I make poor choices in men.
From my 8th grade boyfriend Billy (who was older and already in high school and who wanted way more than a 13 yr old was ready to give) to the man I met when I was 38, newly divorced and as raw as a 13 yr old... I make poor choices.
A stalked me and my girlfriends one christmas vacation when we went caroling, sneaking around behind us and noting details to share with me afterward to prove he'd done it. Ahhhh, Jr. High.
B had a juvenile criminal record, Oh, High School.
C had a girlfriend back home. Hello College.
D hid debt and despair under credit cards and fast cars. Welcome to adulthood.
E forgot to mention that he wasn't actually divorced... or that he had a son. And here we go, grownup style!
F couldn't separate love from control; power and shame from attraction and commitment...but he hid it well for 14 years of marriage. Oh, wait, THIS is "grown up style"... ok... gotcha.
G made believe that a pierced penis and a job as a correctional officer was the same thing as "strong" and "safe" and "brave" and "authentic". Steve was wrong.
and H? H convinced himself that love and control were the same... that attraction and attachment were equal to love and commitment: and he nearly convinced a 38 year old divorcee that it was so. Ahhh, this is life! The learning of your own infallibility and how you play out your own mistakes time and time again until you LEARN something.
ouch.
I will rewrite my own story though, and I will write about my discernment, my patience, my authenticity and transparency. I will write of my open and welcoming spirit that does not long for whats missing but that waits for something more to add to an already peaceful perfect life. I will write of confidence, of humor, of acceptance and joy. And I will write of men. Of Menly Men. Of MY men...and of my good choices.
Sunday, July 3
Another piece of my heart...
Its graduation time. Caps and gown and speeches and parties time. Pride and relief and anxiety and confidence time. Deep thoughts time.
I watched my third child walked across the same stage that her siblings had done in past years; and applauded as she accepted her diploma from the same high school that her siblings had; and I cried, just like I did for her siblings. Mom of 3 graduates, and another 14 years before my fourth and final child makes that same walk.
But someone else special to me graduated too, from a different school on a different night. And although I didn't watch it happening, I've seen the photos and video clips and cried the same happy momma tears for her. She is my... well, step-daughter I guess - for lack of a better word.
I'm not married (nor ever was) to her father. I've never lived in the same house with her, never spent more than 2 or 3 nights in a row with her under my roof. I've never fought with her over homework or chores, curfew, language... I've never taken her to or from school or camp or lessons, I've never taken her to a doctor or picked up a prescription from a pharmacy for her. Never taken care of her when she's sick. But I have prayed for this child, cried over her and for her, had long dramatic conversations in the car with her, seen her build relationships with my children, and call them her siblings, and seen her fall in love with the new baby brother her father and I brought into this family.
When I first met her, she was 11. Long skinny arms and legs, wearing a knit winter cap over her blondish hair and sitting on her daddy's lap. She was tiny, this girl - and now at 18 she barely hits 5' even and has to have any formal wear tailored down to fit her extremely petite self - because she rocks the curves of a taller woman in spite of her lack of height. I'm so proud of her, but feel like I need to stay backstage, in the wings, offering only a hug and a smile when she comes to me. She is so fortunate to have a tight relationship with her mom and her step dad - she is well loved and cared for and has had all the support and encouragement and opportunities you could imagine. There is very little room for me as a parent, as the mom of her brother, as the partner (former) of her father. He isn't as involved in her life as I think he should be anyway, so my presence is even of less value due to that. But none of that lessens my actual love for her. My love for her is so big...
I love her drama, her crazy talent, her wild emotions, her hour long showers that turn into 2 hour long bathroom sessions, her perpetually messy life, I love it all. I worry about her - about the hospital stays and the therapy and the medications and the always real concern for her well being. She is not my daughter, and nothing like the daughters that grew in my womb, she is loud and theatrical and her emotions fling like rainbows from her soul...and I SEE her - and I love her, and I'm so happy for her...and I'm sorry to be part of something that hurts her, confuses her, pulls her in different directions. But none of it diminishes my love for her.
Happy Graduation, daughter of my heart, and may only good things come to you to balance out the "not good" that you've had more than enough of.
I love you!
D
I watched my third child walked across the same stage that her siblings had done in past years; and applauded as she accepted her diploma from the same high school that her siblings had; and I cried, just like I did for her siblings. Mom of 3 graduates, and another 14 years before my fourth and final child makes that same walk.
But someone else special to me graduated too, from a different school on a different night. And although I didn't watch it happening, I've seen the photos and video clips and cried the same happy momma tears for her. She is my... well, step-daughter I guess - for lack of a better word.
I'm not married (nor ever was) to her father. I've never lived in the same house with her, never spent more than 2 or 3 nights in a row with her under my roof. I've never fought with her over homework or chores, curfew, language... I've never taken her to or from school or camp or lessons, I've never taken her to a doctor or picked up a prescription from a pharmacy for her. Never taken care of her when she's sick. But I have prayed for this child, cried over her and for her, had long dramatic conversations in the car with her, seen her build relationships with my children, and call them her siblings, and seen her fall in love with the new baby brother her father and I brought into this family.
When I first met her, she was 11. Long skinny arms and legs, wearing a knit winter cap over her blondish hair and sitting on her daddy's lap. She was tiny, this girl - and now at 18 she barely hits 5' even and has to have any formal wear tailored down to fit her extremely petite self - because she rocks the curves of a taller woman in spite of her lack of height. I'm so proud of her, but feel like I need to stay backstage, in the wings, offering only a hug and a smile when she comes to me. She is so fortunate to have a tight relationship with her mom and her step dad - she is well loved and cared for and has had all the support and encouragement and opportunities you could imagine. There is very little room for me as a parent, as the mom of her brother, as the partner (former) of her father. He isn't as involved in her life as I think he should be anyway, so my presence is even of less value due to that. But none of that lessens my actual love for her. My love for her is so big...
I love her drama, her crazy talent, her wild emotions, her hour long showers that turn into 2 hour long bathroom sessions, her perpetually messy life, I love it all. I worry about her - about the hospital stays and the therapy and the medications and the always real concern for her well being. She is not my daughter, and nothing like the daughters that grew in my womb, she is loud and theatrical and her emotions fling like rainbows from her soul...and I SEE her - and I love her, and I'm so happy for her...and I'm sorry to be part of something that hurts her, confuses her, pulls her in different directions. But none of it diminishes my love for her.
Happy Graduation, daughter of my heart, and may only good things come to you to balance out the "not good" that you've had more than enough of.
I love you!
D
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