On Tuesday I had to go see an ophthalmologist.
(There is something weird happening in my right eye that leads to headaches that my doctor feels I need to have checked out. CT Scan next month. FUN!)
He did some weird things to my eyes that didn’t hurt at all, but totally freaked me out (numbing the top layer of my eye, what?) When he was finished, he didn’t see anything wrong with my eye, but wanted to do a few more tests to be sure. He had to go get the nurse, so he did something kind of dangerous.
He left me alone in the room with his computer. The computer that had my medical history. As soon as he left, I got up to look.
Right there on the screen was my medical history.
The thing that stood out right away was something titled “Problem List.”
You guys.
The thing is– that’s just a snippet of the list! (Look at the scroll button! So much scrolling!) I wasn’t brave enough to scroll. Too afraid of a) getting busted by the doctor for playing on his computer b) finding out new things that I didn’t know was wrong with me!
I GET IT, MEDICAL RECORD. I’VE GOT PROBLEMS.
And one of them is GERD.
I’m never telling my doctor about the peeing when coughing. I don’t need to see that on the list.
This is why my doctor calls me “a fun mess.” you guys.
Except, I’m pretty sure there’s nothing fun about GERD.
Category Archives: This Thing Called Life
NOT a Piece
The last post that I wrote (Just a Mom) wiped me out emotionally.
It needed to be written. I needed to write it.
I thought I’d never speak of it again. But the comments. The emails. Wow. Each one that I read gave me something to think about. And I’ve been thinking. And thinking. And thinking.
I’ve come to realize that the shame I feel really isn’t about not having gone to college– it’s bigger, deeper than that.
I will write about it again.
And I will call that post My Piece.
But that Piece (ha) will have to wait for another day. Because today? Is National Delurking Day. Do you know what that means? That means today, you have to stop being “Just a Lurker” (see what I did there? That was kind of awesome.) and leave me a comment. Introduce yourself. Tell me a little bit about yourself. Where are you from? Do you watch The Bachelor? Cash Cab? Do you have a raging crush on Ben Bailey like I do? ARE YOU WITH COCO?
I look forward to hearing from you!
“Just a Mom.”
(I have tried to write this post many times. I write. I delete. I write. I save as draft. I delete. I write again. Delete. I don’t know why this is so hard for me, but it is and it’s time I write it write it write it and then hit publish. For reasons I do not understand, I cried about this all day. I knew it was time to write it, publish and never look back. I will not edit. I will post it exactly as it type it the first time.)
“What do you want to do after you graduate?” He asked me, during one of our late night phone calls.
“I don’t know.” I replied, as I giggled.
But I knew.
I wanted to get married.
I didn’t need college. In fact, it wasn’t even an option. My parents never told me the important of an education. You don’t need an education when you have Jesus! You just need to love God, find a Godly man. Marry him. Have his babies.
One year and 5 months after I graduated high school, I married the man that asked me that question.
It’s what I wanted to do. It’s what God wanted for me to do.
The full time job I had at a Christian School ended just after graduation. But I quickly found a part time one, working in a public school– after school program. It was perfect. Only 4.5 hours a day, but I’d get insurance, which my husband’s job didn’t offer.
Three years later, we had our first baby.
The baby I always wanted to have. The baby I wanted to take care of and love and nurture. I could take care of my baby all morning long, go to work in the afternoons, come back home and take care of my baby again.
I was a Mom. Such a good Mom. Because I loved being a Mom. I loved it with every fiber of my being.
My life was beautiful and felt perfect for us. We didn’t have extra money, we didn’t have fancy furniture. We couldn’t afford to take vacations. But I had my husband. I had my son. That was all I needed.
4 years later, I was a Mom again.
I couldn’t have been happier.
In 2002, I started a blog. Through that blog, I started to meet new women. Oh, how I loved these women I was meeting in the virtual world.
They were doctors, lawyers, writers. They were comedians, reporters, psychotherapists. They were lesbian, bisexual. They were single moms.
They were kick ass women.
I had lived a sheltered life. One in which I spent almost every waking hour in the House of God. And not your typical House of God. This was a House of God that preached “a woman’s place is in the home!” One that forced women to wear headcoverings when they entered the church to show their submission to God and to their husbands. One that said women can’t wear pants- pants are for MEN! And no make up, wimmins! Make up is for whores! “MONKEY LIPS!” one preacher once shouted at a woman who had come to church with lipstick on.
Swear to God.
So, to meet all of these incredibly diverse, successful women online opened up an entire new world to me.
I no longer could believe for one minute that a woman who had made a career for herself didn’t love her children with the same passion that I, a stay at home mom, did.
I grew to love these women, admire them. Their words inspired me. They taught me. They made me cry. They made me laugh.
They changed me. For the better.
But then, something happened.
I started to feel shame.
Deep, horrific shame.
I didn’t measure up to these women who were now my friends.
I didn’t go to college.
I didn’t have a career.
“Just a mom.” I was just a mom.*
That had always been enough for me and then suddenly, it wasn’t.
But it was.
But, it wasn’t.
The thing that I loved about blogging when I first started was that I could write these stories of my life and people responded. I was embraced by these woman I was in awe of.
But, the shame.
The shame that I could never measure up. The shame that while they were writing “pieces” on feminism, I was writing about my ass eating my thong in aerobic dance class.
That’s all I had to offer.
I started to feel like I need to keep my mouth shut, because, what do I know? I’m just a mom.
The question I fear the most when meeting new people is “where did you go to college?”
I feel so small. I feel so stupid.
I could have went to college after I had the kids, after I realized the errors of my way. But there was always a reason not to. How could I spend money on an education when there was barely enough to pay the bills? But let me be really honest here: It was fear that stopped me. It was shame that stopped me. That fear that I feel in the pit of my stomach as I type this. Fear that I couldn’t do it, that I wasn’t smart enough, that it was too late for me.
Recently, I received an email that said I had been chosen to be a speaker for Mom 2.0. I was thrilled, but I also thought it was a mistake. What did I have to offer? Have you seen the speakers list? Accomplished, intelligent, professional women. It HAD to be a mistake.
It wasn’t a mistake. But I ask myself every day. “How can you sit up there with those incredible women? You don’t belong there.”
Last year I was lucky enough to have been hired for a full time/work from home job with BlogHer. I am surrounded by influential, powerful, intelligent, professional women. I feel so unworthy– like, how did I end up here with this fantastic job and these incredible women? I don’t belong here.
I am proud of the mother I’ve been and continue to be to my children. I never regret being their mother. How blessed I am to have them. So very blessed.
I just wish I could say I was proud of the person, the woman, that I am as a whole.
(Now that I wrote this for all to see, I shall never speak of it again.)
*this isn’t how I feel, this is something I heard another woman say. “we’re not JUST moms. We have careers.” she said. “But… I am.” I thought. “Oh, but *I* am.”
To Sum it All Up– Naked, Soapy, Joy, Upgrade.
Last month me and my husband celebrated our 19th wedding anniversary. People tend to assume that we must be Really Good At Marriage. “19 years!” They say. “How DO you do it?”
Here’s the thing. We’re not very good at marriage. I mean, we love each other, obvs. We love our family, double obvs. But we don’t nurture our relationship the way that we should.
Let me give you an example: The last time we had spent a weekend alone together was when I was pregnant with our second child– 13 years ago!.
There really isn’t an excuse for this, other than the one we use every time we even THINK about planning a weekend getaway.
“We can’t afford it.”
This year, we promised each other we were going to plan a weekend in Vegas for our anniversary.
“No more excuses!” I said. “We’re doing this!”
Then, work slowed down for PigHunter. And unexpected adjusted tax bills came in the mail.
So, I canceled the trip.
Even though we had money saved.
Even though it was going to cost next to nothing.
“It’s the responsible thing to do!” I said. And PigHunter agreed.
But really, no. It wasn’t. We weren’t taking a luxurious cruise that was going to cost thousands of dollars. We were going to Vegas, where I could get a room for $60 on Hotwire.com. I mean, seriously, what the hell, Us?
Our marriage was worth that $60 room.
I booked the room, got a sitter and off to Vegas we went to make our marriage stronger. ( and when I say “make our marriage stronger” I mean “play quarter slots and have lots of naked sex.”)
The drive to Vegas was smooth, no fights, no arguments. Only lots of excitement about naked sex and quarter slots. And possibly, buffets. However, once we arrived in Vegas, things started to fall apart.
“You know how to get to The Strip, right?” I ask as we entered Vegas.
“No. But I assume the signs will tell us where to go.” He said.
“True, so we should just see our hotel when we’re on The Strip, right?” I asked.
“Yeah. It’s not a big deal.” He replies, all High and Mighty-ish. “We’ll find our hotel.”
20 minutes and a Lots of Cuss Words later, we were at the end of The Strip and our hotel was no where in sight. Thanks to my G1, we finally found the hotel. However, that’s when the REAL fun started.
We pulled into what my husband, who has a Masters in Knowing All Things, was SURE was the Harrah’s parking lot. I had suggested perhaps, maybe, we were in the wrong place. He assured me that he was right, I was wrong. “I think you’re wrong.” I said. “but, WHATEVER.”
We parked and as we walked to the hotel, I kept asking “are you sure we’re in the right place?”
Suddenly, he was only “95%” sure.
We got into the elevator with all of our suitcases, camera’s sweaters and jackets. I saw a sign that said “Imperial Palace.” I pointed, all “YOU WERE WRONG” like. “So, you still think we’re in the right place?”
He wasn’t willing to admit defeat just yet. So, we got off the elevator and started walking. Even though we both knew we were at the wrong hotel. I finally had enough, so I verbally communicated my feelings, (something along the lines of “I’M SO PISSED HOLD MY BAGS I HAVE TO PEE YOU JERK.”) he tried not to laugh, we turned around and left to find the correct hotel parking lot.
Long story short. We found it. He dropped me off to check in while he parked.
“Next, please” the man at the check in counter called out. I handed him my credit card, he looked up my reservations.
“Would you like to upgrade to the jacuzzi suite?” He asked
“How much?” I asked.
“$75.”
I thought about it. And as I thought about it, I felt what can only be described as Joy in the Pants. The Cheap in Me was all “don’t listen to the Joy (in your pants.) Be responsible! Say no!” But the Joy in my Pants was all “NAKED SOAPY BODIES FUN NAKED!”
Joy in the Pants won.
I upgraded the room.
I didn’t tell PigHunter about the upgrade. I figured I’d let him be surprised once we got up to the room. I opened the door. We looked around and he goes “wow, this is really roomy. I can’t believe we only paid $60 for this!” I giggled. “I upgraded to the suite… check it out.” I took him by the hand and led him to the jacuzzi.
Instant Joy in HIS Pants!
He didn’t even care about how much! He just cared about “how long til we were both naked and soapy!”
It took about EXACTLY 6 seconds of looking at the jacuzzi for the Joy in my Pants to turn into Fear of Bacteria and Disease. The excitement of I felt (in my pants) when I heard the words “jacuzzi” and “suite” had temporarily shutdown the OCD portion of my brain because not once did the thought of Other Peoples Sex register while I was handing over my credit card to upgrade. But now that I was there, face to face with it, that’s all I could think about. And there’s nothing that will kill sexual excitement quite like threat of getting an STD.
Meanwhile, PigHunter was standing there wondering “how long til we’re naked in this thing?”
I convinced him that we should go out for dinner before getting naked and (possibly, catching a disease.)
We headed out looking for some of the places that twitter had suggested. However, somehow, we found ourselves in line at the Harrah’s buffet. (Which, by the way, WAS THE ABSOLUTE WORST. Next time, I’m listening to twitter.)
After dinner, we decided to take a walk. Just outside of the hotel, there was an outdoor bar. A cover band was playing. “Oh, let’s go!” I shouted, as I grabbed his hand and led him down the stairs. Cover bands are one my favorite things about Vegas. Let me rephrase that. Old Ladies in tight leather pants dancing nastily to cover bands is my absolute favorite thing about Vegas. And man, were there plenty of them at this place. It was pure Vegas Magic.
We stood there for at least 30 minutes, watching, pointing, laughing, but also admiring. I love people who don’t give a shit what other people think and just enjoy themselves. You know?
Something you should know about my husband is that he doesn’t like to dance. (Probably because he is stuck in the 80’s when it comes to dancing.) The only time we have ever danced together was when we used to go line dancing in Orange County. We’d do the Cowboy Cha Cha together (and also the Boot Scootin’ Boogie. NO LIE.) That was years ago. We haven’t danced together since. So, imagine my surprise when I asked him to dance to a Cheesy Cover of Poison (as in Bel Biv Divoe’s song, not Brett Michaels band.) and he said “yes!”
We took the floor and that’s when the real magic happened.
My husband began to dance.
I tried to let him be himself, I tried to just be glad he was out there with, I really did. Who am I to judge? I can’t dance either. However, I also don’t move my arms like I’m dancing at a Hoe Down. So, I kind of felt like I should say something. I walked over and gently grabbed his arms. “Simmah down with the Hoe Down Arms, babe.” I said. He laughed and did it even harder, which made me laugh. (I’m so glad he has a sense of humor. If he had walked up to me and let’s say, grabbed my ass and said “Simmah down with the Ho Ass Movements” I would have BEEN SO PISSED.
I decided to embrace Hoe Down Arms and just have a good time. They kind of grew on me, to be honest. The more I think about it, the more I believe the world would be a little better if we all could be so lucky to have moves like this.
I’m not going to tell you the Juicy Details about all of the sex we had later that night, but I will say that I was able to get over my fear of disease to enjoy the jacuzzi, but only after I made my husband rinse it down for an hour with hot water. (Even then, I was still worried and disgusted and SHUT YOUR FACE RIGHT NOW IF YOU’RE EVEN THINKING OF TELLING ME HOW MANY DISEASES I PROBABLY HAVE NOW.) What I will tell you is that the $75 I spent on the upgrade was possibly the best money we’ve ever spent. Two weeks later, we still can’t stop talking about that night and are already planning another trip to do it again.
October 14
Someone asked me how I planned on honoring my Grandpa today (the one year anniversary of his death.) The question knocked the wind out of me. I hadn’t given any thought to how I’d honor him today. In fact, I hadn’t even realized a year had passed since he died. It feels like it just happened yesterday. Because it still hurts my heart that he’s gone. I don’t cry as much, but the pain is still there. I feel guilty that I didn’t plan a beautiful way in which to honor his memory today. I decided to post something I had written early this morning while thinking of him. These are not the beautiful words he deserves, but they come straight from my still broken heart.
I miss the sound of your voice.
I miss the way you smiled at me.
I miss the way your eyes lit up when you saw my children.
I miss the way you wrapped your arms around them.
I miss listening to your stories. Even the ones you told over and over again.
I miss the smell of your hair gel when I hugged you hello and goodbye.
I miss calling you in the middle of the day for no reason at all.
I miss the way you’d get angry when someone dared to wear a hat inside of your house.
I miss your sarcasm.
I miss the way you’d look at me when I talked with nothing but love and admiration in your eyes.
I miss the way you’d spend hours talking to my husband.
I miss the white hankies you carried in your shirt pocket.
I miss the candy drawer.
I miss seeing your comb on top of your sink when I’d go to visit.
I miss the way you’d go through at least 10 names before you get the name of the person you were talking to right.
I miss the way your tongue stuck out when you laughed.
I miss the way you’d say “I love you, Y.”
I miss worrying about you when you walked up the driveway because I was afraid you’d fall and hurt yourself.
I miss asking my Mom how you were when I hadn’t talked to you in a few days.
I miss kissing you goodbye whenever we’d part.
I miss seeing your can rest beside you while you sat on my sofa.
I miss your surprise visits.
I miss your generosity.
I miss hearing you talk about Hank.
I miss the way you’d talk about your mother and how wonderfully she took care of you.
I miss your hands.
I miss your awful jokes.
I miss your perverted comments about women.
I miss you eating the turkey neck at Thanksgiving and Christmas.
I miss the way you sat in your chair.
I miss sending you pictures of my children in the mail because I knew it would make your day.
I miss watching you enjoy Gabby singing a song, or the boys telling you a story.
I miss the way you’d get upset with me when I waited too long in between visits.
A year later, I miss every little thing about you, Grandpa.
And I think I always will.
The Day I Turned 38
I woke up at 5:30 to a kiss from my husband. “Happy Birthday, Mama.” He said, as he caressed my butt cheek. He can’t help it. He loves my butt so much. I said thank you and went back to sleep. At 6:15, The Teenager woke up to get ready for school. Normally, I’d be up and working already. But it’s my birthday, so I took the day off. He walked over and said “Happy Birthday, Mom.” And then, he kissed me on the forehead. It was the most precious thing, because he’s very reserved with his emotions. So the unexpected kiss got me RIGHT HERE in the heart. As he walked away, I thanked him and then I cried. BECAUSE MY SON KISSED ME ON THE FOREHEAD. Ethan and Gabby woke up shortly after and both wished me a happy birthday. Ethan’s wish came with a hug and a “let’s go out to dinner!” Gabby’s came with a beautiful handmade card that said “RRSW Y AHAFFAB” Which she explained means “Happy Birthday, Mom. You’re the best Mom in the world and I love you so so so so so so so so so much.”
I only told you that story so that you would know that’s “It’s my birthday today!”
Normally, I don’t like to make a fuss out of my birthday. I don’t walk around drawing attention to it. I’m not all “hey, everyone! It’s my birthday!” But when someone pointed out that this year my birthday falls on 09.09.09, I went All Nerd and was like “I’M GOING TO TELL EVERYONE IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!” because 09.09.09 is awesome.
So, guess what, everyone? It’s my birthday!
A few people have asked me if I’m doing anything special and the answer is no. Not today. I love my husband, but he’s The Worst at Planning Things For My Birthday. For instance, he just called me right now and goes “so, what do you want for your birthday? I need to know so I can take the boys after school to get you something.” That’s pretty much my birthday every single year. And every single year I’m like “why did you wait til the last minute to get me a present” and every single year his answer is “I ran out of time yesterday.” Because, you know, the day before the birthday is THE ONLY DAY OUT OF THE ENTIRE YEAR that he can go shopping for my birthday present. It’s not a big deal though, really. I stopped crying and being sad about it around the 8th year of our marriage. I just accepted that was how it’s going to be. And I started reciprocating. This year, I drove to Target the day of his birthday and bought him a CD and was all “Happy Birthday!”
We’re good at marriage.
So. Yeah. It’s my birthday. And there’s really nothing else to say about that. Except that I think you should write me a poem.
No. Seriously. You should.
WWJD?(IJHAFBA?)
Remember when I wrote the post about my husband finally joining facebook? And remember how I joked that I was going to make his profile picture a .gif that said “I love my wife” to keep the old skanks from his past away?
Well, this morning I logged into his facebook account to see if he had any new friend requests (before you get all “why are you logging into HIS account? How dare you be all up in his business!” you have to know that he never logs in, so every once in a while, I check for him and tell him who had sent friend requests. I’m not secretly logging into his account. I have his blessing.) ANYWAY. The first thing that pops up is a picture of His Jesus Loving Ugly Faced ex-girlfriend.
She requested to be his friend on facebook.
But she didn’t stop there! Oh no! She sent him a message. In her message, she was all “OMG! Your son is so handsome. How many kids do you have? I’m doing SO GOOD. God has been good to me. blahblahblah Oh, I tried to find your wife but couldn’t.”
I felt the raaaaaaaaage sweep over my entire body because how dare she. And also she’s baaack.
I don’t know if I’ve ever written about the hell she put me through in our first year of marriage or not. But I will sum it up here in case I haven’t.
I knew this girl since I was about 10 years old. Her family went to our church. Then she rebelled, moved out to her grandparents, which is where she met and dated my husband. They dated for a few years, then they broke up and Tony started going to our church with her mother. She found out about it and started coming to church too, just to keep an eye on him. Even though they weren’t together. She was a possessive bitch that way. She met a new man and they got engaged. She was SURE Tony was going to be devastated, because, you know, she such a catch. But he wasn’t. He was like “I wish you the best!” It was during her engagement that I met and begin to fall in love with Tony. Before that point, he was all “D’s dorky boyfriend” but the more I got to know him, the sexier he became to me and well, I wanted to marry him and have his babies.” She asked him and I to sing in her wedding, not knowing that we were falling in love. She found out shortly after when I told her I thought Tony was going to propose to me. She was all “WHAT?” And I was all “Yeah, we’re in love. We’re going to get married.” And she was all “Oh, that’s great.” But what she meant was “HOW DARE HE FALL IN LOVE WITH ANOTHER WOMAN SO SOON HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DEPRESSED ABOUT ME NOT MARRYING HIM FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE.” We got married and she proceeded to make my life hell by doing things like calling my house asking to talk to Tony. Telling people they had dated and how hard it was for ME because, you know, they had sex. Calling her husband “Tony” and then saying “Oh, it’s so hard to not get the names mixed up when you’ve been with someone for so long.” and finally, mailing a 2 page letter to our house addressed only to Tony that said things like “I wish you would forgive me, let bygones be bygones.” And “I wish we could talk again and hang out together, but that would just be too awkward for our spouses, because, you know, WE SLEPT TOGETHER.” Tony never responded and the next time I saw her she was all “Did Tony get my email?” And I was all “Yeah, we got it and we read it and we laughed at it.” And she was all “Why would you laugh? I poured my heart out in that letter!” And I was all “Oh, I don’t know, because YOU’RE MARRIED WITH KIDS AND YOU REALLY NEED TO GET OVER IT AND LEAVE HIM ALONE NOW?” She started sobbing because “I was so mean to her! She was just trying to clear the air!” But everyone knew her tears were because my husband would not give her the time of day and it killed her.
Shortly after that, she moved away to Colorado. I’ve always thought it was at her husband’s suggestion, because of the fact she couldn’t stop trying to get my husband to pay attention to her.
I regret the way that I acted then. I wish I had never let her get to me. I wish I had been secure in the fact that my husband was madly, deeply, passionately in love with me. And in the fact that she had a kid (and gained a ton of weight and I was young, thin and had big, perky boobs) and we were child free and could go wherever we wanted, whenever we wanted and that we were having sex 4 times a day and she most likely wasn’t. But, I was young (19 years old) immature and completely, totally insecure about the fact that they had Sessual Relations.
I’m older and wiser now. I don’t have any jealousy regarding her or the fact that she contacted him. But I do have anger that the minute she gets on facebook, she looks my husband up, sends him a message and pretends like she can’t find me and that’s why she’s contacting him. I’m angry that at 42 years old, she still is thinking about my husband and trying to get her Jesus Loving Ugly Face in our business.
I called Tony the minute I saw her friend request. He wasn’t too happy about it either. He was like “What the hell is wrong with her? Why did she contact me?” And I was all “Oh, I don’t know, she’s a bitch?” And then I was all “Can I write her back and tell her to go eff herself?” And he was all “Go ahead, I don’t care.”
I had a really great email composed in my head. I would send it as Tony, because if I responded, she’d most likely think I was jealous or that I had intercepted her message before Tony had seen it. And the more I thought about it, the less right it felt. It was really up to him how to respond, or if he was going to respond at all. So, I didn’t say anything. I logged out of his account and told him he could handle it. (FYI, he told me to hit ignore on her request. Booyah!)
I feel like I have to respond in some way though. Like, not saying anything is letting her get away with something. So, here’s my plan. I want to friend her myself and then send her a polite note that said “Heard you were looking for me but couldn’t find me. what’s up?”
That way a) she’d know that Tony saw her message b) she’d know that he purposely ignored her b) she’d know that I KNOW without coming across like a jealous bitch. Or something. I don’t know anymore. I’m totally confused at this point. I don’t want to feed into her drama, but at the same time, I guess I kind of do. So, this is where you come in. If you were me, what would YOU do?
You know things aren’t good when you’re crying over french toast.
Yesterday was one of the most beautiful mornings I can remember.
The sky was a perfect shade of blue, the clouds were white as cotton. The air was crisp and cool, but the sun was shining brightly. It was breathtaking, really.
I pushed back the curtains to let the rising sun light up the house. I opened every window in the house at 6:30 in the morning to let the cool, fresh air in. I sat in front of the window, closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. Sometimes I feel like I’m fighting to catch my breath. It felt good to sit there, to relax and enjoy the moment.
I’m having a rough time right now. I won’t elaborate except to say I’m feeling overwhelmed with things.
I’m doing the best that I can– using techniques that I learned to deal with anxiety and stress. It helps get me through each day.
And really, right now, that’s what I’m doing. Just trying to get through each day, hoping each night as I lay my head on my pillow to go to sleep that tomorrow is the day I don’t have to remind myself to breathe.
My Babies Daddy
I regret publishing the previous post. I wish I had waited until we had kissed and made up. That way, I could have written something I was proud of. Sigh.
In any case, we ended up having a wonderful day with our children and really, that’s all that matters.
Happy Fathers Day. I’m sorry I called you an A-hole.
Lately, it seems I’m a constant disappointment to the people in my life.
Let’s take today for example. I called my Dad this morning, 20 minutes before his service started, to wish him a Happy Fathers Day and to tell him I wanted to come over after church to bring him his present. “All morning I thought you were going to surprise me and come to church… that’s all I wanted. That would have been the best present in the world.”
Guess who was still in their pajamas? And who had no intention on going to church?
I hung up with my Dad, feeling awful, knowing I had disappointed hm yet again. That is when my husband thought it would be a good time to remind me for the 15th time that I didn’t give my Grandma a card for her birthday. He kept going on and on about it until I got pissed off and fought back with anger and tears. “How many birthday cards did you give YOUR Grandma while she was alive?” (The answer? NONE.) He was quick to point out the only reason I said such an ugly thing was “out of guilt” and to try to make myself feel better.
I wanted to write a heartfelt post for my husband for Fathers Day, but it’s not easy to do when I’m hurt and angry with him. But no matter how I feel about him right this very moment, I must acknowledge what an incredible father he is to our children. He always put his children first and I’ve never once heard him complain about how hard he works every day of his life to make sure they’re taken care of. He’s patient, compassionate and creative. Our children love him deeply and they are aware of how lucky they are to have such a dedicated man as their father.
I wish I could do this morning all over again, but since I can’t, I’ll just say Happy Fathers Day, Tony. I still love you.
