Work … work … work … work … workaholic…

I love my new job, I’m a little over 2 months in.  I’m feeling successful, feeling driven, and feel proud of myself for moving forward in my career.

I have a distinct skill; I know how to create relationships just long enough to gain trust, then gain business, then walk away.  If you ask any of my customers about me, 9 out of 10 couldn’t tell you anything about my personal life.  They couldn’t tell you my kids names, what they look like, that I have a dog, that my son is special needs, that my daughter loves art, that I live in a small town, or that I’m a survivor.  As for me, I know their wife’s name, where their kids went to college, their favorite color, and how they like their coffee.  

I’m a professional at hiding my life.  An over achiever at making sure I’m not giving to much information.  I’m in control of every conversation.

Then I go home….

I go home to my reality.  My dog jumps up with excitement, my son can’t focus past the TV, my daughter is absorbed in a fairy tale of not having to deal with her mom focusing on her brother and his disability.  I realize I can’t hide, I can’t achieve more then the day allows, and I have little control over the life I’ve been given.

I tell them I love them, make sure they fed the dog, ask what homework they have, make them some food, and go sit in front of my computer.

I’m back in a space where I have complete control.  Where only I can affect the outcome…

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The countdown…

65 days … until my first born becomes a teen.  She saved me.  She challenges me.  She’s grandmas little princess.

39 days … until Christmas.  Family, friends, Moms tamales, laughing, drinking, Jesus.

29 days … until my sisters due date.  The youngest grand baby, her first child.  Grandma can’t wait.

7 days … until Thanksgiving.  Moms pies, ham, football, Sam Adams.  Giving thanks.

5 days … until the youngest grand baby, my son turns 11.  Wild boy to the core.  Grandmas friend.

-1 day … the day my Mom told me she was diagnosed with breast cancer.

A letter to you… his teacher…

My concern is you are dealing with a brilliant little boy who is taking medication in order to help make him “school” teachable. I’m risking his well being to make life easier on you. I’m interchanging medication because he’s not the ideal child in your classroom. When things aren’t going as expected he is being punished to “behave” within your expected guidelines.  Where do I as a parent draw the line and expect you to work within his guidelines? To convert your expectations of the ideal child into non-ideal solutions?

This isn’t going to be easy, this is going to be hard. This is going to require even more thought and effort on your part then me as his parent. You are going to run into expectations from the state, from your superiors, from me, to meet all their guidelines while serving him as a child who needs the same education and support as those “ideal” children around him. So what are your plans?

Out of his control…

It stopped working again….Things were going picture perfect.  He was happy, I was happy, she was happy….until about a week ago. 

His afternoons started bringing back memories of his past.  When he was angry, self deprecating, suicidal.  He was only 9 at the time.  He’s only 10 now.

His side affects are crippling his life.  Our lives are being flipped upside down again.  The evening are turning into him only happy if he’s alone in his room with the tv on.  He just wants to be left alone.  

No one needs to tell me it’s not about me.  But my reality isn’t yours.  He has no control over his emotions, but I have control over mine and still can’t stop from being angry, sad, and confused.

I miss him when he’s gone, when the medicine isn’t working, when he’s angry and not himself.  I just want to scream at him and ask him to stop hurting his sister and me.  But he’s not there.  He’s not him. 

When the lights go out…

It’s always after they fall asleep, lights off, darkness around me with only my phone shining that I read a blog post, or article about parenting.  How we should do better, be better.  Why shutting off our phones or closing the laptop and really listening is so important.  I read about the kids who remember one thing, not the money, not the toys, not the gifts, just the memories.   The ones who only have memories.  Tears literally pour and I want to go and wake them up and tell them how sorry I am.  I’ll be more present, I’ll do better.  I’ll play that game, bake that cake, read that book, hug them a little longer because they’re fading into finding that joy elsewhere.  
The truth is I’m scared.  I am so afraid that I’m not getting this right.  That I’m spending so much time on providing “things” that I’m not providing the only thing that they need.  That they want.  Just me.

Right where I belong….

I was told tonight that I’m right where I belong.  You know what, they’re right….right now, right here I’m exactly where I need to be.  I’m allowing myself to be in a place where no one gets to take advantage of my life, of my heart, or of my soul.  A place where I can give freely because that’s where my heartbeat is, in giving.  I’m free of expectations, of judgement.  I’m not 100% yet but I’m getting there, and when I am even I better watch out 💪🏼

So what’s your story …

Has anyone ever asked you that?  I vividly remember the day someone asked me “what’s your story” and I just stared at them not sure how to respond.  I remember not digging to deep and sheepishly answering “Well I’m 27 and a single mother of two kids”. She looked at me oddly and said is that it?   
I think about that day 6 years later and wonder if she really wanted to know “my story”.  My journey to that night where I was downing vodka, flirting with whoever I wanted, and likely ended up passed out or blacked out somewhere.  Just another weekend.  Did I look like, act like, resemble someone who had a story.  

How did I get here?  A place where from the exterior my life is moving along and may even look ideal to some.  I wake up, show up, try to look my best, put my best foot forward, try not to complain, and put a beautiful shade of lipstick over my lips and keep it moving.  I build and build and take some down and then remove a couple more…. bricks have always been apart of my story.  I’m on a rollercoaster.  I try to look up and often catch myself looking down.  

My story.  Sexual abuse, domestic violence, rape, abandonment.  Their story.  Two kids, no father, abandoned.  

Pull up a chair… Let me tell you a story about how and why I’m here, standing up, fighting to look up, and not wanting to give up.  

Misconceptions 

Let me be clear, this blog is strictly for venting tonight.

I have a 9 and 11 year old and both of my children are biracial.  I’d like to address common misconceptions that I hear often and frustrate the shit out of me.  If these offend you good, because they offend me too.

1. “So you only date black men?”  – No dumb ass, I’ve dated black men, and white, and Mexican, and whoever the FUCK I want.

2. “Your kids really should be in a more diverse school” – Why?  Ohhhh, they’ll feel more accepted.  Interesting… Hm… So it’s impossible for a community to accept two children that don’t “look” just like there’s?  Personality, character, and kindness mean nothing then.  I’ll be sure to remind my kids of that. 😒

3. “How can you live in a community so small and country with biracial kids?”  😂😂😂. Shut up.  Really?  

4.  “Your kids are so beautiful, most mixed kids are so handsome or pretty” – well congratulations to my “mixed” kids for being good looking.  Nevermind that they are simply beautiful.  Or maybe I should tell them how beautiful their whatever race child is, ya know most kids of their race are usually ugly. 

5.  “Did he have a big dick”. – I shit you not… I have heard that nonsense.  I don’t know how to respond so I usually just throat punch the person for such an ignorant comment.

6. “Do they have the same dad”. – Frankly that’s none of your business but “let’s make it interesting” and just say well I’m not really sure… I mean I think…I mean he was cheating on me so … So there was this one night .. At band camp. 

7. “What do they identify with”. Say what?!  What does that even mean….they identify with being human, as my son would tell you “he’s a person not African American or Hispanic”

8. “Your daughter got that good hair” – ok.  Thanks I guess.

9. “I’m not surprised you’re raising them alone” – oh your not?  Well I was because I was seeing more then an ethnicity and statistic, just a man, and your not.  Go ahead, tell me more.

10. What are their names… Say that again… How do you pronounce one more time  … Ohhhh that’s nice…. – I’m done.

Red means stop…STOP!!

And green means go.  Yellow means slow down or for some people it means speed up.  Slow kids playing usually means slow down there are kids playing or for the smart ass in some of us it means hey there’s a slow kid playing somewhere around here.  Speed bumps are usually indicative of an area where slow speed is required.  There’s crosswalks, stop signs, speed limits, etc….the list goes on and on.  

Most importantly there is look both ways.  

But what if when you look both ways you don’t see what I see.  What if your brain doesn’t remind you to always look both ways?  Maybe it told you to look left but not right.  Maybe it didn’t tell you to look at all.  How about when you look and you see the first car but not the second.  When for you all you can think about is how to get to the other side, what’s over there, and how badly you want it.  When the most important thing to you isn’t that second car behind the first one but how fun it will be when you get across the street to grandmas who’s got your favorite candy on the table, or JJ’s who wants to show you his new Pokemon, or nothing at all just that the sky is blue, skittles are in my pocket, I like the ninja turtles, look at me now, my side hurts, my bike is awesome, hope my mom gets home soon, should I cut my hair, school isn’t fun, BOOM!!!
— For the fifth time my son has almost been hit by a car.  Ironically we were on the way to his psychiatrist appointment to discuss his aspergers tendencies and ADHD.  As I cried and yelled about the importance of looking for cars he just wanted to figure out how to help me stop crying.  

He’s 9.  He deserves the chance to see everything the world has to offer him and what God has in store for him.  He’s everything to me.