Ah, Jeremy. My Husband.

When Jeremy and I had our first big fight, I ran to my friend Lauren’s house. I cried and smoked cigarettes and called my mom. She was heartbroken for me. She was heartbroken for herself. She told me how she hated the lesson I had learned from her about relationships was, When things get rough, run.

I hated it too.

It wasn’t the only lesson I had learned from her, but it was one of them. Up until that point, it was all I had ever done. And I had sabotaged every relationship I ever had by running. Granted, I was a baby, barely 21, but relationships before 21 and relationships after 21 aren’t really that different. In fact, the ones when I was young were important. Those were the ones I needed to show me what love could feel like before it got steady. Before I learned to navigate fear and made my way to committed. Before I learned how not to run.

I cried and smoked some more and talked Lauren to death. Then, like I always do, I called Jeremy. We discussed things, in regular English. We talked and cried and yelled and talked and cried some more. We got through, got to the other side. The committed side. The beautiful side. The really, really good side of what relationships past 21 look like.

I asked him, “Can I come home now?”

He said, “I never asked you to leave.”

Ah, Jeremy.

My Husband.

He’s never asked me to leave, not once in all these years. He’s never said it loud or quietly. He’s never sent subliminal messages. He’s never pushed me away. He’s loved me so steady from the very beginning and it’s never scared him. He’s never had more important things to do. Oats to sow. Questions to answer. He never put me on the back burner to find himself first. He’s never doubted it. One day, after only a few weeks of dating, he introduced me as his girlfriend and that was it. He never thought about it again. Not once. That means something.

It means a lot of something.

We instantly and seamlessly fell in love. It was not the stuff regular fairytales are made of, but it was one to us. Not the stuff Nicholas Sparks’ books or Eminem’s love songs are written about. No questions. No turmoil, no confusion, no over thinking. He entered my life at a time where I had been let down and disappointed and neglected. He immediately made me feel safe, secure, wanted, adored.

He still does.  

I never had no one
I could count on
I've been let down so many times
I was tired of hurtin'
So tired of searchin'
'Til you walked into my life
It was a feelin'
I'd never known
And for the first time
I didn't feel alone

 

It was the most natural thing in the world to us, even though once or twice I pretended like I was going to run.

Blame my mother. I do.

I was never really going anywhere, I just get dramatic sometimes. He loves me anyway.

It has always been the kind that I knew was going to last 50 plus years. The kind that when you asked my grandma “How have you and grandpa been married so long?” Her answer was, “We just don’t get a divorce.”

Smart woman, my grandma.

Did she get aggravated? SURE! My grandpa was a pain in the butt. He was grouchy and bossy and always pronounced her name “’Viirra” instead of Elvira. He used to come down the hall in his underwear and yell at us to turn the TV off and go to bed. Of course she got aggravated. My grandparents had 11 kids. 11 KIDS!! She probably walked around in a constant state of aggravation. My grandma was a wonderful, feisty, funny, smart woman, but a saint she was not. She used to make fun of him when she thought he couldn’t see. It always cracked me up. When she wasn’t looking, he would often aim these googly eyes at her across the room and you could literally feel how much he loved her. He always held her hand. Always.

Do I get aggravated? SURE! My husband can be down right infuriating. He leaves newspapers EVERYWHERE. He still hasn’t finished the fort in the backyard. He falls asleep watching TV. He falls asleep eating dinner. He falls asleep when I’m having conversations with him. (So what if its one o’clock in the morning? That's when I feel like talking!) He always lets me have the first cup of coffee. He always kisses me goodnight. He tells me he loves me every. single. day.  He laughs at Cougar Town, pretends to be interested in Grey’s Anatomy and touches my butt every chance he gets. He talks about the game of football like he wants to see it naked. He talks about me like he wants to see me naked. He always looks stoned in pictures.

When I change my hair color, he notices. When I’ve spent all day cleaning the house, he notices and says thank you. When I’m still in my pajamas when he gets home from work and I haven’t done a single thing, he kisses me and asks me if I need a nap. When I need to write, he lets me. When I decide I want to take a cross-country road trip, he starts helping me dream about it. He looks at maps and figures out mileage. When I tell him I’m going back to school, he says “whatever you want, babe”. When I tell him I don’t want to go to school anymore, he says, “whatever you want, babe”.  He never calls in sick. He rarely complains about anything. He works on my car and sings the lyrics to most songs incorrectly. He is happiest when I am happiest. He always holds my hand. Always.    

Sometimes, I don’t understand steady. I. Am. Not. Steady. I don’t know how his brain works and how he never questions me. I’m nuts. I’m impossible. I’m selfish and self-centered and exhausting and I question everything. All the time. I’m never satisfied with an answer for very long.  I change my mind about which direction I’m taking my life every five minutes and he comes along for the ride. I’ve made his life a wooden, crackly roller-coaster and he puts his hands up in the air and pretends to be excited with every turn. I’m inconsistent and sometimes, kinda mean. He loves me anyway. He loves me so steady. He knows me better than I give him credit for. I like to pretend that I’m way complicated and mysterious. I’m really not. He knows that. He does joke, though, about not being able to get in my head because there are already too many people up there. He’s pretty funny, my husband.  

You stand by me
And you believe in me
Like nobody ever has
When my world goes crazy
You're right there to save me
You make me see how much I have

I wanted to get married in Vegas. I wanted to elope and ditch the whole wedding scene. I wanted to wear a trashy dress and fishnet stockings. I was anxious about all my family being in the same room. He knew that, but he told me no. He said, “Over the next few years, all your friends are going to get married and every time we go to a wedding, I don’t want to hear you say, ‘I wish we would have had a nice wedding, too’. So, no. We’re having a wedding. Like it or not.”

He was right, and our wedding was perfect.   

When I ask him why he loves me he says, “I just do.” He’s not much for a monologue. That’s okay. I talk enough for the both of us.

And I don't know where I'd be
Without you here with me
Life with you makes perfect sense
You're my best friend

I did, once, get him to give me a list of reasons why he loved me. He would kill me if I shared the whole thing but just know it contained phrases like: Groggy morning face, pajama pants & animal slippers, I LOVE YOU FOR YOU and Your smile, frown and Yahtzee cheer.

Followed by “…reasons I know without a shadow of a doubt that we WILL celebrate our 50^th anniversary together.  I already started planning it.”  

Good to know, babe. I’ll be there. But let’s renew our vows in Vegas, huh? It’s my turn. I’ll be the one down front in the trashed up wedding dress and fishnet stockings…     

On Writing.

When I came to writing to cry about my relationship with my dad, the relationship became peaceful. When I came to writing to talk about my screaming kid, his screaming became endearing. Someone even called my letter to Brodie upbeat. It ended that way, sure, but I was not upbeat when I started writing. I was super serious about sticking him in Pops’ studio. I could hear my husband telling my sons in the other room, “If you know what’s best for you, you’ll leave your mother alone and let her write.”

Smart man, that husband of mine.     

Writing is my friend. It doesn’t get busy. It doesn’t have kids or a fiancé. I can’t wear out my welcome here or go straight to voicemail. It doesn’t pass judgment, lets me figure stuff out on my own and by God if it doesn’t have the answers, it helps me look for them.

Subtly as possible, it suggests what I’m worried (scared, irritated, nervous, whatever) about might just be a style issue. Maybe I should just rearrange the paragraphs.

I like friends like that.

I’m starting to think self-discovery might happen when I don’t know I’m looking for it. It might even be the stuff I find when looking for something else entirely. I’m sure someone else has said that already. It doesn’t matter. This is my brand of writing. There really are no new ideas.

~~

The first CD I ever owned was The Bodyguard Soundtrack. Does, I will always love you, ring a bell? Yeah, well, it was a cover. Dolly Parton recorded it in 1974. 18 years before Whitney Houston rocked my world with it. Now, I adore Dolly Parton, but I didn’t really fall in love with her until The White Stripes covered and released Jolene in 2004.

I love Lady Gaga. Like, love, love. That didn’t happen until I was introduced to her by a still unknown Haley Reinhart on American Idol singing You and I before it was even released. Until I heard a piano only duet of Poker Face on Glee.

Kurt Hummel introduced me to Barbra Streisand. The Dixie Chicks introduced me to Fleetwood Mac. Motherhood introduced me to Megan. My 5^th grade teacher, Mrs. Brandon, introduced me to writing.

Writing is introducing me to, me.   

See how that works?       

I was accidentally encouraged by a book called Armageddon in Retrospect recently. It was written by Kurt Vonnegut. It was published after his death. The introduction was written by his son, Mark, also a writer.

Mark said of his dad,

“Writing was a spiritual exercise for my father, the only thing he really believed in. He wanted to get things right but never thought that his writing was going to have much effect on the course of things…Anyone who wrote or tried to write was special to Kurt. And he wanted to help…The most radical, audacious thing to think is that there might be some point to working hard and thinking hard and reading hard and writing hard and trying to be of service…He was a writer who believed in the magic of the process—both what it did for him and what it could do for the readers.”

Mr. Vonnegut is one of my friends and mentors now, but only because I first fell in love with the version his son wanted me to know. His son’s cover.

I was written about recently. Being written about by someone else was a gigantic boost for my ego, but not in the way you might imagine. Please don’t misunderstand me, the accolades are nice. Especially because Megan, part of my collective muse, and my brother, Austin, picked some of my rawer, non-generic characteristics to sing praises about. I’m glad they didn’t have to wait until I was dead. It makes me feel I might be doing something right. It’s nice to receive a compliment for doing something you didn’t think was a big deal, a “thanks for being you”. I’ll be honest, feeling that way is amazing! But I’m writing this because Megan makes me want to talk. Because Austin told me “You’ve inspired me to write.” That means something. It means a lot of something.

Especially because their writing is really, really good.

~~

I feel better when I’m not telling someone what to do. Oh, don’t mistake me, I tell people what to do all of the time. I’m a woman, wife, mom, big sister, friend. I might even be telling you what to do right now. But I feel better about myself when I think I’ve accidentally encouraged them, instead. Encouraged them to do something they wanted to do anyway.

Lady Gaga wore a meat suit. A lot of people think she’s too weird. A lot more don’t. She’s an amazing song writer and I swear she stole some of those lyrics from me. Kurt Vonnegut wrote a book about, in part, aliens from another planet who laugh at the idea of free-will. About a man who becomes “Un-stuck” in time. It’s about as kooky as they come. I like kooky. It teaches you something, but in a crazy, weird way. I don’t want to wear a meat suit and I don’t think I want to write about aliens. That’s not the point. The point is they accidentally encouraged me by being just brainy enough and just ballsy enough to become pretty great versions of the people they already were.

So, here’s the lesson I’m learning today.

Ready?

WRITE.

Crazy people don’t sit around and wonder if they’re crazy, but usually writers sit around and wonder if they’re writers. Some of the really, really good ones, in fact. There are lots of quotes about it. I looked them up. Writers love to hear the sound of their own voices. When I get unsure about loving the sound of my own voice or wonder if I’m really  a writer. When I get a little scared…fine, a lot scared, I’m learning to rearrange the paragraphs. Even though I met writing in the 5^th grade and we’ve had an on-again, off-again relationship for years, there is still so much to learn. And somehow, it feels exactly the same.

I listened to Barbra Streisand and Kurt Hummel sing, As if we never said goodbye, today and I’m pretty sure it changed my life. Barbra Streisand is deathly afraid of being on stage. But, when she’s up there…

oh. my. god.

P.S. If you know my friend, writing, and wonder if it’s time to get back in contact. You’re probably right. Make sure you mention that Krysten says Hi. And Thank You.     

   

  

Boys, Boys. Big and Small

I live with boys.

Big and small.  

My world is full of disgusting smells and funny arm pit noises. There is a hot wheel or a lego or an action figure or a pair of dirty socks around every corner and under every other step. Boys love to watch stuff about blowing things up or ripping them apart or fighting in some epic battle. They point guns at everything. If they don’t have a gun handy, they find something else to turn into a gun. Or turn into a baseball bat or a golf club. Did I mention they think farts are hilarious?

Even the big one.

And they all love my attention. When I laugh at their jokes or scratch their backs. When I listen about video games or football. Books or movies. They want to feel smart and strong. They love to show me tricks and make me applaud.

There are many times I’d like to lock myself in a closed bookstore or get lost in a marathon of Glee or Grey’s Anatomy. I’d like to watch a show in the living room that wasn’t on Discovery Channel or Nickelodeon.  But most times I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than pay attention to them. They are pretty easy to please. They don’t ask for too much and I can usually figure out what they want. They are simple when they are small. They are simple when they are big. They might be a little forgetful, a little inconsiderate. Hey, aren’t we all.  

I’ve always liked boys the best. They all have a pretty universal language. Sure it evolves a little over time, but from birth to adulthood, at least in my world, they don’t really change much. They all tell me I’m beautiful, even Brodie in his own way. The grown up one likes hot food, cold tea and anything relating to combat. The little ones like hot food, cold Capri Suns and anything related to hitting each other with sticks. The grown up one likes being outside, a comfy place to watch TV and sex on a regular basis. The little ones like playing outside, a comfy place to watch TV and being fascinated with their own genitals.

Easy enough.

Sure kids are needy. Babies are needy. They only stay little for awhile. The rest of the time, they’re just boys.  

People always ask me if I’m going to try for one more child. The answer is no. But, they say, don’t you want to try for a girl?

Look…

I LOVE Toddlers and Tiaras. Yes, I said it. I’m not ashamed. That show is hilarious. I love the crazy parents and the glitz and the cute little head bobs and out of control mini-divas. I’m fascinated by Red Bulls for breakfast and flippers and Nini’s! Are you kidding me? What’s not to love? Could I actually BE a pageant mom? OH HECK NO! I would need 15 Xanax just to walk into one of those dress shops! My friend, Megan, knows. She walked me down the girl’s toy aisle at Target and I came pretty close to a full on anxiety attack.

True Story.

I can not manage to keep up with the toenail polish on my own toes. What in the world would I do with a girl? I can barely get from the closet to the car with heels on before I’ve switched to flip-flops. How could I ever teach a girl how to be chic?

I get that girls are great. They’re cute and sparkly and delicate. There clothes are cuter and their hair is prettier. Girls don’t tend to care much about farts or explosives. They do ballet. They Cheer. I’m a girl, I get it.

I believe that if I had a little girl, I’d love her more than life. I’d figure out pig tales and Bubble Guppies. I’m sure we’d enjoy watching Toddlers and Tiaras together. I’d watch her grow and mature and become a woman. I’d teach her everything I know about compassion and honesty and boys and manipulation and Lady Gaga. I’d be happy doing it.

Will I risk my sanity for it? No. A girl would have been fantastic. Duh. But I have boys and I don’t want the parents in my house to be out numbered by the children.

No girl.  

My life is full of boys. Big and small. I can teach them what I know about compassion and honesty and girls and manipulation and yes, even Lady Gaga. I can read books to them and listen to their jokes and teach them about trust and respect. How girls, big and small, are actually a lot simpler than boys make them out to be. They want to be validated. They need attention, too. They like to make you laugh. They want to show you tricks and make you applaud. I can make sure they understand that there is nothing wrong with taking care of themselves and taking care of others. I can encourage them to be strong and smart and polite. Stand by them while they head off into the world and make choices. There are plenty of lessons that both sets need to know.

Girls are awesome but I feel like I have a pretty good handle on my life full of boys. I don’t know how that dude from Sister Wives does it. A house full of women would be CRAZY!    

I’ll always be the only woman in my house. Queen of my castle. Princess of my own fairytale. My world full of boys is often loud and hectic. It can be a little demanding. Sometimes, it smells funny, but I don’t have to share the girl spotlight with anyone.

It’s not a bad place to be.

And hey, at least surrounded by boys, I’m the only one with PMS, right?

Brodie Kevin Nunn! Please stop screaming!

Boy, n.:  a noise with dirt on it.  ~Not Your Average Dictionary
Dear Brodie:

You are about as ornery as they come and have been from the very beginning. Things I never experienced when I was pregnant with your brother got me with you. Bad. I was sick. I had vertigo. I was exhausted all of the time. I had rhinitis so bad I couldn’t breathe for months.

I almost lost you. Twice. I knew then that you would always have the ability to BREAK MY HEART. But we made it. Together. I fought for you. You fought for me. Thank you for teaching me how to be a fighter. 

You were violently and forcefully brought into this world and I have the battle scar to prove it. I’ve never carried a scar so proudly. I was devastated when they told me you were coming that way. I cried for weeks. I felt robbed of my right as a woman to give birth to you naturally. I was so scared. Unfortunately, they told me if I tried to give birth to you naturally, I would die. I didn’t want to die. I wanted to see what we had fought so hard for.

Turns out, you were totally worth it. Thanks for teaching me that fear doesn’t last and on the other side is some really, really good stuff.

You’ve always been a screamer. “The Super Hawk Squawk” we called it when you were tiny. It was cute when you were tiny. Now, I’m afraid if you don’t learn to talk and stop screaming, I’m going to lock you in Pop’s studio until you do. Seriously, Kid, that noise is driving me NUTS! I know it has to be frustrating for you to not be able to communicate. I love to talk, text, write, sing.  If I couldn’t get stuff out, I would probably scream all of the time too. But for your sake, and the sake of Mamma’s sanity, you have to pick a new noise. Sing, hum, growl, make click-clacking noises with your tongue like they do in little third world villages…ANYTHING BUT THAT SCREAMING!!

Please.

I love that you dance to anything with a beat. Like, anything, not just music. The other day you were dancing to the beat of the washing machine spinning. You’re pretty cute. Two of the only things you say clearly and in context are “Outside” and “GO, GO, GO”. I absolutely love that about you.

You have quite the little temper. In fact, when you’re tired, you are downright mean. That’s my DNA. Sorry about that one. It’s going to cause you a lot of grief in life. It’d be best to get a handle on it now. Stop hitting. It hurts.  

You’re beyond funny. You crack yourself up and you crack me up on an hourly basis. I don’t always understand you, but I get your jokes. Grandma calls you “Brodie the Bruiser”. You very rarely cry. You very rarely get hurt. You are fearless. You climb on everything and tear up everything and get into everything. You keep me on my toes in a way your brother never did. You literally eat snails. We went to the park yesterday and you played faster and harder than kids way older than you. You think you are bigger than you are. You are already over being a baby. You don’t like to be rocked or cuddled. You have always gone to sleep on your own. I never knew a 16 month old could be so independent. You are. You don’t seem to need me quite as much as your brother did, as much as he does.

See? Power to break my heart…

Daddy says we only have ourselves to blame. He says it’s because we named you Brodie Kevin Nunn. See, your initials, BK, those are for your uncle Billy Keith. Your middle name is after your uncle Kevin. And your last name, well, there really was no hope for you. If I wasn’t so tired and sick while I was pregnant, I probably would have known to pick one or the other. Naming you after both uncles was really just asking for it. Those have got to be two of the orneriest men I’ve ever met. You get that heartbreaking ability from them. You get that fire and fearlessness from them. And, if you turn out half as good as either one of them, you’ll be perfectly fine.

Your brother is going to school in two weeks. It’s going to be just you and me, Kid. I’m excited about this and also a little anxious. Logan won’t be here to distract and entertain you anymore and I’m afraid that’ll leave you with no one to fight with but me. It’s good you’ve already been preparing me for the fight. I think I’m ready.

Even on the days you drive me crazy, I’m so glad you’re you. I’m glad you picked me. I look forward to watching how far you get with that fearlessness and orneriness. I promise to try and help you point it in the right direction. I love your Dai Bai Dang Face and your chubby, yummy knees.

PLEASE STOP SCREAMING!

Love,

Mamma    

Dear Logan: I understand.

"Your life, as you know it... is gone. Never to return. But they learn how to walk, and they learn how to talk... and you want to be with them. And they turn out to be the most delightful people you will ever meet in your life." --Lost in Translation

 

Dear Logan:

Tonight, when I got home from work, you were still awake. I should have been upset by this, given it was almost one in the morning, but you ran to my car and you gave me a kiss and you told me that you couldn’t sleep without me. I couldn’t find mad. All I could find was a kiss back and pair of pajama pants and 14 seconds of cuddling with you before you were out cold.

I have a hard time sleeping when everyone thinks I’m supposed to, too. I understand.

For the time being, sleeping at night and playing/learning/being in the daytime is just the way we have to do things.  

When I was little, my mom always took naps. I hated it. When I got a little older, I promised myself that when I had kids, I wouldn’t nap as much as she did. Then, I had you. I had your brother. Sometimes, Mommy gets tired. I know you hate it.

I used to hate it, too. I understand.

Some days, though, I can’t be the best Mommy if I’m tired. Mommy has to take care of herself so she can take care of you.

You don’t want to learn to swim. You are scared of putting your head under water. Everyone has tried to encourage you and bully you and bribe you. You told me that you don’t care if Brodie and Emma swim before you do. You just don’t want to learn to swim. I want you to learn. I want you to not be afraid.

When I was four, I didn’t want to swim. I was scared, too. I understand.

Right now, it’s just important for you to learn. It’s safe. It’ll make your summers better, I promise. If you don’t want to swim, you don’t have to, but you should know how.

You love talking to adults. You like it way better than talking to other kids. Other kids kinda bug you. They don’t let you call the shots like grown-ups do. They aren’t always the best at encouraging your imagination. They want you to share and do what they say.

I like grown-ups way better than kids, too. I understand.

Soon, you’ll figure out that not all kids your age bug you. You will get lucky, as I have been, and find a few that you actually really, really like. They will be your friends, your allies, your cohorts and they will make your life a lot more fun. They will get it. They will understand you.

You’re a good big brother. You make Brodie laugh and help him reach things and let him play with your stuff. Sometimes though, you don’t want to be around him. He bugs you because he’s little. You don’t want him in your room and you don’t want to share your stuff.

I have little brothers, too. I understand.

Hopefully, you’ll figure out that your little brother isn’t so bad. He might even be your buddy sometimes. He will understand things about you that no one else will. Not your friends. Not me. Not your dad. He will be able to keep secrets and make inside jokes. He will help you remember your past and keep you company in your future.

You are starting school soon. I think you are in for quite the adventure. There will be days, though, where you will just hate it. There will be days where I will just hate it, too. Hopefully, those days will be few. I will do my best to remind you that the good stuff most always outweighs the bad. I will do my best to remind myself. You are very smart and very funny and I know you will be better than fine.

I was always pretty good in school, but I didn’t always like it. I will understand.

You will learn so much more in school than just book stuff, though. You will learn how to treat people and how to get what you want. You will find a few teachers along the way that make you want to learn. You will figure out how to deal with people you don’t like and how to deal with people that you do. You will start to figure yourself out better.

I love you. This doesn’t feel like enough, but those are the only words you really understand on the subject so far.

I was that way for a long time, too. I understand.

I’m glad that you are the one who is teaching me how to be a mom. You’re a very good teacher. I like that we learn a lot of stuff together. I’m pretty sure you teach me just as much as I teach you, but I will always be the mom and you will always be the kid. That will never change, I promise. You are one of my most favorite people in the entire world. I want so many good, good things for you. Mostly, though, I want you to grow up to be the absolute best version of yourself.

I think you’re off to a pretty good start.

Love,

Mom

I love you Dad and you're ugly

I married a man who grew up to be a great father. This is the truth. Not that I ever doubted it would happen, but it’s nice to know. Hopefully he and I will raise our children in such a way that they will grow up and fill cards and blogs and rooms full of people with beautiful, well thought out words that tell him exactly what they think of him. Right now though, I’m pretty sure he’s content with “You’re the best dad in the whole world” as he should be.

Today is Father’s Day, though, not husband’s day, so I’m thinking that’s the direction I’ll take instead.

People tell me all of the time that I look like my father. It’s a compliment, I think, even though we jokingly use it as an insult in my family. We use it that way between the two of us, as well, like when he tells me, “You’re Ugly.” And I say, “I know, it’s because I look just like you.” The truth is I don’t think he’s ugly and he doesn’t think I’m ugly. In fact, we both think we look alright, which is what makes it funny.

My dad and I have more similarities that the physical ones. We are both artists who often manage to feel completely alone in a room full of people. We spend too much time in our own heads and too much money on things we don’t need. We have no patience and thrive on instant gratification. We both smoke too much, him cigars, me cigarettes, and we often enjoy each other’s company the most when we’re smoking too much and not saying anything at all.

We don’t know much about politics or current events. We don’t know much about discipline. We do know that people are worth loving and things are worth laughing about. The world is a pretty funny place to us both. It’s a beautiful place and we try not to pay much attention to people who tell us it’s not. We make the rules up as we go, we always have. We change our minds a lot.   

My father doesn’t make a habit of telling me how to live my life. I used to think it was because he didn’t care. Now I’m pretty sure it’s because he knows I’m going to do whatever I want and there is no point in wasting his breath. I dig that. It’s nice to know that he actually gets me and doesn’t try to pretend I’m someone I’m not. He knows that I, like him, will eventually come to the right decision all on my own and he believes in the process of that, even if he doesn’t know it. 

My father says that out of all his children, I’m the only one who scares him. I didn’t always know what that meant. I’m still trying to figure out the whole of it, but I’m pretty sure it’s like this. We are too much alike. This roughly equates to him being scared for me because he, more than anyone else, knows what it’s like to have a brain and a heart and a soul like the one I have and he wants things to be easier for me than they are for him. I get that. I feel the same way about him. This is what makes us, us. It also means that I don’t buy his bologna anymore than he buys mine. We see through one another. We see crystal clear. That scares him. It scares me too.

I can’t buy the Father’s day cards that say: “Thanks for teaching me to ride a bike and tie my shoes and slow dance.” That’s not how my father and I work. He didn’t teach me to drive and he didn’t teach me about sex and he didn’t teach me how to change a tire. I used to think that I was upset about those things, and maybe I was, but today I wish they made a card that said this:

Thanks for sharing your DNA with me. I like who I am even when I drive other people crazy, even when I drive myself crazy. You are half-responsible for that. Thanks for never expecting more of me than I am capable of and for always expecting that I can figure things out on my own. I know that it isn’t lack of caring but an overabundance of confidence. I never feel like I’ve disappointed you and that’s important. You believe in me for the real reasons and not because you think I’m supposed to be someone better than I am. Thank you for looking at me through the eyes of a father who trusts in God and trusts in me. I love you for that. Thanks for always allowing me to sit quietly in your garage or on your back porch and never trying to make unnecessary small talk to fill up the quiet space. I like the quiet space and so do you. That’s why we work. I love that you walked me down the aisle and pretended to give me away. You looked really handsome in your tuxedo. I love that you have grown up to be a great Pops and that my sons can look to you as a leader, a teacher and a silly playmate.

You have always been the dad you were supposed to be, even when I didn’t know that. That’s the funny thing about life, sometimes we want more, when what we have is Just Right.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I love you and you’re ugly.

Almost the same, just in a less generic form.

"Repression is not the way to virtue. When people restrain themselves out of fear, their lives are by necessity diminished. Only through freely chosen discipline can life be enjoyed and still kept within the bounds of reason." -- Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi

So, here’s what happened.

A very good friend of mine started a blog, a pretty damn good one. I read it and was immediately inspired. She was smart, she was funny, she was real and she was taking time for herself.

She was taking time to write.

I wanted to write one, too. So I did.

Well, I started to…

It happens. Especially to me.

I get excited about things. I make lists and notes and plans and set unrealistic expectations. I go full force and a little compulsive. Then, of course, I find excuses and reasons to resent the damn thing, to hate its guts, and that usually leads to…nothing.  

The reason I resented this one was simple. I didn’t think I could compete.

My old pals, fear and doubt, came waltzing in and were all “you can’t do that as well as she can and you’re boring and you have nothing original to say and everyone hates you.”

I lived with them for awhile. I let them move in, hang ugly pictures on my walls, change the scent of candle I was burning and take the bigger bathroom. I had to stop walking around the living room in my underwear. I was miserable. They were having late night parties and inviting anxiety, jealousy, guilt, and frustration to come and get thay freak on. I hated these new roommates, they made me uncomfortable, and I wanted them out.

Like, right now.

Apparently, booting out a couple of annoying roommates is harder than it looks. There are rules and laws and kicking and cat fights. Doors to get through. Red Tape to cut. I didn’t realize it was going to be so difficult and I’m pretttttty sure they’re still sneaking in and spending the night here. Nevertheless, I’m working on it, and that counts.

Not wanting to be alone, I invited a few, more encouraging, pals to come over and have coffee: creativity, confidence, curiosity and just plain old silliness. It was awkward getting reacquainted at first, but we seem to be enjoying each other’s company on a regular basis now. We’re developing a rather healthy relationship.

My girlfriend’s blog is great, duh. So is she. There is no surprise there. The surprise came in thinking I had to compete. I’m ashamed. This is the woman I tell my secrets to, who encourages me on a daily basis. This is the woman who inspired me in the first place. There is no competition. We both get to write. We both get to be.   

At first, the fear and doubt came from thinking if I didn’t write about my kids, I was a horrible mother. If I wasn’t worried how I was doing as a wife and mom, then I must not be doing very well. Time revealed, as time does, that her blog isn’t about that anyway. It’s more about how she is doing as herself. It doesn’t matter so much what I write about, it matters that I’m writing at all. Sometimes that’ll get messy and I’ll know, for sure, that I am in fact a horrible wife and mother. I guess I’ll just have to deal with that when it comes.

I’ve decided to take whatshisname up there’s advice and stop repressing myself out of fear. It occurred to me that while fear deserves to be validated, I do not have to let it control the whole damn house!

I like to write for no good reason at all. No strict rules or regulations. No expected topic. Some people do golf, some people do yoga, I do writing. It’s good for the flow. I haven’t done writing in a while and I’ve missed it like crazy. My friend teased me, at first, because I told her I thought blogging was a little self-indulgent. Her response? Duh. I guess she's right. Duh.  

So here we are. Blog, take #2. Not so much learning to be happy. More just learning to be. It’s almost the same, just in a less generic form.

And that’s where I’ve been since January…