.  He just had to get past the anger.

Knowing he is where he needs to be doesn’t make it any easier to let him go, but letting our children go, is what we, as parents, all have to do at some point.

Years ago, before I had my son, I read Khalil Gabrin’s ‘The Prophet’ for the first time, and was impacted by the part ‘On Children’, and it continues to resonate with me.  My son will always be my son, but he is his own person, with his own thoughts and feelings, and his own life to live, and I will continue to remind myself of this as he boards that plane on Saturday.

On Children
 Kahlil Gibran

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

 

Talking About Love

He said, “Mom, I’m not sure I know what love is, but I think I might love her. Even though she and I might never be more than just friends, I want her to be happy.”

I said, “So you do know what love is then. You know exactly what it is.”

 

 

 

 

What Lies Within Us

What is the flaw within us

that doesn’t believe we are good enough

for good love

Why is it easier to accept

the love

which isn’t really love

but merely sickness masquerading

We give them the benefit of the doubt

because we believe

we can see the possibilities inside them

of which there are none

and even if there were potential

it’s not up to us to nurture them

Brother of mine

do not make the same mistakes I have made

it will not get better

but only worse every time

until it will culminate

into something she can’t take back

Run away from her little brother

as fast as you can

as far as you can

It may be lonely for awhile

but not as lonely as a tomb

 

 

 

To My Son On His 15th Birthday

Son,

Today is your 15th birthday, and I’m very proud of the young man you’re becoming, but it doesn’t make me miss the little boy any less.

I miss your questions and your belief that I still had things to tell you, because it’s been replaced by you thinking you know it all and you have nothing left to learn from me, or the world.

I miss your smiles and your genuine joy at seeing me when I’d been away for short periods of time, because it’s been replaced by your seemingly nonchalant demeanor about us now being separated by miles.

I miss your little hand in mine and your excitement and readiness to go anywhere with me, as everything was always an adventure, because it’s been replaced by your attitude that nothing is ever much fun and you’d rather sit home and play video games or read.

I miss your snuggles and hugs and little boy smooches, because even now when you hug me you never squeeze me as tight as you did when you were little and uninhibited about showing affection.

But most of all, today I miss you because you’re halfway across the country and I can’t run into your room this morning yelling Happy Birthday and telling you once again about the day you were born and how it was the best day of my life.

Just so you know, I’ll always see that little boy every time I look in your face, even when you’re 40.

I love you!!!

Mom

 

 

Ghost of Christmases Past

xmaspast

 

I hate the holidays.

For numerous reasons.

My parents divorced years ago, when I was around 12, and that is when my hatred of the holidays began.

Up until then, it had been presents, and aunts and uncles and cousins, and cinnamon applesauce salad, and grandmas and grandpa, and some damn ham, and crocheted ponchos for everyone.  Except the boys, of course.

After the Big D, referred to as “A.D.” at our house, meaning “After Divorce”, everything changed.

A.D., we would spend Christmas Eve with my mom, and then my dad would pick us up on Christmas morning to take us to our grandma and grandpa’s.

I remember the sick feeling I’d get in my stomach at having to leave my mom home alone.  I hated it, and would feel sad for her all day.

Even then I knew I never wanted to spend Christmas alone, while my imagined, future children went elsewhere, but oh, how things come to pass which we never expect.

Here I am, 30 plus years later, doing near the same thing: swapping holidays with my son’s father.

Every year, the closer it gets to the holidays, the more morose and irritable I seem to get.  I want to skip them altogether and go straight to the New Year, because I’ve given up on trying to schedule time with my limited number of family members, whose schedules don’t ever jive, because of divorces and remarriages and extended families and step-families.

I realized this morning, I think this hatred derives from the fact I’m being eaten up with jealousy when the holidays roll around.  I don’t have a husband, or a boyfriend, and my family seems scattered and all kinds of fucked up.

You sit over there with your Christmas card perfect spouse and kids, and their spouses, and maybe even a couple of grandkids running around at this point, and I hate you just a little bit.

I wonder why you deserve that family, and why I don’t.

All I ever wanted was to be a part of a big, loving family, and when I was really young, I thought that’s what I had. But then I grew up.

I grew up and discovered those types of families are mostly just myth.

Like unicorns, they don’t exist.

Families are messy.

Parents give each other the cold shoulder, or make biting comments about the others’ appearance, or sometimes have affairs they scream about during late night drunken fights, or god forbid over Thanksgiving dinner.

Siblings argue because they don’t like their sister’s choice in a mate so they refuse to sit down at the same table and dine with them, or you find out your brother had sex with your wife.

Kids grow up and are too busy to travel an hour or two to see their non-custodial parent, and when they’re forced to do it, they’re pissed off because they can’t be with their friends over Christmas break and they make everyone’s life miserable because of it.

And step-families become the first priority, and you will always have to take a back seat to their plans, and often figure out excuses not to attend combined functions because you don’t fit into their mix, and all you really want is just a few moments alone with your dad and your brother to make fart jokes and laugh.

Life in general, is messy, and fucked up, and complicated.

But right here, right now, I know this:

In 5 days I will drive to the airport to pick up my little boy, who now stands 6’2, and has a booming tenor voice, and who will soon be 15 years old, and in that moment, and the 10 days following that, I will be happy.

I will be happy because my boy is sleeping in his bed down the hall from me once again, and for 10 days, everything will be right with the world, regardless of what Christmas plans are made or kept, or how fucked up our family is.

I wish the same for you, and your fucked up family.

Peace on Earth and pass the vodka.

 

 

Steps

Last Sunday I stepped on to a plane mourning being separated from my son once again.  I stepped off the plane to a different kind of mourning–the death of my step-brother.

Step-families are a totally other dimension.  I can’t say I’m overly close to any of my step-siblings, even after 30 years, but my step-brother was by far, my favorite.

He was more like a cool party buddy.  I tried to avoid family functions if he wasn’t going to be there, because he was the only thing that made them fun.  He and my brother and I would sit around and talk about his youngest sister, because none of us liked her.  She’s a bossy busybody, who thinks the world should revolve around her.  Which, she has once again proven by sending out a group text asking everyone to bring birthday cards for her 26 year old son because obviously, her brother had the gall to die and have his funeral on her son’s birthday. What. The. Ever. Loving. Fuck.

I told my step-brother in my head that he will have to help me bite my tongue when I’m around her.  And my brother and I joked that it was just the sort of bullshit that all of us would be laughing about if we were sitting around drinking together on another occasion.

But none of this changes the fact my step-mother has lost her son, and my niece has lost her father, and her children have lost their grandpa. On Monday, I will lift my glass to him because he’s the only one who ever made me feel like I was ever a part of that family. And I will miss him, and I will thank the universe I still have my brother.

 

 

Do I look like I work here??

I figured out some time ago, that I’m “that person”.  I guess I have “that sort of face”.  The sort of face which makes everyone think I magically know where every item is located in Walmart, and that I want to know all the intimate details of their life, even if I hardly know them.

Mind you, I’m not complaining, as this particular gift has served me well in certain circumstances; in the field of counseling I was educated in, as fodder for my blog, material for some future stand-up routine I might want to do.

The one area where it really comes in handy though, is in parenting!  Of course when you’re hearing the oft times Tourette’s like ramblings of a teenager, the spewed information you really want to know, i.e. sex, drugs, rock n’ roll, will periodically get peppered with bits of knowledge you might possibly have been able to survive without knowing.

The peppered bits of late:  pubic hair elimination.

Yes, you read it right.

Two times in the last month this particular topic of conversation has come up with my son, and my nieces.

I had taken my nieces, 15 and 13, out shopping with me one day, and the subject of shaving came up.  The older tells the younger she can’t believe their mother lets her shave her legs already, because she didn’t get to do that at her age.  In response the younger tells us there’s one thing she’s not going to be shaving anytime soon, and that’s her “hoo-hah”!  I cringed, but tried to recover quickly and told her I didn’t think she should concern herself with that at her age, and then tried to segue into another topic.

Last Saturday night I was on the phone with my son, chatting about school, and his upcoming Xmas visit, and how his step-sister leaving her hairbrush on his side of the sink really pisses him off, when all of a sudden he said, “Mom, I want you to know I’m going to shave it all off.”

OH MY GOD!!

I knew he couldn’t be talking about his beard, because at 14 he merely gets a few long hairs sprinkled in various locations around his face.

I said, “You’re going to shave what??”, already knowing what he was talking about.

“You know.”

Oh lord.  What happened to him never wanting to shave it, and going so far as to tell me one time that he wanted it to be “a veritable forest down there”??

I said the only thing I could think of:  “For Christ’s sakes don’t use a razor!!  Only use your trimmers! You don’t want to slice your weiner!”

Welcome to my world.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Worth Every Penny

Gas money for a 7 hour drive to and from Colorado and a case of tired ass- $130.00

Accommodations for a 2 day stay, and food including fried pickles and tasty treats from a little French bakery  – $420.00

1/2 Day White Water Rafting Trip for 2 on the Arkansas River complete with a totally unplanned swim in said river – $125.00

Look on my son’s face as he tells me this is the most awesome trip ever and that he wants to do it again tomorrow – Priceless

DSC_4674

A Melancholy Mother’s Day

I wrote to my daughter’s mother today to tell her Happy Mother’s Day. Yes, you heard me correctly. I have a daughter, but I am not her mother. It pained me for years to say this, but it is the truth.

You see, I got pregnant and had a baby at 16. I wasn’t equipped to be a mom. I considered abortion, but by the time my mind really allowed me to realize I was pregnant, it was too late, and I don’t think I could’ve gone through with it anyway. So I did what numerous teen girls have done before me, and I put her up for adoption.

It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life.

I felt like a piece of my soul had been torn out of my very being. I felt incomplete most days, because I knew she was out there but she wasn’t a part of my life.

Some days I wanted to die it hurt so bad. Other days I thought her being gone was like a death, but worse because I didn’t know where she was or what was happening in her life.

I wanted to be a part of her life, but knew that I had to wait. I had to wait until she was at least 18 to start looking for her.

It didn’t take 18 years. Around her 10th birthday, her mother contacted me and she and I started a regular correspondence. She would send pictures and letters occasionally, and I would send gifts to my daughter. Her mother and I developed a friendship, born out of heartbreak – hers for not being able to conceive, and mine for giving away my child. Her mother was very appreciative of my sacrifice and knew what I had done hadn’t been easy.

When my daughter was 24 I decided I couldn’t wait any longer. I wanted to extend a hand in case she was interested in getting to know each other, or I wanted to find some closure so I wasn’t sitting around wondering for the rest of my life.

I wrote my daughter a letter, telling her that if she was interested, I would like to get to know her, and if not, I understood and wouldn’t contact her again.

About a week later, I received a Facebook friend request from her and was elated! She and I began corresponding and getting to know each other. She wanted to know about my son, her half-brother, and was interested in some family medical history also.

We arranged to meet. She was so much like me it was scary. Nature wins out over nurture obviously.

I found out she was getting married within a few months, and she invited me, and my family to the wedding. It was bittersweet. I had to leave the venue and go outside to get a grip on my emotions.

It’s the oddest feeling to share DNA with someone, yet be on the periphery of their life.

I would say my daughter and I became friends of sorts. She came and stayed with me a couple of times, and my son and I would visit her.

Even though I knew that I wasn’t her mother–I wasn’t the woman who had raised her, who comforted her when she cried, who reveled in her achievements, who waited up to make sure she came home safely–I was the woman who had given birth to her. I was the one who carried her in me for 9 months. I was the one who held her, and fed her, and changed her diaper for 4 days before she left the hospital to go be with her new family.

Because of that, I wanted her to just one time, acknowledge to me that I had done those things. That I mattered because I gave her life. That I mattered because I let her go to parents who adored her and gave her an amazing life.

The last time I saw her she acknowledged me, but not like I had hoped.

“I wish you’d never had me!”

“Why didn’t you just abort me?”

“I wished I’d never met you!”

“I hate you and you’ve ruined my life twice!”

She walked away and never looked back. She and I have no contact now.

I won’t reach out again.

You might think that’s selfish, or immature. You can think what you like. You don’t know my heart or the hell I went through for years while missing my daughter.

Children break our hearts. Maybe your child broke your heart today, as my son did, with no “Happy Mother’s Day” utterance, no “You’re the greatest mom and I love you”.

He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be a parent and have a piece of your soul walking around in this world–knowing that as much as you love them, they are their own beings, and they will think, and do, exactly as they please regardless.

Maybe he will understand one day if he has children of his own.

Maybe my daughter will understand one day if she has children of her own.

Maybe, just maybe, she will be able to forgive a 16 year old girl, who was scared shitless, and felt like she had no other options.

But maybe she won’t. And that’s okay. Because I love her anyway. And I love my son too.

And because I love them, I forgive them.

We’re moms, we’re dads, we’re parents. It’s what we do.

You Say It’s Your Birthday?

It’s my birthday too. So sayeth the Beatles.

I just realized this morning while putting makeup over laugh lines, and skin that’s not so taut anymore, that in about a week, I will be 45.

Throughout the day I contemplated. I didn’t contemplate my entire life up to this point, just this last year. It’s been a doozie.

What did Dickens say? They were the best of times. They were the worst of times. Or something similar. A year of extremes. A study in contrasts. That’s what my 44th year has been.

The worst of times because I found myself in a physically abusive relationship.

The best of times because I decided I was worth more than I thought and I deserved better than being someone’s punching bag.

The worst of times because my son decided he wanted to try living with his dad, after I’d had him with me for his first 12 years.

The best of times because my son returned home to me only a few shorts months after moving in with his dad, albeit with some painful lessons under his belt.

The worst of times because I found myself alone, and quite lonely, and thinking that possibly, I should come to terms with the fact I might spend the rest of my life that way. But, also figuring out that being alone, was better than being beat or emotionally abused.

The best of times because I met a wonderful man. I had sent wishes out to the universe for this man for years. I had hoped in vain for this man for years. But I now believe that it wasn’t until I decided, until I truly believed inside of me, that I deserved better for myself, that the universe sent him. Strange how that works, huh?

Life is yin and yang, and a whole lot of other shit in between. And as I stand poised, ready to slide into my 45th year, do I think it’s going to change? Do I think it’s going to get any easier? No. I’ve learned enough to know that anything worth having doesn’t usually come easy. Plus, I’m kind of one of those girls who has to learn things the hard way. Some lessons it took me 44 years to learn.

I know there are more grey hairs and more wrinkles and tears and frustration in store for me. But there’s also more laughter and love and adventure in store for me too. You need the dark and the light, both sides of the coin, the rain and the sun. You have to have one in order to truly appreciate the other. I’ve figured that out in my 44 years too.

So 45 is only a few days away I told him, and My Man reminded me it’s only a number.

And I in turn reminded myself I have a hot, younger man. 45 can kiss my fat bottom!

Photo Credit: deviantart.com

Photo Credit: deviantart.com

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