Dad, as I sit here and think about how these could be your last few months, weeks, or even days with us here on Earth, my heart aches and I have an immense amount of guilt in the pit of my stomach. I should have visited more, I should have called more often, I should have given you the chance to have a closer relationship with your granddaughters.
So, grandma (81 this year) has been up my ass about keeping a journal of everything that is going on right now so here goes. Amelia is 9 and in 4th grade, Raynen is 5 and is in kindergarten and Rj is 3 and is home with me. We live in fort lee right now and my husband, Bobby (30 this year) has just had his 3rd spine surgery and now awaiting the promotion board (he is in the army) and finding out when we will be moving. I am 26 credits away from my BA in history. The coronavirus pandemic has been a pain in the ass and the 2020 presidential election was a complete dumpster fire. Yay 2020 and the best part was carol baskin and the memes from that world.
People of all ages can change, trust me. If my father, someone who has been a stickler for everything he believes in, can change, then so can everyone else. The age-old, relatively accurate belief that older people cannot change is an excuse for people to not take the responsibility to actually do so.
Wife. Mom. Friend. Co-worker. Sister. Empty Nester.
And so it began. Empty Nester was added to the top-line summary of who I am. Now to be sure, I am proud that my “birds” are reaching adulthood and leaving the nest. There is just something about the term “empty nester” that I have simply never liked. Maybe it’s just the word “empty” itself.
No matter how old the children grow up, they will always be children in the eyes of their parents. We share very touching articles about family relationships and tell everyone that we must honor our parents in a timely manner and accompany them more.
There has always been a little (and I mean little) part of my conscious that knew things were bad. Decisions I have made in life were always impulsive, weren't thought out all the way through, and were hardly ever good. Being bipolar, my ups and downs always had me going in ways I shouldn't have.I went un-diagnosed for almost twenty years of my life. I could never explain the rash decisions I made to my parents, friends, or anyone I knew.
Okay, so you KNEW this one was coming. How could I not talk about your talent?! You’ve got more talent in your little finger, than most people I know put together. You ace your fucking job, every single time, you can sing (yes, yes you can), you nail being a mum, you have a talent for being able to cheer anyone up; no matter what’s wrong. AND - and this could be the most important - your Pesto Pasta is the best I’ve ever tasted. True story.
“Just sell it all in a garage sale,” he said.
Dad acted tough, as if it was just a task to complete, when we trudged out to the shop in 95-degree weather to sort through boxes. He spoke like he didn’t really care what happened to the containers’ contents, the cherished memories, that accompanied him when he moved from the home he shared with Mom before she died.
Being a First Time Mum and Mental health
STOP. This is a safe place for you to stop for a minute and read. The words mental health are scary to admit and no one really likes to say they struggle with this but so many people do and I think it's a subject we all need to talk about more in a positive not a negative way.
My sperm donor was Polish/Russian. My mother is Mexican.
My stepfather, the man I called daddy was a smart, well educated, financially sound black man. He married my mother after the divorce and raised me from the age of seven. I identify more with the black community than the white. I lived in a predominately black neighborhood. I went to predominately black schools. My mother said I was the only person she ever knew who could easily flip flop in and out of different people situations. I had friends of every race and got along with everyone.
I'm a mother of nine children. I'm a SINGLE mother of nine children. If this seems like a lot, that's because it truly is.
“If you do not have anything nice to say, keep your mouth shut,” I remember her saying. Looking back, I see my report cards littered with nice things my teachers said about me—“She’s so quiet, shy, and such a good girl.” I was not superiorly witty, in fact, the earliest memory is of the nameless boy spitting in my face, on the sidewalk after school. The shy, nice little girl stood stunned until I cried, not even a thought to wipe my face. I ran all the way home. Fast forward looking back, the little girl in me pictures a sharp image—one of the serious objections of a boy ejecting any such aversion or contempt toward me. Little did I understand, the value of such a lasting memory, how this event shaped my inner spirit.