The other day I got a message. A short, sweet, to the point message.
Unsolicited.
Unexpected.
And, as it turns out, something I had been waiting a lifetime to hear.
"You turned out good."
As simple as that.
And those four little words have made me smile, cry, & ponder so much in the last few days.
It all started innocently enough.
I sent a link to a friend. An old friend. OK, I friend there is a little "history" with. You know, the kind of history that took a young girl's heart a while to get over. Quite a while.
The link showed my kids several years ago during an Irish Dance performance. I shared for St. Patrick's Day, with a simple confession: "I used to be an Irish Dance Mom!" More than a brag link, it was a bit of my past, a bit of, "Oh my, this is what I did each & every St. Pat's for what seemed a lifetime." A bit of, "I sit here tonight, on this St. Patrick's Day, not in a pub with my friends sharing a pint, but at the kitchen island, alone, with the now adult son off on Holiday in Maui & the ever diligent daughter doing a mountain of homework on her course to be Valedictorian." This is what I used to be.
And where am I now; what have I become.
It took a while for a return message. Of course, I just figured the link had been viewed & no comment was warranted. I wasn't expecting a reaction. I was just proud of my kids & their accomplishments.
The following day after work, after a long, grueling day at the job I do not loving what I do, there was a message waiting. Those simple little words.
"You turned out good."
Words that melted my heart. Words that reached out. Words that healed a little scar I had quite forgotten. Words that brought out a moment I thought I had successfully put away in a box & secured in a dark corner.
I remembered what was to be my kids' last performance at an annual St. Patrick's Day Benefit. It would be one of the last times my father ever saw them dance; shortly before they retired & a year before he died. And I remembered coming up behind my father & son sitting at a table together & overhearing the conversation. And I remembered the pain as I heard my father telling my son how proud he was of him...that he was not at all like his mother...me. That he wouldn't waste his life, that he would never amount to nothing like her. Like me. And I remembered watching my son pull back, stand up to his almost 6 foot height & say, "I don't have to listen to this" & walk away.
And I flashed forward to the 12 weeks I waited in the hospital as my father lingered before passing. The 12 weeks I visited, attempted to bring comfort, sat quietly in the corner knitting because it reminded him of his mother & the memory of her "click click clicking" away in his childhood. The time I sat secretly & selfishly waiting for closure; waiting for a bonding moment; waiting for just one snippet of peace in what had been a lifetime of tension. Waiting for a quiet moment of father daughter revelation that would leave a smile.
It never came.
I'm not sure what exactly I was waiting for. Perhaps the inner child in me looking for her daddy to be close; to say "I love you...I am proud of you." Words that never existed in our relationship; a relationship fraught with anger, disappointment, abuse. A relationship that formed a young girl who needed to be strong, who pushed people away, who was afraid to be close to anyone; a young girl who fell head over heels for a time & was clueless as to how to make a relationship work.
A young girl who loved....& lost. A girl who grew up, dealt with the past, moved on, & broke the cycle. A girl, who in coming into her own, managed to raise a couple incredible kids but never realized she was raising herself.
You turned out good.
The words that came from someone who knew me back when I was fractured but didn't know why. From someone who saw the self-destructive behavior, but who never knew the back-story. From someone who has been a quiet observer, only recently seeing who I have become, but who knows where I have been.
And it means the world to me.
Not because I was looking for approval...but because I finally got it. Not because of what I have done, but because of who I am.
3.20.2010
2.18.2010
Why?
My daughter came out of play practice this evening, after I had seen kids hugging & crying, to tell me that one of our community 12 year olds shot herself in the head today. The kids had early release from school today...most got together with friends & enjoyed a day of reprieve. Not Mandy.
Not only is this SO heartbreaking, when you see her smile, & all the friends that she had, & how much she was loved, but her 16 year old sister committed suicide last July.
God, what is wrong with our families, our communities, our schools, that this is rampant in our society today?
I cannot imagine what went on in the lives of these girls to drive them to this :(
We have lost so many young lives in our community in the last 3 years...to illness, accidents & suicide. Our town is so small, these statistics so great. Our kids have known SO much loss in such a short time...
My heart breaks for these kids....& I don't know how to help...
Not only is this SO heartbreaking, when you see her smile, & all the friends that she had, & how much she was loved, but her 16 year old sister committed suicide last July.
God, what is wrong with our families, our communities, our schools, that this is rampant in our society today?
I cannot imagine what went on in the lives of these girls to drive them to this :(
We have lost so many young lives in our community in the last 3 years...to illness, accidents & suicide. Our town is so small, these statistics so great. Our kids have known SO much loss in such a short time...
My heart breaks for these kids....& I don't know how to help...
2.15.2010
Here's a little secret...
...I don't always follow the directions.
I mean, I do sometimes, often at the most crucial of times, just not all the time.
This came to mind as I was making a nice cup of chai to sit down & relax with.
First off, chai, being made with black tea, is probably not the ideal thing to relax with. Face it, that tea has a kick. The caffeine alone will quite possibly stimulate me well into the wee hours of the morning. Add a nice rounded teaspoon of Sugar in the Raw, & I am pretty well guaranteed enough energy to get me through the evening.
But I digress.
The real reason I began thinking about following directions is because I was reading the box & realizing I wasn't exactly making my chai properly. The first tip off was step 1: pour boiling water directly over teabag. I was reading this as I was warming a cup of milk in the microwave to sink the teabag into.
Step 2 was to let the bag sit for 3-5 minutes. After I submerged it in my nice warm milk, I had to play with it. Lots. Up & down, sink it with the spoon, up again, a little squeeze, back down. You get the picture.
I got bored about 4 minutes in & figured it was good enough. The milk had taken on a nice proper chai-like color & the aroma wafting out of the mug as I plunked the bag was heavenly.
Let's see, step 3. Remove teabag & add an ounce of milk. Well now, that was just silly, as I already had a full mug of nice, chai-spiced milk.
Step 4: mix in 1 TBS sugar. Hang on just a minute there! A tablespoon? Of sugar? In only 8 oz of milk? Make that a teaspoon, & a scant teaspoon at that.
And here I sit, enjoying my frothy delight, a divine blend of spices in a creamy, slightly sweetened beverage. Not a watered-down, overly sweet version, but one that accurately matched my mood.
Life is like that. Sometimes, if you follow the directions, you don't end up with what you want at all!
But if you follow your instincts, you can create exactly what you need.
I mean, I do sometimes, often at the most crucial of times, just not all the time.
This came to mind as I was making a nice cup of chai to sit down & relax with.
First off, chai, being made with black tea, is probably not the ideal thing to relax with. Face it, that tea has a kick. The caffeine alone will quite possibly stimulate me well into the wee hours of the morning. Add a nice rounded teaspoon of Sugar in the Raw, & I am pretty well guaranteed enough energy to get me through the evening.
But I digress.
The real reason I began thinking about following directions is because I was reading the box & realizing I wasn't exactly making my chai properly. The first tip off was step 1: pour boiling water directly over teabag. I was reading this as I was warming a cup of milk in the microwave to sink the teabag into.
Step 2 was to let the bag sit for 3-5 minutes. After I submerged it in my nice warm milk, I had to play with it. Lots. Up & down, sink it with the spoon, up again, a little squeeze, back down. You get the picture.
I got bored about 4 minutes in & figured it was good enough. The milk had taken on a nice proper chai-like color & the aroma wafting out of the mug as I plunked the bag was heavenly.
Let's see, step 3. Remove teabag & add an ounce of milk. Well now, that was just silly, as I already had a full mug of nice, chai-spiced milk.
Step 4: mix in 1 TBS sugar. Hang on just a minute there! A tablespoon? Of sugar? In only 8 oz of milk? Make that a teaspoon, & a scant teaspoon at that.
And here I sit, enjoying my frothy delight, a divine blend of spices in a creamy, slightly sweetened beverage. Not a watered-down, overly sweet version, but one that accurately matched my mood.
Life is like that. Sometimes, if you follow the directions, you don't end up with what you want at all!
But if you follow your instincts, you can create exactly what you need.
2.09.2010
Confessions of a Shoeaholic
Hi, my name is Julie, & I buy shoes.
Lots of shoes. And boots. Shoes in all colors, & shapes, & heel sizes.
Well, mainly high heels. Sometimes, really, REALLY high heels.
Shoes & boots & flops...oh my!
In my closet resides the Sexiest Shoes on the Planet collection.
I am not making this up.
The other day, in a bout of retail therapy before I had to go visit my mother, as I stood in the clearance aisle of my favorite shoe store, it hit me.
I may have an itsy, bitsy problem. A size 6.5 problem to be exact.
I thought this as I stood holding a pair of gorgeous, ivory basket-weave, 4 inch spike gladiator booties. I really, truly did not NEED this pair of shoes. Oh, but I wanted them. And at 70% off, I had to have them. They were crying to be mine. Never you mind that I will probably twist an ankle in them on their first outing; nay, I will look absolutely fabulous doing it!
But I also wondered what had brought me to this point. What drove me to find those deep discounts on the shoes that line my closet; the shoes I photograph; the shoes I get teased about; the shoes that all my daughter's friends secretly want to pilfer from their cozy little boxes.
Up until now, I just thought it was the fashion, the thrill of having something a little dangerous & a whole lot wonderful to accessorize an outfit, the sense of victory at finding the perfect shoe. I realized I had never really looked into the depths of my shoe loving heart to find my motives.
When I did, they became painfully clear.
Maybe it was because I knew I was facing yet another friction-filled visit with my mother. Maybe it was because I was returning to my childhood home, just up the street from my grade school, to kick off my shoes in that back hallway like a thousand times before. It is not always comfortable looking back to see where you come from. And it became crystal clear. Why I wear the shoes I do; why I love the shoes I do; why the sexiest shoes on the planet have become a bit of who I am today.
You see, when I was little, I hated shoes.
Don't get me wrong, I didn't hate ALL shoes. In fact, I loved walking through the high end department store (or what I thought was high end so long ago) & gazing at all the beautiful shoes in the women's department, the forbidden shoes, the starlet shoes.
No, I just hated MY shoes.
My ugly, clunky, orthopedic, clown shoes. Shoes, that for budget purposes, were always purchased at least one size too big so I could "grow" into them. Always brown, always lace up, always with a low, chunky heel. How I longed for just one pair of shoes that I wouldn't get laughed at for wearing.
And I didn't even get to shop at the "cool" shoe stores. No, I got to shop with the blue-haired elderly ladies, who pinched my cheeks & told me how thankful I would be when I was older that I wore "sensible" shoes.
It was the seeds of the rebellion; carefully planted, silently nurtured. "All in good time" I kept reminding myself. Someday I would be free of my shackles, someday I would be free of my shame.
I remember my first pair of regular shoes. The podiatrist that had sentenced me to be a shoe outcast by dubbing me "pigeon-toed" retired. The orthopedic shoe store closed. My mother was forced to take me to a bona fide shoe store, where they sold ~gasp~ stylish shoes!
And oh, did I pick out some style! Shoes that would have made Marsha Brady envious! Patchwork suede with a stacked heel beauties that guaranteed a release from the bonds of "nun-shoes". Shoes, that in fine rebellion tradition, clashed horribly with the red, white & blue plaid uniform jumper of my school day.
It was the beginning of obsession.
I began noticing shoes, & taking note of shoe sales, & saving up my babysitting money for shoes I knew my mother would never give me the money to buy. In High School, I was only able to have a few pairs of shoes, carefully selected, well-taken care of.
By college, my love affair with shoes was well underway when a new obsessions took root: boots! Zodiac boots. A "one-pair-a-season" sort of purchase that I selected after careful deliberation. (And, yes, to this day, I STILL have a pair of those boots in my closet.)
As a new mom, I quickly learned that, with a little practice, it was physically possible to carry a child, a diaper bag, 2 bags of groceries AND open a car door in heels, and, key point here, look fabulous doing it.
For me, shoes now represent seasons, and events, and opportunities. My daughter comes along with me shoe shopping. We ooh, & ahh, & model, & dream over shoes. We laugh & talk and hold up shoes we KNOW we would never wear, but oh my aren't they fabulous?! Shoes for my daughter are a pleasure, one of life's little luxuries. She will never know the pain of being laughed at for her footwear.
And that, perhaps, is why I love shoes.
Lots of shoes. And boots. Shoes in all colors, & shapes, & heel sizes.
Well, mainly high heels. Sometimes, really, REALLY high heels.
Shoes & boots & flops...oh my!
In my closet resides the Sexiest Shoes on the Planet collection.
I am not making this up.
The other day, in a bout of retail therapy before I had to go visit my mother, as I stood in the clearance aisle of my favorite shoe store, it hit me.
I may have an itsy, bitsy problem. A size 6.5 problem to be exact.
I thought this as I stood holding a pair of gorgeous, ivory basket-weave, 4 inch spike gladiator booties. I really, truly did not NEED this pair of shoes. Oh, but I wanted them. And at 70% off, I had to have them. They were crying to be mine. Never you mind that I will probably twist an ankle in them on their first outing; nay, I will look absolutely fabulous doing it!
But I also wondered what had brought me to this point. What drove me to find those deep discounts on the shoes that line my closet; the shoes I photograph; the shoes I get teased about; the shoes that all my daughter's friends secretly want to pilfer from their cozy little boxes.
Up until now, I just thought it was the fashion, the thrill of having something a little dangerous & a whole lot wonderful to accessorize an outfit, the sense of victory at finding the perfect shoe. I realized I had never really looked into the depths of my shoe loving heart to find my motives.
When I did, they became painfully clear.
Maybe it was because I knew I was facing yet another friction-filled visit with my mother. Maybe it was because I was returning to my childhood home, just up the street from my grade school, to kick off my shoes in that back hallway like a thousand times before. It is not always comfortable looking back to see where you come from. And it became crystal clear. Why I wear the shoes I do; why I love the shoes I do; why the sexiest shoes on the planet have become a bit of who I am today.
You see, when I was little, I hated shoes.
Don't get me wrong, I didn't hate ALL shoes. In fact, I loved walking through the high end department store (or what I thought was high end so long ago) & gazing at all the beautiful shoes in the women's department, the forbidden shoes, the starlet shoes.
No, I just hated MY shoes.
My ugly, clunky, orthopedic, clown shoes. Shoes, that for budget purposes, were always purchased at least one size too big so I could "grow" into them. Always brown, always lace up, always with a low, chunky heel. How I longed for just one pair of shoes that I wouldn't get laughed at for wearing.
And I didn't even get to shop at the "cool" shoe stores. No, I got to shop with the blue-haired elderly ladies, who pinched my cheeks & told me how thankful I would be when I was older that I wore "sensible" shoes.
It was the seeds of the rebellion; carefully planted, silently nurtured. "All in good time" I kept reminding myself. Someday I would be free of my shackles, someday I would be free of my shame.
I remember my first pair of regular shoes. The podiatrist that had sentenced me to be a shoe outcast by dubbing me "pigeon-toed" retired. The orthopedic shoe store closed. My mother was forced to take me to a bona fide shoe store, where they sold ~gasp~ stylish shoes!
And oh, did I pick out some style! Shoes that would have made Marsha Brady envious! Patchwork suede with a stacked heel beauties that guaranteed a release from the bonds of "nun-shoes". Shoes, that in fine rebellion tradition, clashed horribly with the red, white & blue plaid uniform jumper of my school day.
It was the beginning of obsession.
I began noticing shoes, & taking note of shoe sales, & saving up my babysitting money for shoes I knew my mother would never give me the money to buy. In High School, I was only able to have a few pairs of shoes, carefully selected, well-taken care of.
By college, my love affair with shoes was well underway when a new obsessions took root: boots! Zodiac boots. A "one-pair-a-season" sort of purchase that I selected after careful deliberation. (And, yes, to this day, I STILL have a pair of those boots in my closet.)
As a new mom, I quickly learned that, with a little practice, it was physically possible to carry a child, a diaper bag, 2 bags of groceries AND open a car door in heels, and, key point here, look fabulous doing it.
For me, shoes now represent seasons, and events, and opportunities. My daughter comes along with me shoe shopping. We ooh, & ahh, & model, & dream over shoes. We laugh & talk and hold up shoes we KNOW we would never wear, but oh my aren't they fabulous?! Shoes for my daughter are a pleasure, one of life's little luxuries. She will never know the pain of being laughed at for her footwear.
And that, perhaps, is why I love shoes.
1.23.2010
Water Weight Redux
Repost of the entire shower escapade circa 6/27/08:
So, as if I don't struggle with body image enough already, yesterday I broke through the shower enclosure floor.
Yep.
Crack. KaPow. And other assorted Batman expletives.
I had finished the whole "lather, rinse, repeat" cycle & was reaching around the door for my towel when it happened. I stepped down, felt a little bounce, the the floor gave way beneath me!
We have been planning a bathroom remodel for a while. A brand new toilet & sink sit patiently in the solarium. And the slab of black granite that has resided happily under my bed for what, three years, is waiting to be an actual countertop instead of a cat bed.
We built this house 19 years ago & it is beginning to show its age. This has been the year of burly, sweaty, tattooed men meandering about with hammers. No, my husband isn't burly, or tattooed. But he does get sweaty once in a while. We contract out...at least things get done that way. We have a new roof, new gutters, & the windows will be torn from their sashes & replaced this weekend. (I already dread the swarm of mosquitoes amassing battle plans while there are gaping holes in the bedrooms!)
But the shower is different.
Now, in my defense, there had been a hairline crack along the base. Seems the builders cut a few corners. Quite a few. I've been informed that there is supposed to be a support floor underneath the base of a shower insert.
I know, I watch that Home/Garden network channel on cable with the wonder women who install their own travertine flooring! (T-what the heck is travertine anyway?!)
But no, for 19 years, our shower has rested precariously with no support, a disaster in the making.
And, of course, these things only happen to me.
Now, I can see the abandoned son causing this. With his 6 foot, "you can bounce quarters off him" frame. But me? After all those bowls of Special K & the body ball of doom? It was sorta like Godzilla splatting a building. The foot came up. The foot came down. C R A C K!
*Note: I am not saying I have scaly Godzilla feet. Please don't get that idea. I have been pumicing & Burt's Bees Balming them into pedicured perfection. It is sexy sandal season after all.
It was just fairly embarrassing to have to come down to the kids & say, "Um, you can't use the shower anymore. Ever. I, um, broke it. No, not the water thingy....the, um, floor."
After they figured out what I was saying (& saw the huge, gaping hole), it became apparent that the "early for parties" faux pas is behind us & they have moved on to new territory.
So, as if I don't struggle with body image enough already, yesterday I broke through the shower enclosure floor.
Yep.
Crack. KaPow. And other assorted Batman expletives.
I had finished the whole "lather, rinse, repeat" cycle & was reaching around the door for my towel when it happened. I stepped down, felt a little bounce, the the floor gave way beneath me!
We have been planning a bathroom remodel for a while. A brand new toilet & sink sit patiently in the solarium. And the slab of black granite that has resided happily under my bed for what, three years, is waiting to be an actual countertop instead of a cat bed.
We built this house 19 years ago & it is beginning to show its age. This has been the year of burly, sweaty, tattooed men meandering about with hammers. No, my husband isn't burly, or tattooed. But he does get sweaty once in a while. We contract out...at least things get done that way. We have a new roof, new gutters, & the windows will be torn from their sashes & replaced this weekend. (I already dread the swarm of mosquitoes amassing battle plans while there are gaping holes in the bedrooms!)
But the shower is different.
Now, in my defense, there had been a hairline crack along the base. Seems the builders cut a few corners. Quite a few. I've been informed that there is supposed to be a support floor underneath the base of a shower insert.
I know, I watch that Home/Garden network channel on cable with the wonder women who install their own travertine flooring! (T-what the heck is travertine anyway?!)
But no, for 19 years, our shower has rested precariously with no support, a disaster in the making.
And, of course, these things only happen to me.
Now, I can see the abandoned son causing this. With his 6 foot, "you can bounce quarters off him" frame. But me? After all those bowls of Special K & the body ball of doom? It was sorta like Godzilla splatting a building. The foot came up. The foot came down. C R A C K!
*Note: I am not saying I have scaly Godzilla feet. Please don't get that idea. I have been pumicing & Burt's Bees Balming them into pedicured perfection. It is sexy sandal season after all.
It was just fairly embarrassing to have to come down to the kids & say, "Um, you can't use the shower anymore. Ever. I, um, broke it. No, not the water thingy....the, um, floor."
After they figured out what I was saying (& saw the huge, gaping hole), it became apparent that the "early for parties" faux pas is behind us & they have moved on to new territory.
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