Transition from Mom to Grandma

I'll be a grandma before I turn 40. I need some cool ideas for a name other than grandma - anything but grandma. I'm way cooler than that! Memaw? Granny? Gma? I guess my granddaughter will decide! Leave your ideas in the comments!!

Marcus and I have always had a strong bond. Sometimes it's felt like me and Marc against the world. For almost 8 years, it was just he and I. Then there was my ex and then there wasn't again. So he's my sidekick. My favorite oldest son. I've done my best and questioned my best and wondered if my best was best enough. I'm still second guessing!

So this next step is filled with mixed emotions. Happiness and a little sadness. Excitement and a little anxiousness. Pride and worry.

He's grown up so much in the last 6 months. Working full time at a decent job with decent pay and full benefits. Making tough decisions - like missing a family vacation to work, buying a reliable car instead of the truck he wants, paying his bills instead of going out. All the things we all have to do as we grow up. As a parent, sometimes we get frustrated with our kids and wonder if they'll ever grow up and be responsible and then one day, they do. I know there will be lots more growing up to do but he's off to a great start and I'm proud of the man he's becoming.

And now today, he begins to move away from home to his first little apartment. It's exciting. I remember my mom helping me. Buying me little things for the kitchen, my first set of towels, giving me her decorations she didn't want anymore - everything to make it feel like home. And now I get to do the same thing. I'm so happy for them.

But I'm on the verge of tears too. He's my baby and he's leaving. Wow, that went really fast. Wasn't I just changing diapers? Waiting for him to say "momma" for the first time?

So now I get to be excited about Sunday dinner at my house. My dad did that when I first moved out and I miss it so much. Now I get to make that tradition. I'll make their favorites and spoil that baby. Now baby can come visit grandma instead of living with grandma.

But now I worry...what if they need me? It's their first child. Do they know what to do? Can I protect them? What if the baby cries and they need an extra set of arms....? what if what if what if. . . by now you should be getting a good idea of the mixed emotions.

The truth is even with my fears, I realize they're unfounded. I'm just a few short blocks away and they're responsible young adults. They'll have growing pains, I'll get the calls asking what to do about this or that, I'll miss them. But this is what's supposed to happen. He should be moving out. They should want their own place. It's all part of the process and I'm so thankful I raised him like I did. My role is changing a bit and I'm pretty excited about this step. I have a feeling they won't be the only ones with a few growing pains. (Is it acceptable to still ask him to check in? Can I still text him a few times a day telling him I love him? How often is too often to tell him I miss him? How do I make sure I'm not "that" mother-in-law?)

Oh, and about that bucket list - I threw Jyni a wonderful baby shower. I took pics but deleted them (dummy!!). It turned out wonderful and she was spoiled with cute pink frilly outfits, lots of diapers, and plenty of blankets. If there's one thing this granny can do - it's throw a party!!

All Mixed Up and Sideways

I broke the news with you a few weeks ago that I was going to be a grandma and it's been a roller coaster of emotions since.

At first, I was so upset. Not mad but maybe a bit disappointed. My son is a senior and we've talked often over the years about doing things the "right" way.

That lasted about two seconds because...well, let's face it...there's not much I can do about it now. So then I quickly moved on to acceptance. Ok, let's make a plan.

And acceptance led to joy. I mean, c'mon, it's a baby. Marc's. Jyni's. It's family. Flesh and blood.

Joy led to dreams as I envisioned the things I would knit. The quilts I would make. The clothes I would buy. The toys I'd gift.

And then the unthinkable...Jyni started to have some troubles. Signs and symptoms I know all too well, intimately. Signs of a miscarriage.

Bam, bringing back some memories there. I had one heck of a time getting pregnant between my two boys. Actually, I got pregnant just fine. I had a hard time staying pregnant. And my heart broke each time.

So as I tried to help this young woman through it, I hurt. I know timing was terrible (senior year, 18, young, new relationship) but it doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

And man, it's really hard watching Marc go through it. He's upset. He's trying to cheer her. He's just trying. But he hurts.

So I'm not going to be a grandma in April and Marc and Jyni won't be parents. And I hope they do the things they need to stay young and carefree just a little longer. There's plenty of time for grown up things...arguing over bills, being broke, doctors appointments, who's going to get up for the 2 a.m. feeding, finding babysitters, and arguing over what kind of car they want/need. Say a little prayer for my family please:)

Grandma - Say What????

I've lost track of the number of times Marc and I have had "the talk." I always figured it would be his dad that had the talk but nope, it was me. We talked STDs. We talked pregnancy. We talked love and marriage and babies and such.

I scared him. Do you want AIDS?

I explained. Pregnancy doesn't ruin your life but it sure makes it more difficult.

I took the high road. It's important to be a good boyfriend and eventually spouse.

I've shared my own struggles as a "too-young mom" - pregnant at 19, unwed.

I've been honest, straightforward.

And now I'm going to be a grandma.

My son is 18 and a senior in high school. His girlfriend is 18 and graduated in June. By the time he turns 19 and before graduation, he'll be a dad. She'll be a mom. And I'll be a 39 year old grandma.


Deep breath.

I'm not the first person in this situation but boy did I feel alone when he first told me. Of course, my initial thought was "Oh s$**" while my mouth said, "Ok, what's the plan?" Because really at this point, what else can I do? Support and love them.

And get excited. I always wanted to be a grandma (at like age 60). Instead, I will be a youthful grandma with lots of energy.

Now my role has changed a bit. Now I find myself reminding him of the responsible decisions. Don't call into work or school. You need to first, graduate and second, get to work. It's weird to guide a boy through pregnancy. It's not about how should he be eating and to keep exercising and to rest often. It's about offering support. Being a good boyfriend. Being there for her. Saving money. Making a plan.

In essence, I'm helping my son go from being a great man to being a great (basically) husband. And planning a wedding for next summer. Making room for momma to move in and baby eventually. Guiding. Mentoring. Teaching. And trying not to meddle (big surprise, I might be THAT mom).

So in essence, now that the shock has worn off. I'm thrilled. It's exciting really. It's going to be bumpy and rocky but it'll all be ok.

Back to School

Marc - first day of Senior Year

I love fall. Back to school. Football. Leaves changing. Boots. Jeans. Sweaters. Cool, crisp mornings. I love it.

This year, Marc is a senior. I teared up a little when I realized I was taking his last "first day of school" photo.
Marc has disliked school from day one and it's been a chore to get him to this point. He's so smart. Hates school. I can't wait to watch him march in his cap and gown.













Then there's Nate who absolutely loves school. He's a big 5th grader this year. Couldn't wait to see who was in his class and what his teacher was like.










Of course, Fall means that I'm spending my time with football. Awwwww, love!! While at practice, I've discovered the best hobby - knitting!!! Portable, fun, and functional!! I made a super cute Ducks colors scarf to wear to Nate's games! Go Ducks!!!

On Being Mom

From a very early age, I remember wanting to be a mom. I had my baby dolls and I'd dress them, swaddle them in blankets, and tuck them into bed. I'd take them for a stroll in a baby carriage. I named them. It was always names I thought I'd name my kids...Chelsea, Heaven, Xavier. I just knew I'd be a great mom.

Now that I'm a mom, I doubt every single day whether or not I'm a great mom. I get wrapped up in all the things moms feel guilty about. I should have stayed home instead of worked. Did I teach you the right life skills? Did I nourish your creativity? Did I instill confidence? Did I read you enough bedtime stories? Did I play enough cars and trucks?

The one thing I NEVER doubt is that I have amazing sons. Strong and masculine yet sensitive enough to not be jerks. Kind-hearted. Intelligent. Responsible. Funny. Capable. My world. When I look at them, I feel like I did something right. The phrase "my pride and joy" makes sense. Being mom to Marc and Nate is the best thing I've ever been.

Me and Nate headed out for ride #1

They spoiled me rotten this Mother's Day. It was darn near the perfect day. I woke to breakfast, a pedicure and a manicure, gifts. I relaxed watching tv, read a book, and went on three bike rides (I got a new bike so we had to break it in). Then dinner (crab-stuffed, bacon-wrapped shrimp and a yummy salad). Then some cuddle time. Lots of smiles and time together.

Me and my boys!!

We also celebrated prom #2 this weekend. Marc's girlfriend goes to a different high school so off they went to dance the night away.


This time, I decided to attempt to make her corsage. I think it turned out great. 

Me and my little sis with my mom and dad

Of course, what would Mother's Day be without a few words about my own momma. She's loving, kind, thoughtful, and always there for me. She taught me to cook, laugh, clean house, and take care of myself. She taught me how to be a good person and a great mom. She taught me what it means to love your kids unconditionally. She taught me to forgive. She's taught me to be nice to everyone I meet and how to be respectful even around those people you dislike. She's taught me generosity and to do for others. My mom has the best laugh and a smile that can warm a room. She makes friends in the grocery store and knows everyone. She taught me the best things in life can't be bought. I love her! I hope some day my boys say the same things about me. 

39 by 39 - Do Something Awesome for Marc's Birthday & Get a Tattoo

Big surprise!!!

My now-adult son and I disagree on what is awesome when it comes to birthday celebrations! I know, I'm as shocked as you are.

Leading up to his birthday, I've been overcome with mixed emotions. Happiness. Pride. Sadness. Irritation (c'mon you mean your teen doesn't irritate you??). You name it - I've felt it.

at left: one week; at right: 18

Of course it's led to some reflection and it's interesting how twisted your emotions get:

How the heck did those 18 years just fly by?

You can't leave yet - stay home.
Ok, you're 18, get out. (he's not graduating yet so he's stuck with me but there's days lol)

I'm proud of the young man I've raised.
Did I do enough? I mean, he still doesn't do his own laundry.

I'm not old enough to have an adult son. I mean, it feels like I just graduated high school myself.

Needless to say overall I'm really excited and proud but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little sad.

Me and Marc this week

So I've been thinking of ways to celebrate the milestone. Pinterest had my convinced I should fill his room with helium balloons carrying pictures of him that represented every year of his life. (except I have no time and I scrapbooked them and they're put away and I'm too busy to pull them out). And that I should have made a quilt using all the baby clothes and tshirts I've saved over the years (except I didn't save them because I'm not a hoarder). And that I should give him a wonderful journal I've kept over the years in which I'd written down every cute thing he's ever said or did (except that those memories are mixed in with the rest of my journal and I'm not ready to give that to either boy yet). And of course that I should give him some awesome gift like a car (except I'm broke) or an heirloom like grandpa's watch (except that he's sort of irresponsible with tangible things right now so I think that's best for when he's a little older).


Suffice it to say, I was feeling like a failure for not doing something fantastic and nostalgic and memorable.

Then I was reminded he's an 18 year old boy who wants to hang with friends and he isn't on Pinterest so he doesn't know what he's missing:)

So here's what I did instead. I booked his tattoo appointment for his first tattoo. And guess what???

Marc and I finally agreed on what is awesome for your 18th birthday!

Stenciled on, it's about to get real!!

Adam (tattoo artist extraordinaire) doesn't look too happy at my photo snapping habit. Adam's really cool though and was fun to visit with while Marc got inked.

Side note: Marc must have asked about 400 times if it was going to hurt. He asked if anyone had passed out...the look on his face was priceless when Adam said dozens have passed out but only one has ever died. LMAO!!

No turning back now!

And the final product. An elk with R.I.P. Mason. Marc lost his best friend Mason a few years ago in a terrible accident. He's wanted this tattoo ever since. He originally wanted big graffiti letters that said RIP Mason but I helped guide him to an idea he loved even more. He and Mason shared a love of hunting.

first ink!

 And because we had an hour left in the scheduled time, Adam agreed to give me a bonus tattoo. I've always wanted the boys' zodiac signs. And now there they are. On my wrist. I love it!

After tattooing, I cooked dinner for a crazy bunch of kids that I love. Tri-tip, potato salad, garlic bread, and Marc's favorite strawberry dessert. The kids were nice enough to let me take their photo before dinner!

Happy birthday Marc!!

Took a Deep Breath and I'm Back

It's easy to get so focused on the negative that we forget all the positive. For example, I beat myself up a lot for the things I think I've done "wrong" - you want examples?

• divorced....twice
• my oldest son's rocky relationship with his dad
• my oldest son's absent bio dad
• the fact I don't have a lot of money and sometimes have to tell my kids no

We'll just stop there. 

As my regular readers will know, life threw me a curveball when Roy (aka bio dad, aka first husband) appeared after more than a decade's hiatus. I retreated, took many many many deep breaths, prayed, and allowed myself to feel every stupid emotion that came with it. And I'm coming out on the other end feeling pretty good about me.

Here's my realizations:

My divorces weren't all my fault - it takes two. My life would be very different had I stayed married and not in a good way.

Marc's relationship with his dad is not my fault. As a matter of fact, I've encouraged him to try. I've tried to give his dad some help. I've done what I can and will continue as appropriate.

Roy giving Marc up for adoption was a good thing, the right thing, and Roy had more than enough opportunities to be in his life.

It's okay for kids to hear no to requests for money and material things once in a while.

I'm not the same person I was 18 years ago when Roy and I married and I'm thankful for that!

Oh I could go on and on but I won't. I will say it's very weird to reconnect after more than a decade with someone you were intimate with. On one hand, your head knows they'll have changed (for better or worse) but with a decade's absence, you still think of them the way they were x number of years ago. It's surreal. It's also interesting the way memories have changed. I remember something he's forgotten and vice versa.

Anyway, enough of that. Life's good!

A Thirteen Year Reunion

Three words to make my stomach roll....

"This is Roy."

And an instant to recognize the voice. Thirteen years come rushing back, bringing with them a slew of emotions I thought I'd buried, memories I thought I'd forgotten, and anger I didn't expect.

It's been thirteen years since I spoke to my first husband, Marc's dad. I haven't seen him or spoken with him. At first, I wondered what he was doing or how his life was but thirteen years later and I rarely think of him. He only crosses my mind when Marc makes a face that he'd make or says something he'd say.

As you might remember, Marc asked me a few months ago to find him. I did some internet research, called a buddy at the Police Department there, and found him still mostly in and out of jail for petty things. I was disappointed at that time that his life hadn't turned out better. In my fairy tale, he'd cleaned up, made great decisions, re-married with wonderful kids, and was the great guy he had the potential to be.

I have prepared myself for years for this day and here it was.

It's been an emotional roller coaster since Friday.

I sat down for the ride as I recognized his voice. Fell to the floor in tears to be exact. Unable to breathe. Catching my breath.

As he explained that he only wanted to see Marc if I thought timing was okay, I felt some optimism. I was excited for Marc. Marc has such great memories of him and maybe this is what Marc needs. He told me about his life in a nutshell. He says he's been clean two years and has a great job. He sent me photos. He looks older but much the same. He'd say the same about me, I'm sure.

I won't lie...I held my breath as the photos came through. I loved Roy, something I don't admit readily. I'd prefer people to think it was pure lust and stupid decisions. I don't want to admit I'm capable of falling in love with someone like him. Truth be told, I've never given my heart like I gave it to him. He broke it and it's just never been the same. Oh I've loved, I love still, but not like that. It happens to each of us...our first heartbreak changes us. But that's another story for another time.

I decided to let him and Marc talk. Truth be told, I wasn't sure he wouldn't try to reach Marc on facebook and I figured letting them talk allowed me a bit of control.

So on the way to Portland, while Marc was stuck in the car with me, I broke the news. Marc cried and my heart broke just a bit more. I gave Marc the number and they quickly began texting. It KILLED me not knowing what was being said. Thankfully, Marc shared the conversation with me. I was feeling pretty good at this point.

I was embarrassed as I found myself wondering if he'd missed me or thought about me. Or were his thoughts reserved for Marc? It doesn't even matter and now I was mad at myself for caring.

By Saturday, I was getting irritated, again something I don't want to admit to Marc.

Why is he worthy of being called dad? He hasn't cleaned up puke, had to ground Marc when he misbehaves, argued with Marc over doing homework, been there when he broke a bone, or held him while he cried.

He told Marc he misses him. He doesn't even know him. He didn't want to pay child support so signed away his rights. He hasn't had to figure out how to help Marc buy a truck. Or what about those times I ate ramen noodles so that Marc could eat healthy meals because I didn't have enough money to feed us both. Of course he misses him. His parenting experience amounts to taking a cute little 1, 2 or three year old fishing, to Chuck E. Cheese, or to the park to feed ducks. I miss that too.

And then I get irritated they're on the phone. My brain reminds me that they've got thirteen years of catching up to do but my heart is a little jealous that Marc's not talking to me during that time (yes, I acknowledge that he'd probably be playing video games and not talking to me either). It boils down to a certain amount of insecurity. I'm second fiddle right now and I'm not liking it.

And dammit, I'm not in this for recognition but c'mon....who's been by your side kid since the moment you were born? Who's never left? Who's provided? Who's pinched pennies, scraped change, and made sure you have everything you need? I can tell you it wasn't Roy.

So by Sunday I was just a little angry.

And this morning, I'm angry, irritated, happy.....and insecure about my looks. Really?? WTF? It started last night as he made plans to come visit and all of a sudden I was thinking of the times he cheated and told me I'd let myself go. Now I'm going to worry about how much I weigh and my gray hair and now I'm doubly irritated. All that really matters is I raised an amazing son but I'm worried I'm not attractive.

So, now I'm torn between feeling justified in my feelings and feeling a little selfish (I've managed to make this all about me now haven't I??). I'm hopeful that this is the right thing to do but I also worry about Marc's heart. I'm just praying that this works out. In the meantime, I'll retreat inside my head and work through all these emotions and most importantly, support Marc during this time. 

Nate Turns Ten!

Ten years ago today, Nate entered the world and instantly became my favorite youngest son. It had been Marc and I for nearly 8 years (oh and of course Chad for two of those 8) and now Marc was a big brother and I was mom of two beautiful boys.

It had been a rough road. In two years, I'd had many many miscarriages. Just 11 months before Nate entered the world, I'd had an ectopic pregnancy that ruptured, sending me to emergency surgery and a few nights in the hospital. I left with one less ovary and one less fallopian tube and a heavy heavy heart. Here's a confession: I was convinced God was punishing me for having two abortions in my early 20s. I was convinced I would never have more children. 

Just two months after my surgery, I discovered I was pregnant again. I braced myself for the worst. I made it through my first trimester and was on cloud 9. 

Right away, I knew this baby would challenge me. When I was pregnant with Marc, I craved fruits and vegetables and literally only had morning sickness one time. Pregnant with Nate...I had morning sickness, afternoon sickness, night sickness. . . there wasn't a time I wasn't sick. I got car sick driving two blocks to work. And boy did I crave junk food!! We won't discuss how many whoppers and french fries I ate during those nine months. But it was all worth it....I was going to have another baby. 

I argued with the doctors who set my due date as the first part of February. They obviously couldn't count....this baby would be born in January. The first week in January, they discovered that he weighed 8 lbs and they decided they should induce labor. And that's when Nate's stubborness began to show....for five days they tried and still he wouldn't come. 

And then at 7:30 pm on the 15th, my beautiful baby boy entered the world. They took him to clean him up and he screamed....his lungs definitely worked. Weighing in at 8 lbs 12 oz. 

It was amazing at first to me how different he was from Marc. Marc was calm, slept through the night at a month old. Nate cried, slept an hour or so here and there, and ate ALL the time! 

And now that little baby is turning 10! He surprises and challenges me. Where Marc is just like me, Nate is my opposite. He's loud, outgoing, energetic, analytical, and organized. He loves routine. He loves to entertain. He'll dance for you, act for you, and make goofy faces. He has the most amazing imagination. He says funny things. He has a memory like an elephant. He's moody and can be a little grumpy. He is witty. 

But then there's times I think he's just like me. He loves time alone. He loves to write. He loves to read. He loves to create. He has a heart as big as the sun. He's smart. 

But mostly, he's his own person. A beautiful person. A wonderful person. And I love him to pieces for all of it. Happy birthday Nate!

Sleigh Bells Ring...

Imagine a field covered in pure white snow - not a single track save for an animal or two. Thousands of ice crystals blanket the ground, sparkling from the sunlight. The sun shining above and the deep blue sky contrasts with the white snow. All of this framed by majestic mountains and lots of trees.

Percheron horses stand in the snow

Big Percheron horses stand ready to pull a sled. The sled is filled with hay bales and a big fire glows, read to warm 20 to 30 people. It's a peaceful scene, save for the 10-15 kids ready to ride the sled around the field. The kids are bundled up, throwing snowballs, dunking each other in the snow. The adults stand around the fire, drinking hot chocolate and homemade peppermint schnapps or coffee with homemade Kahlua. Big pots of chili warming by the fire. The adults are visiting, the kids are laughing - when the family patriarch Joe steps up and grabs the reins. Kids pile on the sled, a few of the adults leave the fire to join the ride. 

The sled lunges forward as the horses take off. They find their groove and make the first cut into the snow. The kids are smiling, pushing each other off the back of the sled - running to catch up and get back on. The sled makes several passes through the field. The kids are frozen, the adults are happy.

This is one of my favorite Christmas memories.

Growing up in beautiful southwestern Colorado, our family was lucky enough to call the Kolz family friends. They welcomed us as if we were family and every December, invited us to their place for sled rides and fun. Twenty to thirty of us would gather to ring in the holiday season.




Thinking about the Kolz family and these magical days always puts Christmas into perspective for me. It's easy to get stressed about whether I've bought enough, done enough, been perfect enough.

And then I smile and realize that my favorite Christmas memories have nothing to do with presents. It's about memories.

Let me share a few others:

• My grandparents lived in Oregon and one year, we drove through the night (at least that's the way it seemed) to surprise them. We knocked on their door and I'll never forget the look on their faces. Mom swore we'd never surprise them again...she was afraid they'd have a heart attack. 
• My other grandma lived in Tuscon. Grandma Carmen wasn't always the nicest and she didn't give the best gifts. But we'd drive for hours - my sister and I in the back seat, reading our Archie comic books, singing Christmas Carols, reading road signs, and eating a lot of junk food. The year my sister learned to read was also the year I got my first tape recorder. We made my grandma a tape for Christmas. From Colorado to Tuscon, I sang songs in my little 8 or 9 year old voice while my sister recorded herself reading every single road sign for miles and miles. A few years ago, my aunt gave me the tape and I smiled as I listened to it. A moment in time captured forever....my sis's little voice proud to be reading, my voice proudly singing before anyone took away my confidence. 
• Stockings were always a big deal in our family. To this day, it's my favorite part of the present process. My mom would fill our huge stockings with goofy toys, nail polish, lip gloss, candy and other silly little trinkets. Our stockings would be over flowing while my mom's hung empty. One year when I was about 10, my sister and I talked about the injustice - mom never had anything in her stocking. With no money, we whipped up a plan to fill it up. We scoured the house for treasures. We found lighters mom had lost. Pens that had been lost in the couch cushions. We drew pictures, wrote her notes....and we proudly filled that stocking with our home's lost and found treasures. 
• My first Christmas with Marcus - he was 8 months old. I remember his smiles and giggles as he played in the wrapping paper. Crawling around on the floor, sticking bows to his forehead and climbing up on my lap with the biggest grin. 
• My second Christmas with Chad - I was in recovery from a tubal pregnancy that had ruptured, resulting in emergency surgery. I was depressed, lost inside myself, and focused more on the baby I lost than the family I had. Chad and Marcus went out one day, leaving me alone. They returned with the biggest Christmas tree I'd ever seen in my life. It literally filled half our living room. They turned on the Christmas music and set about to cheer me up. 

I know I'm forgetting some but every year, a few days before Christmas, I want to run out and buy more things. I want to spend the last few dollars I have to buy more. And then, I put everyone in bed, turn off all the lights except for the Christmas tree, sit on the couch with a cup of tea, and think back on my favorite Christmas memories. And I am reminded that Christmas doesn't come in a box. Merry Christmas everyone! 

Thankful #16, #17, #18 - Traditions, Grandparents, and My Stepdad

I grew up in southwest Colorado. . . a beautiful place that I still hold dear. It was there that I grew up hunting with my dad. Dad had good friends that came every year from Tennessee. They'd show up right around Halloween and I would wait with excited anticipation. I loved their southern drawl and how polite they were. They always brought me a big box of suckers. I loved the way my dad laughed with them. I got to see a different side to my dad when they were there. He wasn't just my dad, he was a man with friends.

Dad would eventually ask me if I wanted to go along. I'd wake up early in the morning and head out into the cold, frosty morning. It was dark and I'd be bundled up. I'd climb in the cab of my dad's Ford, rest my head on his shoulder, the heater blowing on me and fall asleep until we got there. I'd clamber out of the truck, saying a little prayer I'd get to be with my dad when he got his animal. We'd walk out...we could see our breath. We'd walk and walk and then find a spot to sit. Usually under a tree. Dad would pull out the thermos and give me a hot cup of coffee. We'd eat disgusting snacks like Vienna sausages and squeeze cheese. Just dad and I sitting, waiting. I'd work really hard to be as quiet as I could. But it always happened, without fail...eventually dad would tell me to sit still and be quiet. I hadn't talked but my coat would make swish-swish noises when I moved. Or my apple would crunch as I bit into it. Or eventually, I'd be humming some song in my head without realizing it.

Then my parents divorced and we moved to Oregon with my mom. We started hunting with her family and it was a little different. Everyone camped out at "Doe City." There'd be dozens of campers/tents in a circle with a central firepit. My grandma and some of the older ladies would have spent the week before making goodies - cookies, brownies, and patsies (kind of like pie crust filled with meat and cheese and potatoes). Old and young gathered around. Everyone came together for dinners around the campfire and the stories would begin. Grandpa would recall a story of the "big one" or a funny story about someone not hitting their target or stories about the Indians he remembers from growing up. My uncles would share stories, mom would tell hers. Us kids would sit around and listen - at times rolling our eyes but always a little enthralled. I knew Indians had roamed but it seemed so inconceivable that my grandpa would have firsthand knowledge.

Eventually, my uncle would "throw the bones" - he'd toss the elk teeth from hunts past and "foretell" the future - who would be the first to tag out. And then the men would decide who was going to which ridge and who was walking, who was on a stand, etc. We'd be in bed early, up at the crack of dawn, and hiking, hiking hiking.

I was always torn. I wanted to hunt and hike but I loved being at the camp with grandma. Sitting around the fire, helping prepare dinner, keeping the fire going and reading a book until everyone returned. I'd take the fourwheeler for a ride occassionally, search out pretty rocks near camp, and read my book in the cool Autumn air while the fire crackled and popped.

Now my sons have grown up knowing this same tradition. Marc enjoys the outdoors and would hike, fish, hunt, and camp every second of every day if he could. This year, he drew an elk tag and was excited to hunt with his great-grandpa.

Great Grandpa and Marcus 

They headed out opening morning and were at home, tag filled by 10 a.m. His smile was priceless. He was giddy with excitement and so proud of himself.

I smiled and the tears welled up in my eyes as I watched him skillfully care for his animal. He's been taught well and I was proud of this moment. But I was also so happy to watch my grandfather (his great grandfather) teach him a few things. Grandpa was proud of him too. I watched them joke and banter back and forth and felt so blessed that my son is lucky enough to know my grandparents - his great grandparents. Thankful for this tradition that gives my grandpa's generation a chance to bridge the gap and come together with my son's generation. My grandpa's generation who don't waste, who knew what it's like to go without, who remembers a time without electricity compared to my son's generation who doesn't know what it's like to go without, who can't imagine life without electricity and who sends photos of his elk to all his friends from the top of a mountain via text message - one of thousands of text messages he'll send in a day.

Me and Marc before his shower (ick)

We retreated to the warmth of grandma's house and listened as grandpa, Marc, my brother-in-law, sister, and mom retold the story of the hunt. They laughed and smiled. Grandpa teared up talking about the experience. We drank coffee while grandma fed us (the way my grandma shows love).

My grandparents, me, and Nate and Paige

The little kids ran around and played. Running around the ranch, playing make believe, running from soldiers or wild animals. Mining for "gold" in the side of the hill just down from grandma and grandpas house. Coming in for a piece of chocolate pie because they know Great Grandma won't tell them no. They come in covered with dust, their cheeks flushed from the cold weather and running around like little banshees.

My mom and Nate

And there's my #16 thankful - traditions and my grandparents. Traditions help us bridge those gaps, they give a sense of continuity. They develop over time and help us relate to eachother.

Combine tradition with my grandparents and you get my #17 thankful - my wonderful, beautiful grandparents.














And then you get to my #18 thankful - my stepdad. He's got the biggest heart even for me. I'm embarassed to admit how much I need my parents at this age and I sometimes hate that I've needed their help as much as I have but I'm so thankful to have him.

a blog I wrote about my stepdad in 2011

What a great weekend! I hope you are as blessed with an amazing family as I am!

Paige helps me make breakfast

Nate and Liam at the playground

Oh, remember my post about my grandparents' story being the best love story ever told? Here's the photo of them together when they weren't married yet. Look how cute they are! 

Grandma and Grandpa and they weren't married yet

Thankful #13 - My Mom

I don't understand to this day how my mom can love me and how she's forgiven me. But when I look back, I see that she's taught me how to be the mom I am today. She's taught me how to love through the hard times. Love them even when I don't like them. Forgive the hurtful "I hate you's." Be their rock. Be strong. Be caring. Be there for them through thick and thin. I owe her a lot . . . and probably not the least of which is an apology.

Over the years, I've shared bits and pieces of my high school years. I've shared with you how my stepdad sent flowers on Valentine's Day. You may have heard me say I was a trouble kid. You've probably heard bits and pieces but today, let me confess what an awful teenager I was. . . 

This story starts with a boy (so cliche!). . . The story starts on Valentines Day my sophomore year.

Him: "T" had been in my chemistry class all year. He wasn't as good looking as say Vince Neil or Bret Michaels but he was still very cute. And he was (can you guess....) a bad boy. He got kicked out of class for being a smart ass. He made jokes that my naive self didn't understand. He made me giggle uncomfortably. He was dangerous. He was sarcastic. As the year went on, he sat closer to me. And closer. And soon, was writing me notes. 

Me: I was the good girl. The straight A student. The nerd. The teacher's pet. The girl who had never been grounded. I'd been in trouble once in 5th grade that I could remember. I was naive. And interested in the boy who was so unlike me. 

On Valentine's Day, I received a balloon, flowers, and chocolate covered cherries with a note asking if I'd "go out" with him. Of course, my answer was yes. For a month, "T" and I "went out." Except we didn't. He'd occasionally invite me and my girlfriends to the deli across the road where he'd mostly ignore me. A month into our relationship, I broke up with him. 

If only it ended there. 

About a week after I broke up with him, "T" got expelled for selling acid at school. I was shocked. A little sad. Even though I'd broken up with him, I appreciated his attention in chemistry class. Three days after his expulsion, "T" sent me the first letter via our good mutual friend. I sent one back. Then I got another. And I replied. And before I knew it, we were "going out" again. Although he was on house arrest, doing community service, and so couldn't really "go out." 

And there's where I made my first of a long list of bad decisions. I snuck out and over to his house. Crawled through his bedroom window. He played a song just for me (You Really Got a Hold On Me by Smokey Robinson) and we danced in his bedroom, quietly while his parents slept. I should have known that night that "T" was going to be bad news. I'll spare you all the details but "T" had some hangups. I should save myself for him till marriage. He proposed my sophomore year with a ring he'd stolen from work. We dated until my April my senior year - you'll learn more about that in a few.  Enough about "T" - he's a troubled soul. 

Let's get to my mom and I. Mom tried to break us up. She failed miserably. "T" threatened to hurt my family. And I of course thought he'd change because I loved him. Mom grounded me. Took away my phone privileges. Busted me sneaking out. Busted me sneaking in. She talked to me. She cried. She screamed. She sat on me once and refused to let me leave. 

So I ran away. And then ran away again. And when the cops made me go back, I did it again. My mom called my dad who flew to Oregon to take me back with him. I called abuse and said my dad was an alcoholic. I went to a foster home (funny thing, until this moment, I'd forgotten about the foster home). The foster home was awful. The other girls were mean. I missed my parents. I missed T. I hated it. I went home and ran away again. 

That time, my mom didn't fight. For the next year, I ignored my mom. If I saw her at the store, I'd pretend she was a stranger. I said horrible awful things about her. 

She moved to a different town and I stayed put. I made more (and worse) decisions than sneaking out to meet T. I didn't call her. I didn't speak to her. It was as if I was an orphan. 

And then my relationship with T got worse. I wanted to leave but I was afraid. I didn't know how to get out. I didn't have any family around me. I panicked and did the only thing I could think of. I went to the police and confessed all my sins (and in the process all of T's). Some of you may call me a rat and I'd agree. But remember I was a scared 17 year old girl who didn't see any other options. 

From the police station, I picked up the phone to call the woman I'd hurt. My mom that I had ignored. My mom that I had blamed. The mom that I was trying to protect. I didn't know if she'd answer. I wasn't sure she'd be there to rescue me. I hated myself for betraying my mom. I hated myself for betraying T. I wanted to curl up in a ball and die. I contemplated suicide as the phone rang. I was afraid if I didn't do it first, T would do it for me. 

And mom answered. And in just a couple of hours, I was on my way to my mom's house. Safe. Unsure. Afraid. Hating myself. Hiding. 

As graduation approached, I went to my senior prom with Forrest. Forrest and I dated for about two months. He was a good guy. And then I got the phone call. It was "T" and he was willing to forgive me. I graduated and then drove hours to be with him. I drove hours back home and left for my graduation trip with my dad. When it was over, I went back to "T." 

This time, I didn't completely ignore my mom. She was there. Ready in the wings to pick up the pieces of me when I fell apart.  As a mom now, I can imagine the pain and worry I put her through. 

T and I tried to make it work for a few months. Then one night, with too much to drink, too many other substances, and I was slapped around. I called mom and dad, my head hanging with shame. Afraid that this time, they surely would refuse to help me. I was embarrassed that I couldn't make it work. I was ashamed I'd let it get out of hand. I hated that they were right. I hated myself. 

T and I were over. And mom and I ignored the elephant in the room. Mom would call me and we'd chat about nothing important. I hated answering the phone when she called....not because of her, but because of me. I'd hurt her. I'd betrayed her. I put her through the worst hell a kid could put a mom. 

And then I was pregnant. I called my mom to tell her and to say she was angry and hurt is an understatement. She told me I'd be on welfare. She cried that I'd ruined my life. And then she began sending gifts. Diapers, maternity clothes, toys, baby clothes. 

And then Marc was born. And my mom came running to spend a week with me. I looked at my newborn son and cried my heart out for all the hurt I'd caused my mom. I looked at him and prayed he'd never ever do what I'd done. I was terrified I'd be cursed. 

And I called to apologize. 

Now you know the back story.

Here's the important part. My mom's love has never failed me. She's loved me when I couldn't love myself. She believed in my strength and resiliency even in times I didn't. She's dropped everything to come to me when I need her. She supports me even when I make bad decisions. She forgave me. Whether I was in Texas, Idaho, New Mexico, or right next door, my mom will be there. 

My mom is generous and kind, not just to me but to anyone in need. She's everyone's friend. She makes you laugh. She dances. She giggles. She gives gifts from her heart. She's also incredibly strong and resilient. She's an optimist. She's a romantic. She's intelligent. She's tough. 

And she gave me the greatest gift she could have given me. . . she taught me how to be a mom - one that I can be proud of. Today and every day I'm thankful for my mom. 

Thankful #6: A Thankful Son

Both my boys are pretty sentimental - they probably get that from me. Of course, Marc's a teenager so you don't see it as often. But Nate is still young. He's much more open to showing his happiness, his sappiness. And he's such a thankful little soul. It doesn't take much to make him happy. 

He loved it so much he fell asleep with the light on

Marc has lunch with Nate at school 

Take for instance, last night...I changed his bedroom. He's been in the smallest one and I moved it. Put up the bunkbeds. Rearranged things...to give him more space. He was actually anxious to go to bed last night. As I tucked him in, he thanked me for doing it. And told me that he thinks he should keep his room that clean from now on (I'm not holding my breath). And then this morning, he woke up and the first thing he said was, "I slept so much better in this room."  

Then today, unexpectedly Marcus didn't have school due to a power outage. Nate looked at his big brother excitedly and begged him to come have lunch with him. Marc agreed and Nate beamed. Marc sent me this picture from the cafeteria. Nate's loving it right now....lunch with his hero...his big brother. 

Love my sons! 

Thankful #5: Little Talks

My favorite oldest son, Marc, is strong and resilient but like me he holds his feelings inside. Unfortunately, I also think he's had to deal with a lot of disappointment from the adults in his life....his bio dad, his adopted dad, and probably very likely me.

Last night, Marc got home fairly early and I asked him if he was ok. I got the typical teenager shrug. Then I was in my room writing in my journal when he came in and laid on the bed. He just started talking. Not about anything life changing, nothing grand or big....just normal conversation. What happened in school, what his friends were doing, how he felt bad for a friend who doesn't have a grandma who is very grandmotherly. For 45 minutes, he laid and talked to me. Neither of us looked at our phone. I barely talked at all. We laughed a few times. It was the nicest conversation I've had with him in a while. He's usually wrapped up with the girlfriend or his nose is in his phone and he's texting away or  playing video games. 

Today I'm thankful for little talks with my favorite oldest son!

A Boo-tiful Day

I had the best Halloween yesterday. Except I didn't throw Nate his annual Halloween party. And I thought he wouldn't notice except he keeps asking. And then his friends started asking me why I didn't have one. So now, I have a whole year to plan an exciting Halloween party!

On to the fun part - PICTURES!

Halloween for me started on Monday when I made Marc take me to Rocky Horror Picture Show. I've never seen it, never been to a showing, and so I was in fact a virgin. Of course, so was Marc. We walked in, everyone was dressed up and I thought Marc's eyes were going to bug out of his head. He was slightly uncomfortable at first but when it came time to throw rice and toast, etc, he laughed and we had a great time. I don't think he'll ever go again but next year, I'm dressing up! haha

Then of course pumpkin carving. Here's where I'll admit I'm the worst mom ever. This is one tradition I hate. I love the years when the boys are so busy they forget. Bleh. This year was slightly more fun because I decided to use a power drill to make mine. Fun times!

Kelsy (Marc's girlfriend) carved pumpkins with us

Nate got the biggest pumpkin he could find

Our pumpkins (guess which one's mine:) 

Then of course costumes!

Halloween is funner when you're thinner. ha, for me anyway. I've wanted to dress up for years but the last thing I wanted to do was draw attention to myself. I made up a little for lost time by wearing two costumes!

During the day, I was Amelia Earhart.

I took Nate's friends with us .

Marcus even dressed up this year...he's Hugh Hefner and here he is with Kelsy. 

So I mentioned I wore two costumes. I painted my face sort of "day of the dead," wore a wig, and dressed in black.

I'm pretty proud of the way my makeup turned out. Not bad for freehand huh?

I think I'll start planning next year's costume now. It's so much more fun when you play along.

Socks on the Floor Kind of Love

"There are things that I canna tell you, at least not yet. And I'll ask nothing of ye that ye canna give me. But what I would ask of ye---when you do tell me something, let it be the truth. And I'll promise ye the same. We have nothing now between us, save---respect, perhaps. And I think that respect has maybe room for secrets, but not for lies. Do ye agree?" 

That, my friends, is one of my favorite quotes from the 2nd great love story ever told.  I'm a sucker for a good love story. Give me a strong hero who can make a girl laugh, blush, and challenge her and I'm sunk...hook, line, and sinker. I'm old school...I like a man who is a man, chivalrous, masculine, stubborn, challenging and totally, madly in love with his heroine. A man like Jamie Fraser. Don't know him? Well then you haven't read the book. He could fight a battle, win a war, be a man's man, and then melt in Claire's arms reciting poetry and saying the perfect words. His strong facade disappeared with Claire. And when she made him angry, he grabbed her, kissed her, said something utterly wonderful, and then let it go. To say I have a small crush on Jamie would be an understatement. Besides, he's scottish and do you have any idea what an accent does to a girl??

Obviously, I've got enough experience to know that this is schoolgirl and foolish. So let me tell you the
1st greatest love story ever told:

Many of us at Thanksgiving last year on
Grandma and Grandpa's porch

My grandparents recently celebrated 65 years of marriage. I didn't use the term celebrated on accident. It wasn't that they "made it to 65 years" or that they "hung in there" for 65 years...it was a celebration! 3 children, 6 grandchildren, 12 great grandchildren - all because two people fell in love.

Me with my grandparents three years ago at hunting camp

My grandparents are the most wonderful people. I used to spend a month with them every summer. Grandma would drive down and pick me up, bring me back to Oregon, and we'd have picnics, movie dates, shopping trips, and my favorite...a trip to the mill where my grandpa was foreman. I've watched over the years as my grandpa helps lifelong friends brand cattle, rope calves, and mend fences. My grandma feeds everyone - weddings, funerals, births, celebrations, mournings - my grandma cooks for them all. They are really good people.

Our family hunts together, drinks together, eats together, laughs and cries together, and are all pretty dang close. Like most great families, we fight sometimes but at the end of the day, don't mess with one of ours:)

My handsome grandpa

But this is a love story. I have a favorite picture of my grandparents when they weren't married yet. It's of course black and white. They're on the ranch. Grandma sits behind grandpa on the horse, her arms wrapped around him with the cutest, mischievous, young girl in love smile on her face. She's glowing - even in black and white you can see the flush of her cheeks and the glow that comes from a girl in love. Grandpa looks handsome, strong, and a little like a show off. Dang, I wish I had the picture to show you!!

My grandma is beautiful. Her warm heart shows through her smile. I remember Marcus telling me one time when he was about five that grandma was beautiful because of the "crinkles at her eyes" - I know it's from a lifetime of smiling. I hope when I'm 80, I look as good as my grandma.

Me and Grandma

My grandpa is one of the most handsome men I know. I know from stories that he had brown hair at one time but it's been completely white as long as I can remember. And it's always in a crew cut.


Ok, back to the love story. I remember about 20 years ago, all of us grandkids were getting married in the same year (I'm the only one that hasn't lasted). Grandma was excited to get four new dresses that year. As the final wedding of the year came around, Grandpa couldn't help but tell us all excitedly how beautiful grandma was and how this last dress "showed a little leg." It was like he was a teenager as he spoke about it. Grandma arrived at the wedding in a blue dress that showed her ankles. Grandpa beamed as he lead her around the dance floor. It's not uncommon for all of us to be together and look over to find grandma sitting on grandpa's lap. They laugh together and smile often.

So at their recent wedding anniversary, I asked grandma how they did it. Two divorces and I have to admit I don't know how anyone makes it work. I'm cynical and don't have a lot of faith in forever. Except when you look at Grandma and Grandpa - you could blame it on their generation. But only if you didn't know them. If you know them, you'll understand they're still in love 65 years later.

Grandma looked at me and said, "It's all about perspective." Then she told me that she used to get so frustrated with Grandpa. He'd get home and take his shoes and socks off in the living room, usually tracking in mud or dirt. And he'd sit down to watch tv while she made dinner, usually falling asleep for a minute in his recliner with the tv turned up too loud. And she'd get mad or frustrated. And then she'd put it in perspective.

Grandma and Grandpa at their 60th anniversary

She told me that if socks on the floor were the worst thing she ever had to deal with, she'd take it every day for the rest of her life. She said while her friends had been cheated on, while their friends drank too much, while other husbands couldn't keep a job, her man was home at night, not out drinking, and always had a job. He supported his family, loved her wholeheartedly, accepted her faults, loved their kids, was a wonderful dad, a fantastic husband and just all around a good man.

She pointed out they had their struggles. Recessions, tough times, growing pains - but they had made a commitment to eachother and loved eachother more than they could bear the thought of being apart.

She said they've yelled at eachother. Fought. And loved. Often.

She said she lucked out...handsome, intelligent, caring, and everything she could have asked for.

She said after she put it in perspective, she picked up the socks, gave him a kiss, and smiled inside.

That, my friends, is what it's all about.

Therapy (because I don't know where else to share it)

"Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose or paint can manage to escape the madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation." Graham Greene

As Marc approaches 18, he asks more questions....questions I'd rather avoid. He's always been curious about his biological father - he has great memories of Roy. I've been rather proud of the way I've handled it. Answering appropriately for Marc's age, giving respect to Marc's relationship with my ex-husband, and so on and so forth. I think I've done alright. And of course, I've known the day would come when he'd ask me to help him find Roy. I've braced myself for it. Prepared myself for it. Determined how I'd handle it when it happened. 

And here it is. The day has come and I'm not ready. Marc wants to find Roy in the next year and I'm torn in pieces. 

On one hand, I thank God Marc and I have the kind of relationship that he's asked me to be part of the search and be there with him. I thank God that I'll be there to manage what is sure to be a very emotional reunion. 

Then on the other hand, I've kept that wound wrapped up tightly with no air to breathe. That bandage has remained on that wound for the past 18 years. It's been buried so deep that I don't even think of it...it's just a part of me. It's the annoying little irritation that starts once in a while - I make myself busy and forget it exists. I'd even tell you it's all healed up. 

Then when Marc came to me, it became painfully clear....It's still there - oozing, festering, broken. 

And it has nothing to do with Marc - but has everything to do with me.

Let's go back 18 years and I'll tell you a story I haven't shared ever before (at least not in its entirety). 

I had left small town Oregon for Albuquerque, attending college, working, and of course, partying. I remember the first time I saw Roy across the room. He was drinking a beer and smiling at me. He caught me off guard. I remember panicking as he walked toward me. Is he really headed straight for me? 

He walked up and told me I was out of place here. That I should go back to mom and dad's house. I called him an a$$hole and left him standing there as I went to find my friends. I avoided him the rest of the night but was always aware he was there. Two nights later at yet another party he arrived with my best friend. She had bragged on this guy that she was dating and I was surprised to find it was him. She begged me to go to dinner with them. I scowled at him throughout our meal, hating him, despising him. He was a smart a$$. He was cocky.  He thought he was "all that." He was the guy who had never given me the time of day, the one that made me feel ugly, dumb, and unworthy. I felt stupid, naive, and slow-witted around him. No guy had ever made me feel so off kilter and so much like a bumbling idiot. 

I hated him and yet, he's all I could think about which frustrated me more. 

Two weeks later, I arrived at a party to find him there. I'd had just enough to drink that my wall was down. He walked over to me and I found myself laughing, flirting, and enjoying his company. He was playful. Dangerous. Hot! 

Truth be told, I was enjoying the way he looked. I was used to country boys and he was definitely NOT. Dark, brooding, tattooed, motorcycle-riding, muscled bad boy and I wanted him. A few shots of tequila, take my inhibitions away and we left the party together. I'll spare you the details here but the result was one pregnant, scared girl. 

Of course, for the first few weeks I had no idea I'd be a momma in nine months. I just knew that I really liked this guy. We spent every waking minute together. He was fun, witty, and damn good-looking. He made

I snapped this picture one of our first nights together

me think, he made me laugh, he made me feel. Riding his motorcycle, holding his arm as we walked in the club and everyone knew we were together, laying in his arms....it was right and wrong all at the same time. He was a bad boy, I was a good girl (or not so much after all). 

  

Three weeks later, a blood test confirmed that Roy and I would be parents. He suggested he be the one to tell my dad. My heart soared - he was facing this with me instead of running away. 

Roy and I were married shortly after that. He was a good dad and a loving husband. 

He was so good to Marc. Patient, gentle, kind and would do anything for him. He loved Marc so much and worried non-stop about Marc's future and whether he was worthy.

 But then, he'd have an off day. The stress would get to him and he'd disappear. A day would go by with just a phone call and then he'd be back. He'd start using and then drop it again.

He didn't know how to be a dad. Or a husband. His own mom had passed from a heroin overdose. His life spent in foster homes and later as a runaway and later in prison and/or jail.

He struggled with the desire to be a great dad and the ability to hold it together and make it happen.

He was gentle with me. Kind hearted. Made me laugh. Ours was a passionate love too and he made me enjoy life. We could really talk, about anything, anywhere, any time. 

Yes, I was the stereotypical woman...I thought I could change him.

He was my best friend and I could forgive him drinking and driving, quitting jobs, being in and out of jail. Using. 

I couldn't forgive betrayal. 

I remember with extreme clarity the sound my heart made as it broke. 

I remember distinctly the pain as my heart ripped from my chest.  

I remember panicking as I fell into the realization that I wasn't enough. 

I wasn't enough to hold him. I wasn't pretty enough, smart enough, and most importantly, strong enough. 

It wasn't long and we were divorced. I loved Roy with everything in me and we were no more. 

I did what I do best....lifted that rug and swept it under. Built the wall and fortified it like a pro. Slapped a bandage on it and carried on. Drove away and didn't look back. Found someone who was his EXACT opposite, got married, had Nate, got divorced again. 

Now before you think I'm reminiscing...I do not want Roy back. This is not one of those "the bad memories fade over time yadda yadda bs"

No part of me wants to go back to that life. One thing I've learned is that love is never enough. I loved him, I think in his weird, messed up, dysfunctional way - he loved me.

I know without a doubt that he loved Marc with all his heart.

He made poor decisions, he couldn't stay clean, and I don't want that around my kids. He loved Marc enough to finally just leave. 

I made the right decision to protect us and keep Marc from growing up just like Roy. 

I did the right thing by leaving and I have no regrets.

But the pain is here and it's real and it's raw. 

It leaves me wondering why 18 years later it makes me cry.

Why? 

Because I never dealt with it.
Because I'd rather believe it wasn't love.
Because I put up walls that prevent me from ever falling that hard ever again.
Because I've created ways to keep from being that vulnerable ever again.
Because I can't let myself open up again.
Because I ran from it. 

Because it still hurts that I wasn't enough.
Because I still struggle with my own self-worth.

Because he's making the same dumb choices.
Because I'll have to face him.
Because I worry about Marc.

Because our story makes me sounds like a stupid girl.
Because I'm embarrassed to say it hurts.
Because I feel like a fool.
Because you the reader will misunderstand my whole point of this blog.

Because he gave me Marc.
Because I feel guilty that I'm happy.
Because I feel guilty I'm in a good place.

Because this weekend I found him in the place I was afraid to look for fear he'd be there.