9-10-2021 Journal Entry, aka Too Much All at Once

Geez, there's so much, I can tell this is going to be word vomit.

Today was the Fallen Firefighter's Memorial.  They put the 3 names they lost to Covid on the memorial.  I hate the bagpipes playing Amazing Grace--it always makes me cry.  I met one of the other widows and her condition is just heartbreaking.  You can just see grief written all over her.  I gave her my phone number.

Billy is in the hospital.  Last week he made two threats on text to kill someone with a knife he got from a friend.  The first one was while I was teaching small group.  I put a parental app on his phone and found the second threat about a classmate along with music he was listening to that was vile.  I confronted him when he came home and he got angry and started cussing at me and Arrena and saying hateful things to me and about Scott.  He poured his root beer on my chair and the floor.  Arrena and I tried to restrain him.  Patrick was barking and I thought Billy would calm down when he reached to hug Patrick, but he said he was running away and shoved me out of the way.  We let him go, but he came back and went straight to the knife drawer, which I didn't realize was unlocked, and grabbed a knife and held it to his throat and said he was going to kill himself because no one loved him.  I grabbed the knife while Arrena grabbed him.  I was trying to find my phone to call the doctor's office crisis line, but I couldn't find it, so we called police from Arrena's phone.  They took him to Research and I followed.  I stayed with him until about 5:15am then went home to sleep and go to my discipleship class.  I had to fill out paperwork for him to go to KVC, then I went back and his bed was in the hallway.  He was bored so I went to Dollar Tree and got him some activity books.  Then I went back home.  He went to KVC in the morning.  I've talked to him every day.  The first day, he had to be sedated.  The second day he had to be isolated.  Last night he told me that he's trying to be good so he can come home and see me and the dog.  Kimberly told me she's afraid for all of us and that I should turn him over to the state.  She said I haven't been there as a mom they needed because I was too busy with Billy.  And she's right.  I didn't get to be the mom I wanted to be.  Once a therapist drew a pie chart and said I spend 90% of my resources (time, energy, money) on Billy and the other 10% is what I have left for both my kids, my husband, myself, friends, etc.  Would Kim be different if I'd been there for her?  I started crying because I have spent 16 years trying to prevent us from getting exactly where we are now.  I've wasted 16 years.  And I didn't help any of my 3 kids.  She started talking about her dad and Sarah and how they act different in front of Arrena and Paul, but to her they still badmouth me and reward her with attention if she badmouths me and Scott.  I knew this wedding was going to be difficult but now I feel like everything I do will be scrutinized to make fun of later.  It's too much.  There's just too much going on.  It's been 12 years--why can't he move on?  I told Billy's therapist at KVC my concerns that things are only getting worse and that we're scared of it escalating.  She suggested I call DCS, so I did today.  I have no idea what they can do or what to expect.  They're supposed to call me in 24 hours.  Billy didn't call me tonight.  His nurse did--he punched 2 boys in the face and threw chairs at staff.  They put him in isolation.

3-1-2021 Journal Entry, aka Why Me, God?

I don't even know how to start writing what I'm feeling.  I went to GriefShare tonight and something reminded me of my dad, so I told a little of that story.  The gasps when I said I found him dead and decomposing hit me.  There's so much in my life.  My divorce--being cheated on multiple times, being given an STD, being strangled after being stalked, custody battles, no child support.  My losses--my dad, my grandparents, my husband.  My health and mental health--Lyme's disease, my back injury, depression/being suicidal, PTSD (twice), borderline personality disorder, anxiety, and more.  Financial issues.  My son being special needs and having to fight for him his whole life and now being alone to do it.  My daughter running from God and being scared she'll never turn around.  Not knowing who I am when I'm not Scott's wife or Arrena, Kimberly, and Billy's mom.  Trying to figure out where I fit in at church because I know I need to, but more confused than ever.

In my previous marriage, I felt like Hosea, taking back the husband that left me for so many other women.  Now I feel like Job.  Why is my life so screwed up?  Why do all these bad things happen to me?  I know the answer for Job was for God to get the glory.  How does God get glory from all the broken pieces of my life and how do I give it to Him?  I want to honor God and give Him glory, but how?  And how much can one person bear?  I know, there must be people that have it worse.  I just don't know how much more broken I can be.  I feel like David in the Psalms when he asks, "How long Lord?"  Whatever I may want, I can't die yet because I have a son to raise, if I can get motivated to actually parent him.  And right now I have a hard time praying for Jesus' return because I'm unsure of the souls of 2 of my children.  When will all my suffering be over?  I still have a mom to lose.  Three children.  What will I lose next?  Do I have to live 40, 50 more years in this pain?  This is not my home and I know 40-50 years is a vapor compared to eternity, but from this end, it seems interminable.  What do I still need to learn or do that I haven't?  Please God, answer my prayer: save my children and let me go home.  That's all I want.

2-23-2021 Journal Entry, aka Frustrated and Overwhelmed

Yesterday marked 3 months that Scott's been gone.  Today would have been my dad's birthday.  My siding is going up well, but it's so loud, I've been driven to my room.  The banging is so much, it's knocking stuff off the walls.  I thought I might try cleaning my room, but I just couldn't do it.  There's so much I need to do, but I just can't motivate myself to do it.  I've been walking every day, but so far it's not helping.

I'm so frustrated with everything.  My health insurance, when I applied, asked for my income.  I looked at how much my investments had grown and gave that amount.  Now they want proof of my income to maintain my discount.  It turns out I had no income in 2020, it was all in Scott's name.  They want me to estimate what my income will be in 2021.  Is that taxable income or nontaxable?  The life insurance and workman's comp is nontaxable.  I have no idea what the investments will make--we're still buying shares.  And then there's another fund I was applying for, asking for my income and expenses.  Taxable or nontaxable or all of it?  I don't know!  And I'm supposed to make some decisions about stocks to buy and I don't know.  My head is so clouded with money stuff that I'm freaking out.  The insurance says if I'm wrong with my figures, I could end up paying at tax time.  I don't know what to do.

Then Billy's therapist yesterday started asking him what we do together that's not video game related.  Nothing!  Because I have a bad back and I'm severely depressed and grieving.  I'm barely keeping both of us alive.

Tonight I went out to look at the siding, which is pretty much done and I found they've covered my bathroom exhaust vent.  I think the guy tried to tell me but I didn't understand.  Now it makes sense because he was showing me vent covers.  I should have asked him to show me.  Scott would have handled this better.

I'm just so overwhelmed and flustered.

Express Lane 7/2/17

Sent Billy to his dad's for two weeks. Hunted and hid rocks for our "rock group." Kimberly's 15th birthday!

Happy Birthday in Heaven

My husband wonders why I am focusing on what would have been my dad's 70th birthday today.  It's not that I don't think of him every year on his birthday or on the day he died and other times, but I mentioned it because it would have been a big birthday.  Maybe it's the numbers.  So many to mark the passage of time that seemed like it flew by so quickly.

This year is my 20th high school reunion.  And, if I had stayed married to my first husband, we would have been married 20 years this year.  I remember thinking that 20th anniversaries were a big deal and was such a long time.  But, now, it doesn't feel so long.  I feel like high school was yesterday.  Twenty years ago, my dad was 50 and my grandpa was getting ready to turn 70.  I remember my grandma writing to me and asking if I could believe that "that young man" was turning 70.  But, today, if my dad were still alive, HE would be 70.  And if my grandpa were still alive, HE would be 90 next year.  I'll be 40 next year.  My mom will be 70 in a couple of years and my grandma will be 90 in three.  40 used to seem so old, until I started staring down the barrel of it.  70 was the age of my grandparents, now it's my parents.  90 years was an amazing length of time for someone to have made it to, but my grandma is so strong and vibrant that 90 seems incongruous.

It's all perspective, I suppose.  My kids think I'm ancient and I don't feel that way (well, in some ways I do, but otherwise, I feel like it hasn't been that long since I was their age).  I thought 70 was near death when I was young, but I don't think of my mom that way now.  94 was how old my great-grandmother was when she died and she always seemed so frail, but now that my grandmother is nearing that decade, it seems completely different for her.  Maybe it's that my former perceptions are not matching with my current reality that is making me focus on it a bit more.

In any case, it's not depression that's causing me to fixate, it's the numbers: 20, 40, 70, and 90.

The Most Thankless Job

As life is wont to do, this post is in direct contrast to a previous recent post.

I always knew motherhood was a thankless job, and that was ok. The hugs, smiles, kisses were enough. And even when Billy hurls obscenities at me and says he hates me, I've learned to overlook it and know that it's coming from the disabilities that plague him and that his actions show otherwise.

But, lately my kids have been throwing new barbs at my heart. The kind that stick and make you look at them differently and wonder why you bother doing all the vast and taxing things you do for them. I'm sure I'm not the only one to feel this way.

The divorce from their dad was the catalyst. When they were young, the hurt came from their gushing about dad's girlfriend, the very one he left me for. Arrena was the only one that could see through my carefully neutral façade and refused to mention her in my presence, at the tender age of eight.

I take with a grain of salt the angry, "I'll just go live at dad's!" Because I know they're only trying to get a reaction, that it's the difference between the loving discipline designed to grow them into godly young people here and the "Disneyland" at dad's, and even if they were serious, the court prevents it at this time.

There's the little jabs when they gush about how much fun they had at dad's, conveniently forgetting that he went months without picking them up or that he forgot to call on their birthday or that he's gone six months without paying child support and we've been struggling just to put food on their plates.

There's the cruel twist of my heart when they speak glowingly of their step-mom, who was also instrumental in the break-up of the marriage. The fury of knowing they confided rule-breaking to her and she kept her mouth shut so that I'm the last to know.

And, yes, I admit that there's the jealousy of my kids having this whole other step-family that they love and talk about that I don't even know.

Kimberly talks about how she and her step-mom have this plan to move to Florida and open a wildlife park. I know it will probably never happen but the idea that she'd prefer to spend her life with her step-mom over me (she can't wait to go to college out of state and live far away) breaks my heart in two.

The cruelest torture was this week when their dad told me all the things they complain about to him, things that have just enough grain of truth in them to make me believe he didn't make it up, but enough falsehood to make me sound like the wicked witch. How did I turn into the evil step-mother in the fairy tale?

That same night, I listened to both girls talking about how they'd name their first sons after their dad. A dad who tried to kill their mother in front of them, the dad who doesn't show up or call, the dad who didn't participate in parenting even before we were divorced, the dad who followed through on his threat to purposefully get fired so he wouldn't have to pay high child support, the dad who called and left a suicidal message telling them goodbye, the dad who not only threatened to run away with them but actually took me to court to try to take custody and lied in court, and all the other award-winning dad material that makes him worthy of being made a grandchild namesake.  The guy you wouldn't even remotely think was a good man, let alone a good father. Yet, I get nothing. Things they see me do for them, the things they take for granted that I'll always be there, and the things they never saw--things they'll probably never know because I won't tell them. The things they blame me for without knowing the whole story or the motivation behind it. I don't even necessarily want any grandchildren named after me. It just hurts when he seems to win parent of the year over me over and over again.

No, I'm not like many parents that would sit there and point out all of these things to them, in an effort to make myself look better and him look worse.  In fact, sometimes I find myself trying to explain why he is the way he is, almost (almost) defending him, not for his sake, but for theirs.  I've even said that they are smart enough to one day figure it out on their own.

And, yes, I'm sure "one day" they'll see things clearly and that I did the best for them that I possibly could and that he didn't. One day, especially when they have children of their own, I might hear a "thank you, mom" or an "I'm sorry, mom." But in the meanwhile, while I'm embroiled in a fight against the school and the bus company on their behalf, I wonder why am I wearing myself thin, stressing myself out, exhausting myself when dad's the hero. And then I remember that regardless of whether they recognize the sacrifice, I love them and will still do anything for them no matter their reaction. And I bet God feels the same way when His children forget Him. He just keeps on loving us anyway.

Madness takes its toll--please have exact change ready.

I know, I have suddenly been blogging a LOT lately!  Fear not, I will probably peter out of things to say and go dormant again for a while!

My therapist was encouraging me to do certain things to cope with my issues, such as art ( I should really get back to doing some of my more creative pastimes) and journaling, which is what my blog is!  So, for now you are stuck with my incoherent rantings!

My therapy the other day was a little hard and as he told me I would probably be processing through it, I thought I would blog about it.  I don't like to talk about my ex-husband a lot, especially online, but as this is my journal and I need to process, I'll say what I need to say this time.

I said in my last blog post that I have been wrapping my mind around the fact that I am flawed mentally and emotionally.  There are many contributing factors to my issues, such as the genetic lottery I won by inheriting depression or the fact that my dad was verbally and emotionally abusive to me growing up.  I have been forced to face and process some of the ugliness that has caused me to be the way that I am.  I used to hear voices, I have panic attacks, I suffer from depression so dark that it causes physical pain and were it not for medication, I don't think I could survive it.  I know there are people who have suffered horrific things and I am so thankful that I have not experienced these things, but I know that all the factors that combine to make me who I am make it hard for me to function on a daily basis.  There are some days when just breathing and going about daily tasks is exhausting.  There are days when I want to fold in on myself and disappear.  I beg and cry out to God to come quickly because I long for heaven and an end to the torture I feel inside.

There are probably two major happenings that have caused my natural brain malfunctions to overload in recent years.  The first was my dad's death which I have talked about in a previous blog, so I'll not belabor that event.  The summation was that I found my dad dead in his home and he had been dead for five days and was decomposing.  It was a traumatic experience that haunted me for a very long time.  I still have my moments, but for the most part, I have been able to get past the guilt feelings and view the situation more matter-of-factly.

The other major event was less a specific event and more of a time period culminating in an event.  Seven years of marriage to my ex-husband, during which time, he cheated on me numerous times, moved out of the house numerous times, possibly fathered other children, gave me a cancer-causing STD, disappeared often, hit me, possibly engaged in an escort service, was arrested for fighting a few times, had an alcohol problem, once scared me by talking about murdering one of his girlfriends to make things "right" for us, etc.  During that time, I felt so mentally and emotionally damaged, I could barely think straight.  I couldn't decide whether to leave or not.  I couldn't make decisions.  I would decide to divorce him, then change my mind.  I couldn't tell if I could trust him or not or if he was lying or telling the truth.  I was confused all the time.  I knew I had Biblical grounds for divorce, but the Bible also said to forgive 70 times 7, etc.  I couldn't even tell how I felt or what I wanted.  I once wrote down a list of pros and cons of whether to leave or stay and I filled up page after page.  I had many, many reasons I stayed, but I also had many, many reasons I wanted to go.  For seven years, I lived in a hell of turmoil that I wouldn't wish on anyone.  I was extremely suicidal and went to get help.  I got on some anti-depressants and for the first time, my mind cleared and I was able to think straight.  I finally made the decision to divorce and felt a peace flood over me.  Just when I thought things couldn't have gotten any worse than they had been, they did.

Even though he was living with a girlfriend, he continued to text and call me all hours of the day and night, alternately yelling and screaming and threatening me and then turning around and confessing his undying love and begging me to take him back, sometimes all in the same day.  When I finally started turning my phone off at night, he started showing up at my house in the middle of the night.  I'd answer the door so he wouldn't wake the children, but also because after spending 14 years married to this man, I had a hard time thinking he was a threat.  But after this went on over and over again, I started to see more and more instability in his attitude and behavior.  One night, when I answered the door, I felt an inexplicable jolt of fear and for the first time, I began to think that this man really could hurt me.  I started to wonder if we would end up one of those statistics on TV, the husband who kills his estranged wife, children, and then commits suicide.  I found out later that he was hiding at my house that night because he had tried to strangle his girlfriend and the police were looking for him.  Sometimes when he would show up, he would be angry.  Sometimes, he was crying or very distant and acting suicidal.  He had already spent 5 days in the local mental hospital, and while I thought that that had been more about getting attention, I still believed that there was something wrong with him.

I don't know the extent of his stalking me, but I know he was.  I don't know if he was listening at my windows at night or watching me as I went through my day or following me around or parked down the street from my house, but he knew things he couldn't have known otherwise.  I never saw him or caught him stalking me, which is almost worse, not knowing how he did it or what he saw and heard.

After I signed the final divorce papers, I went out with Scott, who is now my husband.  I have blogged about that night before, so I won't detail it again, but the short version is that he was in my house with the children when I came home.  He had been calling me, threatening to run off with the children.  I had a restraining order, so all of these times he was at my house, I should have called the police.  But, this time he was IN my house and began to shove me around and throw me around.  For a brief second I contemplated the knives that were within my reach, but I knew that if I went that route, I'd have to be prepared to go all the way with it.  I could tell he had a very thin layer of control and was shaking all over.  I could see that even though he was roughing me up, he could do a lot worse and wasn't.  If I pulled a knife, I knew that the control would snap like a rubber band and if I wasn't prepared to use it to stop him for good, he would take it from me and kill me.  And I knew I couldn't do that.  For one, I am squeamish and stabbing is up close and personal.  For two, I didn't think it had escalated at that point enough that deadly force was required.  For three, I couldn't do that in front of the children.  So, I abandoned the thought of the knives.  Sometimes I wonder if I should have.  Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I could have gone through it.  Maybe I would feel better, but I know my kids wouldn't.  Not long after that, he grabbed me by the throat and basically said he would kill me if I didn't tell him where I had been.  I didn't tell him.  I knew that knowing I had been out on a date would not pacify him, it would ramp him up even more.  And, even though I knew what it might cost me, I felt I had to stand up for myself in some small way.  So, I choked out one word: "no!"  The next thing I remembered was hitting the floor and being unable to move for what seemed like an eternity.  I was aware that the kids were nearby, so I assumed they had distracted him or stopped him from what I believe would have resulted in his killing me.  When I was finally able to move, I shoved the kids out the door and we ran and called the police.

He was arrested, but since he hadn't been arrested for the incident with his girlfriend and since I had been dumb in not calling the police for any other time, this was a first offense and he got a slap on the wrist: anger management and probation.  I was scared to death.  Every noise outside made me think he was coming back to finish me off.  I couldn't imagine dropping the kids off at school, praying he wouldn't pick them up and run off with them.  The thought of going anywhere and looking over my shoulder, wondering if he was following, watching, going to kill me terrified me.  He knew all my friends and family and would eventually find me no matter where I went, so I did the only thing I could do: went with Scott to Kansas City to feel safe and to think.

I feel like something broke inside of me that night.  I don't feel like I have ever been the same since.  I had had such a hard time seeing him as a danger since I had lived 14 years with him, but ever since that night, I have a hard time seeing him as anything BUT dangerous.  Sometimes I think I must be overreacting and he's moved on and remarried--he couldn't possibly still want to hurt me.  But, even though I try to convince myself of this, his behavior--his anger and yelling at me nearly every time I try to talk to him--keep that doubt in my mind.  He occasionally has what we call "meltdowns" where he sort of goes off the deep end.  For example, one of these meltdowns included him calling me and leaving me a long suicidal voicemail, apologizing for everything and telling the kids goodbye for the last time, etc.  Those instabilities worry me too about what he is capable of.  I had thought he was calming and was being easier to deal with, but his anger has really escalated in recent months.  I can't talk to him about the kids without him getting angry and yelling. I dread having to talk to him.  He blames me for everything and undermines my authority to the kids behind my back and encourages them to make fun of Scott.

I have had nightmares ever since that night that he is coming back to hurt me or take me.  I have panic attacks.  My chest aches and I can't breathe when I have to talk to him or see him.  I feel like I am shattering into a million pieces.  I would do almost anything to get out of having to deal with him.  I am so relieved when he doesn't show up to pick up the kids, I almost feel giddy.  Some days, I feel like I am a hair's breadth away from a total breakdown or a mental institution.

Not long ago, when he was yelling at me when I tried to talk to him about Billy's behavior, I lost it and started yelling back.  I usually try to keep the peace, not rock the boat, bite my tongue.  But, this time, I couldn't.  I didn't let it all loose, but I couldn't be a doormat any longer.  Immediately I felt better that I had stood up to him, but sooner than I'd have liked, it wore off and I was afraid.

My doctors have diagnosed me with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) and I have been in therapy.  I didn't want to go back to therapy after having gone to counseling off and on for years, but my doctor, whom I highly respect, said, "you have to pull your hand out of the toaster before you can begin to treat the burn."

My therapist used a technique called EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing) this week.  At first, I thought he was nuts for thinking that my eyes following his fingers back and forth would help me deal with this.  I don't totally understand the science behind it, but something about the eye movement activates both sides of your brain and helps you process trauma.  As he had me think about the situation and follow his finger movement with my eyes, the feelings bubbled over and I began sobbing uncontrollably.  Then as he had me think through calming thoughts, I was surprised as I started to feel better.  He had me think about the support I receive from my husband and I thought about how he would never allow me to again be in a dangerous situation with my ex-husband.  That helped me to calm down some--to know that the likelihood of him ever having the opportunity to hurt me again was slim to none.  Then he asked me to choose a safe place I can go to in my mind.  He said it could be a vacation spot or somewhere I have never been or an imaginary place.  My first thought was Heaven.  That is the safest place possible and how could you be any safer than in the Lord's arms.  But, imagining that as my safe place made me cry because it made me terribly homesick.  So, I decided to instead use the beach where we had our cruise.  He wanted me to recall the sounds, the feel, the sights.  I imagined us lying on the warm sandy beach, looking into the crystal clear water, seeing the fish and the ship and the people all having fun.  Safe because it was so far away from my ex-husband with no worries or troubles.  Then I remembered the smell of the BBQ and the sound of the island band playing.  I started to snicker, remembering the band singing, "I shot the sheriff," in their Jamaican accent.  How amazing that I could go from sobbing to giggling in just a few minutes.  I'm sure I am not totally there yet, but maybe this therapy isn't as silly as it originally sounded to me.

I am looking into hiring another lawyer to change the jurisdiction of the case to Missouri since we both left the county we were divorced in.  I am also looking to tweak a few things, such as the pick up location.  We were court ordered to meet at police stations because of the history of domestic violence.  However, he moved out to the middle of nowhere Kansas with no police stations nearby.  He expects us to come to his house to pick the kids up, which I am not comfortable with.  He generously (read with sarcasm) suggested that the only other place he would meet at was the deserted sandlot across the street from his house.  I want to address this issue, along with the child support.  I also contacted the court trustee to inform them that he has moved and has stopped paying child support.  He is supposed to be under their supervision for the next couple of years and if he violates their parameters, he SHOULD go to jail for six months.  I doubt it would happen though.  He has been violating everything all along and they don't do anything about it.

I hate having to go back into a fight, since I don't like to rock the boat.  But, I have to do what I need to do to feel safe.

On Death and Faith

Yesterday at church, I heard the testimony of a man who had grown up in church, just like me. He spoke about how when his devout father died, it shook his faith and caused him to be angry with God and run away from His calling. I had the opposite happen to me when my father died.

As you know, my father died suddenly about four and a half years ago, at the age of 61. To say that his death was unexpected is both true and untrue. He had been not well for a long time, though you never really expect for that to happen. I had tried to prepare myself, somewhat, for his death, but when it happened, it was quite shocking. I won't go into the details because I did that in an earlier post, but I will say that the circumstances of his death were very devastating to me.

My dad was not "devout". He was a Christian and loved the Lord, but he didn't attend church very often. Later in life, this was due to difficulty in getting around, his feet hurt and swelled because of the diabetes. He still sent in his tithe to the church, though, and he read his Bible daily, prayed often, and listened to gospel music frequently. My dad was not a perfect man. When I lived at home, I absolutely hated him. He suffered from depression and was often not a very nice man. We got along much better when we were both older.

The night I found dad dead, I remember lifting my face to the sky and whispering, "I'm sorry, daddy." I knew then that he was in heaven. But, as time went on, I had to really examine this belief. Did I really believe that my dad still existed in some form, somewhere? My brother believed that what was left of him was lowered in the ground at his funeral and that's all there was. My heart broke that my brother had no hope. But, did I? I really searched my heart and soul to determine what I believed. It's easy to say that you believe in God, heaven, Jesus, but do you really when it's put to the test? When someone dies, can you trust them to God until you see them again? I finally decided that I could. I remember standing in church and longing for heaven and home because it now felt like home to me, with someone I loved there.

I still had struggles, of course. I had a sick feeling, thinking of my dad dying alone, choking for breath, struggling. But, my then-husband's foster dad, a missionary who happened to be in town at the time and performed the funeral for me, gave me a wonderful gift. He talked to me about other deaths he had been witnessed. He assured me that in cases of believers, they had all died peacefully and some had even spoke about seeing someone there in the room. He said he believed that either an angel had been in the room or Jesus himself. He told me that he believed that my dad had not been alone. That gave me peace.

I also had struggled with the question of why did my dad die at that particular time? I was doped on medication and forgot to call him. Why did God choose to take him at THAT time? That is a question that I still have and will not have answered until I am in heaven myself. But, that's okay. I have been able to let that question lie dormant. I trust that God had a reason and it does not affect my faith. I am not angry, I trust Him.

The guilt I struggled with for a long time. Sometimes I still feel it, but it's something that I can deal with. The sermon at church yesterday was about guilt. Guilt is something that the devil causes. When we have done wrong, God brings conviction so that we may confess and turn from our wrongdoing. But when guilt comes over something that has been forgiven already or was not our wrongdoing in the first place, it is Satan, trying to bring us down.

None of my struggles over my dad's death ever caused me to doubt my faith. I learned recently that one of my spiritual gifts is faith. I have seen God do too much in my life NOT to believe Him and trust Him. My faith is very strong. And I think it was only strengthened through the fiery furnace I went through when my dad died.

Depression: a Cure and a Cause?

I love my husband...he gently reminds me that I haven't written on my blog in a while. So glad that he is supportive and encouraging of my writing!

Well, update from my last post.... I had thought that was all there was to my little breakdown, but apparently that wasn't it. If you remember my blog from last year, I was finally on some antidepressants that actually helped with no weird side effects or personality changes. But, I lost my insurance and wasn't able to afford them or my doctor anymore. I had hoped that my depression was situational and that once my situation had improved, I would be fine. However, even after I thought I had things figured out and Scott and I had talked about my feelings, I didn't feel better. I would start crying while fixing dinner, for no apparent reason. I felt paranoid and desperate. I have felt sadness too much of my life and I certainly didn't want to waste any more of my life like that. I felt guilty for feeling depressed when I have everything I ever wanted and in all respects, am happy and blessed and content. Maybe my depression is chemical, genetic, or clinical, not just situational. So, I went to the doctor a couple of weeks ago and he gave me a new prescription for my old antidepressants. I am feeling more normal now. The paranoia and desperation are gone, I haven't cried since, and I am enjoying my life much more now. Guess it will be a fact of my life--may have to take the meds for the rest of my life. If that's what it takes to avoid feeling that way...then that's what I will do.

On another note, the kids have been struggling with the selfishness of their dad. He hadn't called or showed up for visitation in over a month. His mother had spoken to me and told me that he had taken off on his girlfriend Mandy that he said he was going to marry last month and that he was with another girlfriend Sarah. He had been telling me that he had been paying child support, but that for some reason it wasn't reaching me. His mom confirmed he was lying and paid a fraction of it (along with his bike payment) to keep him out of jail and collections a while longer. Well, tonight, he finally called the kids. Apparently, he married Sarah and now wants to resume seeing the kids.

I am frustrated on so many levels. It disturbs me that the kids so easily accept that he was going to marry Mandy in April, but married Sarah in May. It is appalling to learn that the kids knew about her and other girlfriends while their dad was living with Mandy. What kind of example does this set for them? How do I combat all of the things they have seen and know and continue to learn at his hands?

There's a deeper ache at how he can blow them off for a month, not so much as a phone call and doesn't bother to give us his phone number so his kids could call him, that they twice expectantly went to the meeting place believing that their dad would show up to pick them up yet leave angry that he cares so little that he not only doesn't show up, but doesn't even have the decency to call and tell them that he can't come this time. And yet, when he calls, all that seems to fade away from their memories and they get excited and exclaim, "Daddy!" or "I love you!" It hurts me (selfish jealousy, I am sure) to be the parent that is always there, doing everything for them, loving them day in and day out, not just when it suits, but to hear on a regular basis that I am a mean mom or "I hate you" or "You are ruining my life," yet he gets, "I love you, daddy! When are you coming to pick me up?" If I feel that way, I wonder how my husband feels, who is daily much more of a dad to my kids than their biological father is. He hugs them at bedtime and tells them he loves them; he provides for their every need (without the help of child support) and many of their wants; he spends his days off eating lunch with them at school, helping out on field trips, or helping me finish decorating their new room; he is there to pick up the pieces when their dad doesn't show up, scooping them into his lap and turning their anger to laughter. I once read a book that had a line in it so profound that I wrote it down: "Kids chase the love that eludes them...Why do kids assume so much from one parent and hold the other to a lower or looser standard? Maybe it's like my old man said, 'You can be a mommy's boy or a daddy's boy, but you can't be both.' So you cling to the one you think you might lose." I believe that was from "For One More Day" by Mitch Albom. I know my kids are smart and that eventually they will see which parent they can trust. But that brings me to my deeper pain. I can deal with the wounds of being mom, but what hurts my heart the most is when they are hurt. I am sure that this will not be the last time that their dad is selfish or blows them off. So, I have to watch them be hurt over and over again and I can't do anything to stop it. A mom's instinct is to protect her children, but when courts get involved, they dictate what is right and wrong for your children. And for courts, it is a black and white, antiseptic, across-the-board decision. Keep on subjecting the abused to the abuser and the children to being rejected by their own father. Oh yes, that's certainly going to be better for their self-esteem than to never have contact with their birth father. The court system has a long way to go before it can claim it operates under "justice".

So, as mom, all I can do is accept the situation and be there for the kids when they need me. Truly, isn't that what all mothers do anyway?

Muck & Mire

I can't put into words the way I have been feeling lately. I won the genetic lottery (sarcasm) when I inherited this depression from my dad. It's not always a black plague, but I am currently in a deep, dark valley. Five minutes ago, as I was trying to sort through it all, I began to whisper this song because it was the only thing that I could think of. Funny though, because, though the lyrics are what I feel, the title is the exact opposite of what I feel like right now. Healing medicine, to hear your deepest feelings expressed by someone else when you can't.

Smile
by Chris Rice

How far are You?
How close am I?
I know Your words are true when I don’t feel them inside
Still I believe You’ll never leave
So where are You now?

You’re all I have
You’re all I’ve known
Your breath is breathing in my soul
Still I am gasping, aching, asking,
Where are you now?

‘Cause I just want to be with You
I dream about Your promise to return
I just want this waiting to be over
And I wake up hangin’ on Your every word
I just want to be with You
For now my feet are planted here on earth
And it helps to know the Day is getting closer
And it helps to know the day is getting closer
But every minute takes an hour
Every inch feels like a mile
Till I won’t have to imagine
And I finally get to see You smile.

My journey’s here, but my heart is There
So I dream and wait, and keep the faith, while You prepare
Our destiny, till You come back for me
Oh, please make it soon!

‘Cause I just want to be with You
I dream about Your promise to return
I just want this waiting to be over
And I wake up hangin’ on Your every word
I just want to be with You
For now my feet are planted here on earth
And it helps to know the Day is getting closer
And it helps to know the day is getting closer
But every minute takes an hour
Every inch feels like a mile
Till I won’t have to imagine
And I finally get to see You smile.

To Perm or Not To Perm, That is the Question

I am debating about whether or not to perm my hair. Life-shattering, world-shaking, big-time important debates here, let me tell ya! Anyways, I've been going back and forth about this for a long time.


Chris liked my hair curly and has often mentioned that he'd like to see it that way again. I had straight hair up until I was in the 5th grade (I think that's when mom took me to have it permed). From then on, I had curly hair. I don't know what happened to my hair after that, but the perms would not relax over time or grow out--my hair stayed curly. I finally started straightening my hair with hair driers with brush attachments when I was around 22. I have been doing that ever since. Nearly ten years of straightening my hair and experimenting. I always had to "do" something to my hair. I couldn't just get up and go. I couldn't just let it dry naturally and go. I always had to "fix" it. Well, in the last couple of years, I had finally gotten my hair to the point where I can blowdry it with the brush attachment and go. I don't have to tease it, spray it, pin it up, etc. I have finally become one of those girls who can run her hands through her hair! I remember my parents teasing me when I was a teenager about how much hair spray I used and how stiff my hair was ("Ouch! I got a splinter from patting you on the head."). Now my hair is long, straight, and product-free!


So why the urge to perm now? Well, for one, sometimes I think with my body type now (I am still trying to lose weight from baby #3), it just doesn't look right on me. For two, now that I have gotten to the point where I don't feel the urge to style my hair, I wonder if curly hair would be easier and I COULD just get out of the shower and go. That's especially been persuasive to me when thinking about going camping. I don't want to be the prissy girl that brings her hair drier to camp out! But, I also don't want to be the frizzy weirdo either. Without the blowdrying, my hair either flattens itself on my head and around my face or it frizzes up and has a slight wave to it. Either way is TOTALLY unattractive! So, I was thinking that maybe I should get it permed, if for no other reason, than that it would be easier to care for when camping.

I am thinking of a loose curl, more of a wave, so I could still blowdry it straight when I want to. But, I am scared. I have spent so many years getting my hair to the point that I actually like it, I don't want to ruin it! Today, for the second time in the last couple of months, I had a stranger tell me I had beautiful hair. I'm afraid that perming it again will ruin me. If I hate it, I'll be stuck again with decades of curls and my hair will have to go through years and years before it will be the same again. Ugh, is it worth it? And what will I really look like? I've tried those makeover programs where you superimpose a hairstyle on your head, but it still looks fake and not the way I would wear my hair.

Ack! Why am I wasting so much time trying to make this stupid decision!? I've been debating this for about a year now. The camping thing is what has intensified my debate. My family reunion/3-day camping trip is coming up in three weeks!


Another aspect of this is that I have long been trying to find a beautician/barber/ hairdresser, whatever you want to call them, that I trust. You constantly hear of women being comfortable at their beauty shop, as though they are among friends. Their stylists know them and their whole families and all of their intimate secrets. I've never found someone like that. And consequently, I believe, I have never liked the results when I walk out of a salon. I absolutely despise going to a salon. I walk into one and feel like an outsider. I don't think I have ever had a stylist that treated me friendly enough that I wanted to go back or ever trust her with my hair again. And my hair does funny things anyways. Any time I get it cut, it's like it goes into shock. It acts like a spaz for several days and I can do nothing with it! It's just unnerving to walk into a salon and have everyone look at you like you don't belong there. My hair is important to me and I hate having to trust it to someone who is unfriendly. Which is sad because I absolutely love to have someone play with my hair. That's better than a massage for me! Yet, trips to the salon (very few and far between) are always a source of stress instead of enjoyment.


I've only known one friend who had a great relationship with her stylist, enough to recommend her to me, but she is too far away for me to use her. So, I suddenly had a great idea. My dad had this lady that he went to for as long as I can remember. I'm not sure why we never went to her. But, she has known our family since I was a child and even bought my parents' house when they separated. And it suddenly dawned on me that I don't even know if she knows that my dad died! So, maybe I can go see her. Maybe with her knowledge of my family, she can be that stylist that I have a rapport with. So, I am thinking of calling her salon to make an appointment with her. I found out that her old salon closed and a new one opened in its place. I inquired about her and found that she had moved to another salon. Now, all I have to do is call and make an appointment. The only question is, will I? I don't know if I can do it! HELP!

{The pictures, from top to bottom: me in the sixth grade ['88-'89] (lovely, huh?), one of my senior pictures ['94-'95] (not too bad if not for the big glasses), me and a baby from church ['97 or '98?], and the last is me today ['08] (couldn't get the full length of my hair in the picture, but it is long!)}

A Dream With An Alternate Ending

I don't usually remember my dreams, but I had a dream about my dad last night. I think it was because we watched a movie last night that really disturbed me. It was Untraceable starring Diane Lane. There were two parts that thoroughly up-ended me (besides the sickness of the murders and torture). The one was the thought that millions of people could be so sick as to tune into a website to not only watch a murder, but actually participate (the premise of the story is that the killer rigged it so that the more people that watched, the faster the person died). I know there are sick people out there, but I think of them as aberrant, not the status quo. Surely in real life there aren't MILLIONS of people who would find that entertaining. I know it was just a movie, but it was the idea and the niggling doubt that disturbed me. The second thing that bothered me was the scene where the FBI are watching one of their own agents being tortured to death. I wanted to weep, even though it was only a movie, to think of having to watch someone you know and love being tortured to death.

I don't know if that was the reason I had this dream or not. But, I can't think of any other reason I would suddenly be dreaming about this close to two years after my dad's death.

Most know the story of my dad's death, so for their sake (& mine) I will try to keep this brief. But I know not everyone will know the story, so let me backtrack just a minute for some background.

My dad died October 10, 2006. Well, that's the official date of death on the death certificate. My dad had been in ill health for a while and had just been in the hospital for his second bout with congestive heart failure a few weeks before he died. I'll try not to assume my soapbox against the VA hospital, but I do blame them. My dad's doctor had taken him off one of his diuretics and his lungs were starting to fill with fluid. I remember visiting him in the hospital and thinking, "What if dad never leaves here again?" Anyways, the ICU cardiologist told dad he needed to be on that diuretic, but when he followed up with his VA primary care doctor, she said, "Who is your doctor? I am your doctor and you will do what I say!" And she took him off of it again. I had been worried about him because he wasn't able to get around like he used to and he wouldn't call me when he needed me, worried I was too busy. I finally got him to let me grocery shop for him and I began calling him every day after he mentioned having a diabetic "episode" where he had lost time and woke up in an odd situation. We were beginning to discuss and look into a retirement community of some sort because I was afraid to have dad living alone. Well, then I got bitten by some weird spider, I guess. I never saw it, but I had the bite on my knee when I woke up. It swelled up to the size of a grapefruit and was extremely painful. I felt like a baby, but my husband insisted I go to the doctor. Turned out I was having a secondary reaction and as I sat in the office, I broke out in a rash from head to toe. They put me on antibiotics, steroids, Benadryl, and Lortabs--that's how painful it was. I was pretty dopey, to say the least.

Anyways, I forgot to call my dad (I think this was a Wednesday). My therapist said that I didn't "forget" my dad, I was just living life and also in a drug-induced stupor. But, my guilty conscience still doesn't buy that excuse. When I did call him and got no answer and no return call (as per our agreement, as an alert to emergency situations), I didn't react in the prescribed manner. I had told him I would show up to check, but I didn't. Whether it was denial that anything was wrong, or denial to spare myself from what my subconscious told me would be a horrible discovery, or whether I was just careless, I couldn't tell you. My brother and I had been playing phone tag. I had wanted him to call to check on dad on weekends, since I often caught up on my sleep on Saturdays and Sundays. But, as we had only left messages for each other, he didn't grasp the importance of actually talking to dad, so when he got no answer, he thought nothing of it (dad often--before our agreement--didn't answer the phone if he was tired or sick and took forever to return calls) and didn't go check either. Finally, on Monday I was more coherent and realized I hadn't talked to dad. I had called later than usual, so when I got no answer, I hoped it was because he was already in bed, so I left a message and waited for the call to be returned. It wasn't. Tuesday, I called once more, then prepared to go check on him. My husband tried to get me to allow him to go, but I refused. I don't know if deep down I was in denial and thought everything would be fine or if I thought it was my duty, or why exactly I insisted on going. It makes no sense to me now. I called my brother on the way, as I was supposed to meet him later. I desperately wanted to ask him to come with me or for him to offer, but I knew I couldn't and neither could he. On the way there, I began thinking of scenarios to explain the lack of contact. When I got there, I knocked and knocked. No answer, so I went back to the car and retrieved my key and my cell phone (apparently amidst all the denial, there was a shred of instinct). I entered and the first sign that I should have stopped right there and called 911 was the smell in the house. But I rationalized that if he had been sick, he might not have taken out the trash. So, I started walking through the house, calling out, "daddy!", so as not to startle him. When I got to his room, I flicked on the light and saw him on the bed and I quickly flicked the light back off and ran sobbing from the room and the house, my fingers fumbling to dial 911. I told them that I KNEW he was dead, but they made me go back in and look again to be sure, in case there was something we could do to help him. I won't go into detail, more for my own sake than yours, but I could tell that he had not recently passed--he was decomposing. I am a squeamish person. Anything dead repulses me. But, that it was my own father was really hard. I couldn't sleep. And then the guilt came. I never thought I could have saved him. I believe that everyone has their time--if I had been standing next to him, I couldn't have saved him. But, I feel guilty that I didn't find him sooner. It makes me feel like a horrible daughter to know that my dad lay there dead for four or five days before anyone noticed. It's also terribly embarrassing.

I tell that story because I think it's relevant to my dream. I think I hated the outcome so much that I dreamed a different one. I dreamed that my dad was alive, but that he was still going to die and we all knew it. It was as if me and my little family were transported back in time--we knew what would happen, but no one else did. Dad was living in a little old house instead of his trailer and he had a cat. He had been at the hospital and was on his way home and I called him because we wanted to come check on him. He didn't want to visit long, but asked if I would take care of the cat and have him a pizza and a drink waiting so he could just eat and go right to bed. I tried to argue that the pizza wasn't good for him, but gave up, knowing that he would die-- what difference would it make? I had to chase the cat to the neighbor's yard. I remember dad sent something to mom (they had been separated for six years). I think it was an article or poem or something he found--something about "wife." It was hard to hug and kiss him goodbye, especially for the kids, since we all knew we wouldn't see him again. And he didn't know. Then my dream had two endings. I don't know if that's how my mind did it naturally, or if I woke a little and decided to change it. It was fresh on my mind when I woke up, so it's likely it was a recent dream. In the first version, we went home and anxiously and sleeplessly waited out the next 24 hours, then I sent my husband to check on him, saying, "I can't do this again," even if he hadn't been decomposing for a few days. The second version, I couldn't wait. I called 911 not long after we left him, said that I suspected my dad was suffering from congestive heart failure, they picked him up in an ambulance, and he died in the hospital, being cared for.

I suspect that if I had been born in another era, I wouldn't have this aversion to death. Don't get me wrong, I don't fear death (not because I think I am invincible, but because I know Someone who is!). I fear dead things and dead people. I fear finding someone I love dead. I fear watching someone I love die. From books I have read, written around the turn of the century, it seems it was commonplace for people to die at home with their loved ones around them. That's not the way it happens most times now. It was natural back then, but now natural to me seems to be dying in a hospital. I am comfortable with the idea of someone dying in the hospital--that seems right to me, so I guess I created an ending that seemed right to me. I hated that my dad died alone, though I am not sure I could have handled watching him die, even in a hospital. I couldn't even be in the room when my cats died. How could I watch my dad die? I pray God gives me strength--I know at some point, I might have to watch my mom or my husband or someone else close to me die. I hope I can be strong enough to hold their hand and not flee the room. Or, I pray God takes me first. Not that I am in a hurry! I'd like to at least see my children raised first. Then, I'm ready.

When I was a kid, I didn't have much experience with death. I was trying to think of how many funerals I went to. I think I was too young to go to my aunt's and my grandma's funerals. I went to my great-grandpa's, my uncle's, a friend's dad's, and I think I recall going to an infant's funeral (someone in our church). None of these people were very close to me. My first real experience with death was Chris' dad, when I was nearly 25. Just before that, we went to Chris' great-uncle's funeral, then Chris' dad's. After that, it seems like a string...my cousin, my aunt, my great-grandma, my other cousin, Chris' grandma, my dad, my uncle, Chris' aunt--there may be more, but they start to run together, sadly enough. That's ten in the last seven years. I am getting more experience than I want to have.

I have actually begun to be thankful that I found my dad. I was the only one in the family to see him like that. I have closure, I have the burden of seeing what I saw and carry it with some measure of peace that I (as the oldest) was the rightful one to find him. I gladly shoulder that burden alone, gladly spare anyone else from that burden, gladly spare dad the indignity of being seen in that condition by anyone else. Even though I struggled and had to go to a psychiatrist and take anti-depressants and still have dreams, I believe that I have more strength than some of my family and was able to bear what others could not. If I sometimes still find myself wanting to call my dad, forgetting if but a moment, the tragedy I witnessed, how much more so would I be in denial if I had sent my husband and never seen dad again? Closed caskets do not afford closure.

I apologize to my readers if this post was extremely depressing. This was cathartic for me. It's hard to have a good day when you wake up with ghosts and guilt. I had to write it out. This form of therapy is much cheaper than a psychiatrist and doesn't leave me as numb as a pill would. Here's to good dreams tonight with a conscience clear and a burden lighter.

Telephonic Invasion and Chick Fights

I have never been much for talking on the phone. I think I inherited that quality from my dad, who never liked to talk on the phone either. Don't get me wrong, I will talk if someone else calls me and be perfectly happy about it, but I am terrible about calling other people. I could blame it on the children and say that I am too busy and there isn't much quiet time to talk on the phone, but I don't think I called that much when I was a teenager either. I talked a lot as a teen, but usually when someone else called me, as I remember it. When I called someone else, I somehow took it personally if they couldn't talk, almost like a rejection. Well, maybe not so much that as I felt embarrassed that I had bothered them. So, from then on, I was afraid to call for fear I would be intruding. I think it's also because I get excited to talk to someone and then if they aren't there or can't talk, I feel a let-down. I don't even like making business related calls. It makes me uncomfortable. I think the reason for that is that I get tongue-tied. I know what I want to say, but once I am put on the spot, I freeze and can't think of the words I had rehearsed. Yes...I sometimes rehearse what I am going to say...don't laugh. I often hang up, only to recall something that I had meant to remark or query, but had forgotten. I am one of the few people that would prefer speaking to a machine, pressing numbers to make choices, or do as much as I can online and with email!

I wish I wasn't this way. I think it makes people upset with me for not calling them and as a result, I wonder if I have lost friends or failed to make friends.

So, for that reason, I don't talk on the phone much. Mostly just to Chris, who calls me several times a day. I talk to my mother maybe once a week (she and my brother like to text me as a rule). Other than that, maybe a few random calls here and there, but nothing regularly and nothing much to speak of. My phone is pretty quiet. The most common ringtone I hear, by far, is the one I assigned to Chris. Sounds sad, but I have resigned myself to it. When I delivered newspapers, I would have nightly chats via a hands-free attachment to my cell phone with a friend who also delivered papers. It was easy to carry on a conversation doing something as menial as flinging papers, there were no children to interrupt, and it kept us both awake. But, after she quit (and me too, not long after), my phone usage went back to sporadic. It makes for cheap cell phone bills! My husband, however, is the exact opposite. He will keep calling people until he finds someone available to talk when he's in a loquacious mood. He spends most of his day with his phone pressed to his ear. When we were first married and I arrived in Germany, where he was stationed, he warned me to use the phone sparingly. They charge per click--which I think was every 6 seconds, if I remember right--even for local calls. Turned out, he was the one to worry about. Most of the calls on the phone bill were his.

All that background aside, I was pleasantly surprised to receive several phone calls in the last couple of days. I had forgotten that I had that ringtone on my phone! Ha, ha. We are hosting a send-off party for Chris' foster parents, who will be moving to Canada later this year to begin their missionary work. We had sent out invitations, with an RSVP plea so we can ascertain whether to expect a few people or hundreds. I had three calls about their party. Then my friend from the newspaper, whom I mentioned in the previous paragraph and had not talked to for some time, called. We spoke for over 45 minutes. We likely would have chatted longer, had my doorbell not interrupted and caused me to have to excuse myself. Then today, Kimmy's friend's father (who is also their gym teacher) returned a call that I had made to his wife regarding Kimmy's upcoming birthday party. That was an interesting call because, while I have met him a couple of times, I was not aware of the fact that he and I had attended the same middle school and high school. So we chatted a bit. The girls were VERY interested in seeing his picture in my yearbook and Arrena has been carrying it around, looking dumbfounded, ever since. I think it's fun when I run across someone I knew long ago or at least crossed paths with. It's amusing to see their picture and know where they came from. I always feel that when people meet me now, they are missing much of the picture, by not knowing who I have been, if that makes any sense.

Anyways, five different callers may not be a big deal for some, but for me it was big-time busy because I usually don't receive that many calls in five MONTHS! And that is in addition to the calls I made for Kimmy birthday and speaking with Arrena's friend's mom about an upcoming sleepover. I feel all talked out now! At least when I was on the phone with my friend, I multi-tasked, doing dishes and cleaning the kitchen, dining room, and my bedroom while I was on the phone. Should have done that during the other calls as well... (Ugh!)

This afternoon, I took the kids to the splash park. For those of you who DON'T know what that is, it's a park with lots of "sprinkler" or fountain-type protrusions that spray the kids with water. My kids love it. There was a bench nearby that had some personal belongings on one end, so I sat on the other end and played solitaire on my phone and watched the kids. Pretty soon, two teenage girls, one teenage boy, and a little girl came back to the bench and I assumed the belongings were theirs. They had been sitting there next to me for a little while and I had paid them no mind until I felt a jolt of the bench. It startled me and I looked up and the two teenage girls had leapt to their feet and had each other in a headlock in front of me. At first, I was dumbfounded as to what was going on. It was just a struggling mass of bodies and I was trying to determine if someone was being assaulted or robbed and if I should step in to assist someone. When one raised her head, I finally figured out that it was the two girls and they were involved in a cat fight. One threw the other down hard on the concrete and I decided that it was time to deliver a brief motherly lecture. I lowered my phone and said, "Y'all need to take this somewhere else, away from all these children!" To my surprise, they acquiesced. They moved off over by the park building in the grass about 100 yards away and proceeded to pummel each other. The little girl was trying to call her mom, but couldn't reach her. Another mother nearby remarked to me, incredulous (and I suspect somewhat appalled), "They are really fighting over there." I just shrugged and said, "At least they went over there."

I used to be the type that minded my own business. I never spoke up, I kept to myself. And I still felt young enough, not to be in a position of authority over other young people. But, I am now of the mindset that it "takes a village to raise a child." In a better world, parents would teach their children to behave, but since that obviously ISN'T the case, I have no qualms anymore about teaching their children myself. Even if they happen to be standing right there. If I, or someone like me, doesn't, who will? Obviously not their parents--and we end up with a very rude and selfish generation.

For example, one day I was waiting for my girls to get out of school and Billy was playing in the sand with some of the other preschool-aged children whose parents were also waiting for older siblings. A couple of the children started to throw sand, which is all the invitation that Billy needs before his thin restraint cracks and he starts grabbing handfuls. None of the parents were making a move to intervene, so I stalked over, snatched Billy up by the arm and scolded the other children, "No throwing sand!" Then I removed Billy from the instigators.

Just a couple of weeks ago, the kids and I were at the YMCA outdoor water park. I was holding Billy and some little boy came by us, way too close, and was thrashing about and hit me hard in the mouth. He didn't mean to, but he was being careless and I was mad. So, I stopped him and said, "You need to watch what you're doing! You just hit me!" He apologized and went away.

So, if you are a parent of one of these holy terrors, don't be surprised or offended if you overhear me telling your child to excuse themselves when they push past us at the zoo or act rudely in any situation which confronts me. My children get the same lecture.

Okay, that gets me all worked up, so I'll close with a picture of Arrena's cactus garden that she made this week. Maybe it will have a calming effect.

Memorial Day

Just thinking of you today, dad, and missing you. It's been one year, seven months, and twenty-one days since you left us and we miss you. I don't go to the cemetery as much as I should, just as I didn't visit you as much when you were alive as I probably should have. But, just as when you were alive, I still think about you often and love you. Sometimes I still find myself about to call you and tell you something. Usually something unimportant. A funny thing I heard on the radio that I thought you would appreciate or something the kids did that would tickle you. We look forward to seeing you again and know that you are in good hands! A song that you used to like just popped into my head: "I'm gonna let glory roll when the roll is called in glory. I'm gonna get beside myself when I get beside the King that day. I'm gonna have the time of my life when the time of my life is over. I'm gonna get carried away when I get carried away." I imagine you sitting in the best gospel concerts you've ever heard--nothing like what's heard on earth--and getting so tickled, you're laughing and wiping tears away, clapping your hands, and tapping your foot. Sometimes I see you surrounded by your mom, dad, and Donna. Sometimes I envy you. Have a blast, dad! I'll see you when I get home.