Just Call Me Angel...

Baby Girl

2009-06-21T07:40:00.000-07:00

Thank you Daddy, for believing in me.
And for sending me this song yesterday.
It lifted my spirit and I don't feel so
alone today.

Baby Girl
Written by: Will Hoge

May the sunlight find your face
Even when the rain does fall
And get back on your feet again
Every time you slip and fall
Keep your heart wide open
And always taking in
And even when it’s broken
Be Strong enough to fix it up again

Oh little baby girl
Sweet little baby girl
I wish I could hold your hand in this great big world
Oh little baby girl

And I hope your hands are steady
And never need to make a fist
And I hope that when you’re ready
You get one never ending kiss
And I hope that deep inside of you
There’s a sweet eternal song
And I hope the words are pretty
And that you’ll always sing along

And I hope your friends are many
And your laughter’s always loud
To help you when you’re lonely
And pick you up when you’re down
I hope your eyes shine bright love
And learn to see the light
Take the time to listen
Decide yourself what’s wrong or right

Oh little baby girl
Sweet little baby girl
Be strong in this great big world
Oh little baby girl
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aYL1e5oLWJE

Dear Diary…I admit, I suck at this

2009-02-08T08:03:00.000-08:00

So many thoughts, experiences, and memories - and here I sit not recording a single one. What is wrong with me? Do I really believe that my brain will store them all? Every touch, every laugh, every moment, every glance, every sigh? There is no way! I look back at the blank pages of my youthful diary and think…why didn’t you take the time to write it down? A line or two just so that you can recall these precious days. Because I thought I would never forget. . .the feelings were so joyful, mischievous, intense and heart wrenching. So why do we forget to record and in my case, the good times.

There was always the risk that someone would stumble across my diary. I wasn’t concerned my sister would read it, she didn’t read anything. I feared my brother would find my diary and run across the impure thoughts I was having about one of his buds. That he would find out what happened in the back of his station wagon on our way to the drive-in, that he would find out I was taking birth control, and that I thought at times he was a total loser.

I worried that my parents would think less of me if they truly knew what was going on in my adolescent brain, and would send me to boarding school if they found out I was sexually active. As I was thumbing through the pages of an old diary, (honestly I don’t know why I keep this crap.) I noticed, just as now, I write when I am hurting, when things were rough, when the road I was on took unexpected twists. I wrote of girlfriend betrayals and other injustices I thought I would never live through, I wrote of ‘true’ love lost, and petty jealousies. But as I think of it now, my life was not just about deceit, disaster, and disappointment. There were many beautiful memories made too.

Just as now, there are hardships, disappointments, and betrayals. I continue to do stupid things. I still fall in love with the wrong men, I trust too freely, I drink too much, I work too hard, and let things go until they are in disrepair, but my life is wonderful. So. . .

Dear Diary,
It has been a while, hasn’t it? I had the piano tuned last week and had two strings replaced, it has been needed for awhile. Last night I was brilliant. I had been practicing for months, on my out of tune piano, this medley of special songs. I played and sang for him. I am not a performer at heart, so when I play, I feel this crippling vulnerability and exposure. Those feelings of insecurity and fright wash over me as I laid my hands on the keys, I closed my eyes and reminded myself, “This is your gift to him.” and with the first note played-the realization there is no turning back. I opened that part of myself to him. The secret I have kept hidden from everyone for years. Playing only in private and stopping when others enter the room. Never wanting to expose myself to the scrutiny of others, or being guilted into playing, or feeling ‘forced’ to perform.
It was suppose to be a gift for him, one I gave freely because there was no fear, no insecurity, no secret motive. His love gave me the strength and that is his gift to me.

Time After. . .

2009-01-11T06:52:00.000-08:00

I swear some nights you are beside me
making that impression on the other
side of the bed where the sheets
are untouched and pulled up tight
I roll over and can picture your face
laying on pillow just as it was the
last time you were here.

You stroke my face and look deep
into my eyes searching for a way. . .
A way to erase the last thirty years
to bargain for an ‘over’
to manipulate time
to promise me
what I can never have

“after my picture fades and darkness
has turned to gray
watching through windows
you're wondering if I'm OK
secrets stolen from deep inside
the drum beats out of time

if you're lost you can look--
and you will find me
time after time
if you fall I will catch you--
I'll be waiting time after time

Flashback--warm nights--
almost left behind
suitcases of memories,
time after time”

Open Letter about Happily Ever After

2008-12-30T09:47:00.000-08:00

It's not your fault you're so confused. The media, people we
work with, and society as a whole have painted this unobtainable
idea of happily ever after.

It's not like that...It takes a tough person to hang in there and
take the lumps and bumps of marriage. Marriage is definitely
not for wimps. I think even in my extreme case, it is easier for us
to find flaws in our mates and discuss those (which seem funnier
at dinner conversations) than to admit and discuss those really
wonderful qualities about the people we chose to spend the rest
of our lives with.

Marriage is a lot like self esteem...you have to stroke it...you HAVE
to dwell, praise, and repeat those experiences where there is joy
and love and try to minimize those unpleasant things such as
putting socks in the dirty clothes hamper wrong side out. There
has to be as many good things about the person we fell in love with
as those irritating things, otherwise we wouldn't have fallen in love
in the first place. Well that's my marriage philosophy...the word
according to me.

I’m the one in the Middle, I must be the Green Kangaroo

2008-12-29T12:43:00.000-08:00

When I was little my brother would torture me by saying, “You are adopted!” He backed up this accusation with the fact that there were no baby pictures of me. There were baby pictures of him taken every other week, a cute little baby book with all his baby milestones written in my mothers beautiful script.

Being the first born child he received an abundance of attention. Birthday parties with two cakes surrounded by ALL the relatives, party hats, noise makers, and presents galore.
He got all the new stuff. New crib, new baby clothes, new coats, new shoes, and so on. He was born with my father’s eyes, nose, and ears, my mother’s hair and chin complete with the cleft. He was the most desirable…not only first born, but he was a son, the last child that could carry on the family name.

When I came along eighteen months later, there were no newborn pictures, no baby book, no new bassinet, and no new booties. I started to believe my brother’s claims because the only picture of me, was of us…”This is the day we brought you home from the adoption agency.” In this picture I appeared to be 8 months old and he was holding me on his lap…I was leaning to one side and looked all jacked up. I had no hair, green eyes that neither my mother nor father possessed, a cute little nose which is not a family trait, and beautiful hands. Not the large masculine hands of my brother, mother, or father.

And then 18 months later my sister came along. She was tiny, frail, and sickly. There were many pictures of her coming home from the hospital in a shoebox. A relative took pictures of the five of us on the most disgusting leatherette couch. And then there were several of my brother and I holding our miniature sister across our laps. Looking back now I think there were so many pictures of her because they never really expected her to survive. She looked just like…my brother. With her blue eyes, prominent nose, dimples in cheeks and the deep one on her chin. She didn’t look adopted!

My brother would explain how they had just gone to this huge home and picked me out, he made up elaborate tales about how the doctor had told my parents about this orphanage and how it didn’t even cost my parent any money to adopt me.
And then there was our family doctor who I was quite sure was in on the whole escapade, because he would tell me every time I saw him, right before he gave me my shots, “You know…your mother really wanted another boy.” “After she gave birth to you she asked, ‘Is it a boy?’ when I told her no, she said I could keep you.” “So really, you are my girl.”

I tried hard to please my parents, to be the most well behaved in church, the first child to learn to read, tried everything on my plate, I even ate brussels sprouts because my siblings wouldn’t try them. I professed to like everything my brother and sister DIDN’T, just to make my parents happy.

One day my mother was fussing at me and I just started weeping hysterically because I had disappointed her. I begged her not to take me back to the orphanage. She was startled! She cleared up the whole adoption controversy and told my brother to quit teasing me about being adopted.

But that feeling, the one of being different has plagued me for years. It took up residence a long time ago and never moved on. I never felt like I belonged, I fought hard to receive attention but more often than not, because I was good, I was ignored. I would entertain myself for hours in creative play, reading, or just observing things and people around me. I didn’t mind being alone. I was good in school, I was good at home, I learned to make people laugh, I never made waves conscientiously, and I did my chores without complaining. I have worked hard to overcome my feelings of inferiority and insecurity. I learned that being clever and quick witted often at others’ expense was ok and it was socially accepted. All of this I have come to realize I did, just to ‘fit-in’.

I wondered if my need to gather people is based on this need to feel a sense of belonging or connected. Never wanting to sever ties in any relationship and not moving entirely along-alone. When I end a relationship there is always that power play that I don’t want to lose their friendship or cut off communication. I bargain with the, “We are adults we can be friends.” In many ways, I still feel orphaned, like the old teddy bear no one plays with anymore. Divorced with grown sons, both of my parents and my brother deceased and communication with my sister as always strained, I gather others and don’t let them go. Even when it is in their best interest for me to let them move on…I hold them close. I call, I send emails, I send birthday cards just to let them remember that they are still important to me. Am I manipulating them and keeping them in my heart because I don’t want to feel orphaned again? Do I gather people because if I surround myself with others I won’t feel so alone? Do I hold on to people much longer than their expiration date because I can’t stand separation? Is this all part of being the child in the middle of a loving family but overpowered by an older sibling and not as cute or needy as my younger sibling?

The Green Kangaroo reference comes from the first chapter book my youngest son ever read. “Lately, second grade Freddy Dissel has that left-out kind of feeling. Life can be lonely when you’re the middle kid in the family who feels like ‘the peanut butter part of a sandwich,’ squeezed between an older brother and little sister.”

It's me Universe...Thanks for Listening

2008-12-27T08:52:00.000-08:00

It's me Universe...Thanks for listening.

Thank you for softening his heart, or helping
him realize he doesn’t want to live without
me, in his life, ever.

Even though he couldn’t spend
Christmas with me, he was with me…
in my heart
under my tree
on my phone
in my inbox
on my stereo
in my car
in my refridge
on my mind
in my bed…

This Christmas I feel...
Loved