June 5, 2007
I think about this today from the other perspective. From the point of view of the person who is not raising their own child.
I have to preface this by saying that I have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about. Luckily that has never stopped me before, so here I go.
For those of you who haven’t read this blog before I am raising two of my grandchildren. I also have an adopted daughter, who is my husband’s natural daughter. Hence, other people’s children. They are all children of my heart, and I couldn’t love them one bit more if I had carried them all for the full nine months plus one more just for good measure. But, none the less, they are still other people’s children and they all know it.
They all have mothers elsewhere and they love them and miss them very much.
I can’t imagine how much their mother’s must miss them as well. I have been lucky enough to have been connected to two extraordinary women who had the love and strength to allow me to raise their children. It’s an incredible thing and I’m not sure either one of them realize that.
They both signed papers deliberately that allowed me to be a co-parent with them. I’m not sure that’s how they saw it. I’m afraid that in those dark hours before the morning light, that wasn’t how they explained it to themselves at all. I fear that they told themselves a far different story. I wish they could have seen themselves through my eyes during those times.
What they would have seen would probably have surprised them. Because they are heros to me. These are women who loved their children more than they loved themselves. They put themselves in the position to tell themselves those things in the dark of night when there wouldn’t be anyone there to tell them different. What I see when I look at them are two of the strongest women on earth. They are shining lights. I hope their children see them that way when they are grown and look back.
I hope they can see what a sacrifice of self, of heart, of hope their mother’s made so that they could have a better chance in life. I got the easy part out of it. I’m the one who got to be here. They got the hard part. They aren’t here everyday to see what goes on. They get bits and pieces. They have to try to make a whole picture out of random puzzle pieces from several different puzzles from different time periods. No matter how much you tell them, it can never be enough.
They took from themselves every holiday, every birthday, every Mother’s day, all those special moments. And they did it for the love of their children. That is the most massively unselfish thing I can imagine. The scope of it is hard to comprehend.
The idea of the pain that they caused themselves is almost impossible to imagine. And yet they did it. And they didn’t walk away afterwards. I think this, to me, is the most awe inspiring part. They stayed as close as they could. They call, they send things. Sometimes they come to visit.
The awkwardness, the sadness, the hurt this must cause has to be enormous. But they do it for the love of their children. I am humbled. I wish sometimes that I could give them my eyes to see through so that they could see themselves the way I see them. I wish that I could give to them the sense of pride in themselves that I feel in them.
But more than anything, I wish that they could know themselves as the heros they are for putting the lives of their children first. They are remarkable women. I admire them both.
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Posted by thought4food
May 24, 2007
I see hand sanitizer all over the place now. People are fanatically clean these days. Times have changed since I was a kid. We never really thought about that kind of stuff when I was young.
Don’t get me wrong, we had to wash our hands before we ate. We had to take our bath. Occasionally an aunt or someone (usually Southern) would make a comment about being able to “grow taters in those ears” to one of my male relatives. But hand sanitizer in travel sized bottles? *giggle* Not hardly.
As a matter of fact, I had an older cousin whose mother kept him so clean when he was young that he got sick. His doctor finally told his mom that she had to let him go outside and get dirty. She was not to clean him up! He was to get dirty and stay that way until evening and only then was she to bathe him! It was excruciatingly hard on her, but she did it for his sake. He got better….physically. Funny thing, he ended up crazy as a bed bug. But that is neither here nor there. (Yes, it does run in the family, smart aleck!)
My grandson, Buddha, used to be such a neat freak that when I gave him a sloppy joe for lunch he couldn’t eat it! He would pick it up, get sauce on his hand, put it down, wipe off his hand, pick it up, get sauce on his hand, put it down, …….you get the idea. Finally, I took pity on the poor little thing, cut it up and gave him a spoon. Sheesh! (Now, he could grow taters in those ears *wink*)
When I was coming up, those things never came into consideration. If they had, we would have never eaten a Louie burger. At this point it is my duty to warn any of you with a weak stomach not to read further. Mom, this means you.
Louie lived and worked next door to the service station that my dad was part owner of. We would go down to “help” dad at the station and he would send us next door for a burger. Louie and his wife, I never knew her name, lived and worked at their house. Louie cooked burgers on the stove in his kitchen. They were GREAT burgers. They were locally famous. Everyone went to Louie’s for a burger on a regular basis. This was good because at some point Louie apparently had a stroke or something and this is how Louie and his wife made their living. His wife would take the orders, give them to Louie, who would shuffle back to the kitchen and cook them, and his wife would chat with you up front until he shuffled back with your greasy bag. Louie couldn’t talk. His wife knew what he meant when he made his noises, but no one else did. She would tell you Louie said thank you and come back again. I used to wonder if Louie was actually saying something that ended in “and the horse you rode in on”, but who could tell?
The reason I believe that Louie had a stroke is that Louie shuffled when he walked and he had this other little thing that he did that was kinda telling. He drooled. Yeah, I know, right? Louie probably kept the handkerchief people in business because I never one time in my whole life ever saw Louie without one. He held them up to his chin to catch the drool. But the handkerchiefs were never wet. It was Louie that cooked. Not Mrs. Louie. Louie cooked. Hopefully with one hand.
Weren’t no hand sanitizer going on in Louie’s kitchen, I can tell you that. And no one ever thought one thing about it. It makes my mom gag when we talk about it now. Louie and his wife wouldn’t have a prayer of making a living on their own now. They’d have to depend on Social Security and Alpo now-days. But back then, they were independent and self sufficient. Proud people with a product to sell that people wanted and liked.
Maybe it was the drool that made Louie’s burgers taste so good?
OK, I’ll stop. My mom says I take this one too far.
We didn’t have flesh eating virus in those days. Or Ebola. And if we did, it was very well contained. We didn’t have AIDS, or Hanta Virus or HIV, or any of the new stuff that’s come along lately. There weren’t as many people in the world back then and mother nature wasn’t trying so hard to thin the herd.
We had stronger immune systems then. And the generation before us had even stronger ones. But, I digress.
I probably wouldn’t buy a burger from Louie today. But not for the reason you might think. It would just be too creepy to buy a burger from a 160 year old guy who’s too dried out to drool but who keeps on holding that dang old white handkerchief under his chin! Yuck!
Note to self: Nice girls don’t blog after they’ve taken their meds! Think about it!
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Posted by thought4food
May 18, 2007
I used to sing. I was pretty good at it. My ex played guitar with several bands and we were together for 10 years before he ever heard me sing. I never sang in front of people in those days, so I really did sing like nobody was listening because …..nobody was. I think it’s fair to say he was pretty much stunned when he heard it the first time.
It was on a tape player. (Can you say “LONG TIME AGO?????) I had been messing around with a new song I had heard and I forgot to erase it. He heard it by accident. He asked who in the hell that was. I said it was me. He didn’t believe me for one second because as far as he knew I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. Eventually he got me drunk enough to sing in front of him and prove it was me.
Back in the day we always had music. Everything was accompanied by music. People coming over to hang out always brought guitars, amps, harmonicas and whatever other instruments they had and we jammed. We went to other people’s houses and played. It was alright. And, back in the day, we had beer. I’ll be kind to my momma and leave it at that. So, we started gettin me all drunked up and I started to sing with them.
They came to the conclusion that I sounded like a cross between Stevie Nicks and Bonnie Raitt. With a slight quiver. That was pure terror. There was not enough alcohol invented to take that away. But they gave me songs and booze and I sang. Then one evening out in someone’s barn a sneaky varmint turned on a hidden tape recorder and taped me singing. A few weeks later we were at another guys house hanging out and playing. When I started to sing a song he jumped up and hollered, “You’re the girl on the tape!” I couldn’t figure out what he was talking about.
You have to remember that: 1. I was drunk. 2. I didn’t know about the tape.
So he played it and sure enough it was me. Have you ever heard yourself on tape? I really can’t stand it. I don’t mind hearing myself through my own ears inside of my head, but I hate hearing it from outside in. I almost spit up. But they all seemed to love it. So they hatch this plot. The guy who managed the local newspaper at the time was having a Christmas party at his house and had asked the guy who’s house we were at to get together a band and play at it.
Now I’m really thinking I shouldn’t have had those last couple of beers. They want me to sing. In front of people. A bunch of people. Maybe I’ll rethink that beer thing and just have a few more. Cuz those guys are really excited and happy and wanting this to happen. And deep inside of my alcohol induced haze I’m kinda thinkin this might be kinda cool, too. If I can keep from spitting up, that is.
So we practice. We practice a lot. We practice and we practice and I sing and I sing. I’m well on my way to becoming a raging alcoholic. Because there is no way on God’s green earth that I can sing in front of anyone without it. I’ve only been singing in front of my ex for about 3 or 4 months at this time. But it feels good to have people telling me that I can do something well. And everytime we practice more and more people show up to watch us. It’s all really new and exciting.
So, the fateful evening comes. Let me set the stage for you.
This was about 25 years ago. I was young and hot as a two dollar pistol. Long wavy chestnut brown hair, slender, an ass that looked like two puppies fighting under a blanket when I walked. They get me there and we’re in the back room. It’s almost time to go out. The plan is to keep me in the back of the group until it’s time for me to sing. That way I can get used to the atmosphere and I won’t be so nervous. They brought me a bottle of gin. All the quicker to schnocker you with, my dear. And I knocked that baby back as fast as I could.
Then we went out to the stage. It gets a little hazy around here. There were many people, pretty lights, music, clinking, talking, and then they brought me to the front and set me on a stool and started playing my music. I think I had my eyes closed because I was ok at first. I just started to sing and I was having fun for the first few lines. Then I noticed that it was very quiet in that place. I opened my eyes. Everyone was standing there with their drinks in their hands and they were all looking at me! I immediately stopped singing. I thought I had messed up really bad. I turned around and looked at the guys in the band. They said, “Keep singing, they love it!!”
I turned around and looked at all those faces again and they were nodding their heads yes! Holy Crap! The band started playing again and so I started singing again. They sang with me and they clapped and sometimes they just stood there and listened to me. It was probably the most incredible thing ever. I sang every song we practiced. Somewhere along the line I forget the rest of what happened. It all just sort of melts into one big good ol time.
We played alot of other places and I got to sing alot of other times. It was always a big surprise to me. And it always felt really great. But that first time will always be my favorite. I don’t do that anymore. But, once upon a time, long long ago………
I used to sing.
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Posted by thought4food
May 8, 2007
It’s Buddha’s birthday today. He is twelve. Criminy, how did he get this age so fast? Have we changed kids to dog years now? He put us on a “money diet” about a month ago so we could prepare for this momentous day. Told us we had to “slim down our budget” so that he could get more presents. He’s a lil corker, that one. This has nothing to do with the title of this blog, I just had to toss that one in.
One of my kids will invariably come to me at least once a week (there are three of them, I think they draw straws and take turns at this) and say, “Ma, it hurts when I do this:” and then proceed to make some kind of unholy, improbable gyration. My response is always, “Where is my rubber chicken? Then don’t DO that!” And I make like I’m hitting them on the head with the invisible rubber chicken. Well…….(insert maniacal laugh here) I bought a ……wait for it…….RUBBER CHICKEN at Eckerd’s Drug Store on Sunday! That’s right, folks. I am now the proud owner of a brand new rubber chicken! Oh the joy I felt in my heart at the sight of that little ol box just chock full of rubber chickens! The heavens opened up, a beam of pure heavenly light fell upon it, and the choir of angels began to sing! A real live rubber chicken! In all my days I never thought to really own one of my own! I snatched that bad boy up before anyone could stop me and nearly ran to the checkout counter to pay for it. Then, I took it to My Dearest Husband’s cousin, Turtle Neck’s, birthday party. Heh.
Oh My God! If I had not been there myself, I would never have believed that it was possible to come up with three solid hours of cock jokes. But we did. Luckily we all have very low humor thresholds. Doesn’t matter what it is, we can find a way to laugh at it. (If you have a sensitive bone in your body it won’t be good for you to attend a family funeral with us.)
Every person there, adults and children alike, played with my cock. Technically it’s not a cock, but like I said, we have a low humor threshold. We choked the chicken. The kids tossed my cock around the yard. My Dearest Husband hit Possum’s friend Bubbles in the face with my cock.
Birdie, my only natural child and the mother of Buddha and Bella, was half mad at me and half jealous when I told her I had it. She said that her boyfriend is really afraid of looking forward to meeting me, because he wants to know where she gets her crazy unique way of looking at things. First thing she said when I told her I had it was this: Where’s my rubber chicken? Then don’t DO that!!! HAHAHA
It was almost as good as the time the Pillsbury Dough-boy died. Well, the voice of him did. We did jokes all damn day. We speculated all day about whether he committed suicide by sticking his head in the oven, or if he died of a yeast infection. We thought we should send flour to his family. We thought maybe we could bring about a miracle by putting him in a warm draft free place, placing a dishtowel over him, and seeing if maybe he would rise.
*sigh* Good times, Good times.
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Posted by thought4food
April 17, 2007
I suffer from a terrible, terrible disorder. It affects millions of people the world over. Sadly there is no cure. *sob*
This horrible malady causes a melting effect of the face that is frightening to little children and disheartening to the sufferers. It leaches all color out of the hair, and causes an extreme overgrowth of the skin that creates a sagging effect on the body of the afflicted.
Strange lines and grooves appear in the faces, hands, arms, even……yes, even the legs of these poor, poor individuals. Tiny dark spots show up out of nowhere. They bend over as if weighted down. Yet no weight shows up on any photograph or scientific test.
But the most debilitating of all of the symptoms of this terrible disease are the mental ones. Imagine putting on your glasses to hunt for your glasses because you can’t see to look for your glasses without your glasses on! Oh! How horrible!
Try, if you only can, to imagine burning the hair in your nose because you tried to light a cigarette that you forgot to put in your mouth! *gasp*
Sad……so sad. 😦
Imagine going to a fast food drive thru, taking your false teeth out and wrapping them in a napkin while you eat, then tossing them out with the trash. *sigh*
This malady is the scourge of millions worldwide. It has no cure. Send no money. There is nothing we can do but cry.
Youth Deficiency! Damn You! Damn You! Da Hey Look! I found my hair brush! I’ve been looking for that!………Uh…… What was I saying?
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Posted by thought4food
April 17, 2007
It amazes me that in the the most advanced time that we know of on this earth, in one of the most socially, economically, and scientifically advanced countries on this earth, we still can’t manage to keep our asses out of each other’s bedrooms!
Who cares if gay couples get married? How in the hell does that possibly have any contrary effect on heterosexual couples? And don’t come thumping any Bibles at me either. Let me just remind you that one of the main reasons this country was founded was the desire for religious freedom. That means that you don’t get to pound your mainstream Christian beliefs down my throat.
We no longer need to be fruitful and multiply. I think it’s pretty plain for anyone to see that the human race has gotten that one down pat. We might even be said to have been excessively successful at it. So, other than procreation, what is the problem?
Let’s just put it bluntly. Because heterosexuals are in the majority, we can just refuse to allow anyone in a minority the same rights and protections as us because they are different. I thought we took care of that kind of idiotic thinking with the civil rights movement. I guess not quite.
It’s funny….I notice that when children are young, you have to point out to them the same lesson over and over. They don’t have the ability to apply a lesson learned in one situation to a slightly different situation. It takes a little bit of maturity and a little bit of intelligence for them to get the hang of it. Sadly it seems that we haven’t reached that point as a country yet.
Aside from the fact that I just don’t feel like someone else’s sexuality is my business, the problem I most have with the national feeling against gay marriage is this: if it’s OK for the majority to tell gay people who they are allowed to marry, how long will it be before they can tell YOU who YOU can marry?
That may sound alarmist to you, all comfy and safe in your bed with your husband or wife. But what if your spouse is of a different faith than you? What if that becomes politically incorrect? What if the majority suddenly decides that interfaith marriages are a security risk? What if they’re un-American? What happens if you can’t marry the person you love because their faith is one thing and yours is another?
Not their business, you say? What about the separation of Church and State, you ask? Good question! What about that? There are plenty of churches ready and willing to marry gay couples. The states won’t legalize the marriages. Their reasons are all based on religious beliefs. That is a pure, unadulterated violation of the rules governing the separation of Church and State. Go figure. Not the first example by far, and certainly won’t be the last.
Here’s the deal. We let it slide that two people who love each other and are willing to make a legal binding commitment to each other, be told that they can’t do it because someone doesn’t like what they do in bed together. We let it slide because it isn’t us. We let it slide because we are ignorant, embarrassed, afraid. We let it slide. And the next thing that happens is, someone is standing in our bedroom door making judgements about whatever private things we do that are none of their damn business, and saying that we can’t do it because the majority says it’s wrong.
Couldn’t happen here, could it? Not in America. Not in the land of the free. Well, it’s not really free anymore though, is it?
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Posted by thought4food
April 15, 2007
I am at a total loss as to an explanation for sickness. What possible purpose does it serve in the vast scheme of things? Why should we become ill and then get well? Why should we become ill at all? What is the underlying cosmically necessary meaning behind it all?
Couldn’t there have been some other teeny tiny prey for a virus to pounce upon that didn’t live in my body? You would think that either the Higher Power(s) or evolution would have hit upon something! Seriously! There could have been herds of little cow like creatures roaming around in snotty stuff for viruses to feast upon and we would never have been the wiser. Or how about little rodentesque critters scampering around hiding in obscure places for viruses to ferret out?
The viruses could have banded together and made little slaughter houses to deal with the varmints they caught! And for those vegan viruses there could have been little plant stuffies for them to eat. Nutritionally sound if consumed in the proper quantities. Why would that have been a problem? Why didn’t it develope that way? Instead we’re stuck with viruses and an immune system!
The way I see it is this: My body wouldn’t need an immune system if there wasn’t anything for it to be immunized against. So, why sickness? What is it’s purpose? Why not just be well until we die?
We should live long healthy lives until the very moment that we keel over dead. Or at least not get sick until it’s time to die. Yeah! That’s it! We’ll be totally well for all our lives! The only time we get sick will be the one and only time in our lives we will ever be sick. Then……kaplooey! Yer dead.
Sounds good, doesn’t it? Until you’re skipping down the street having the time of your life, and suddenly……ACHOOOOO!
Uh oh! *gulp*
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Posted by thought4food
April 11, 2007
If you have a problem with people saying what they think, you might want to stop reading right here. Because unlike Imus, I won’t be coming back later to apologize for saying it. As far as I know we still live in America. I still have a right to free speech. If you don’t like what I say, you still have a right not to listen to it.
I understand why a politician will apologize for making a remark that most intelligent people will naturally notice is remarkably stupid, like Imus did. They have a future riding on their ability to appeal to a majority of the people in their districts.
Entertainment personalities, especially “shock jocks” like Imus, on the other hand, are supposedly making their living by saying incredibly stupid things on a regular basis. Why should they bow to the pressure of public opinion and apologize for saying it? Hell, why bother apologizing for it at all? It’s out there for all time now anyway. You can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube, dude. All you’re gonna do now is smear it all over the counter.
Imus has a right to say whatever stupid thing he wants to say. As long as he doesn’t violate any FCC rules and regs he can say anything he likes and we have no right to censure him. If we don’t like what he says we have the option of simply turning him off. As long as Imus keeps his dumb ass off my property, he can say all of the backwardly stupid, inbred thinking, family-tree doesn’t branch kind of stuff he wants to and I’ll defend his right to say it to the death.
I don’t have to agree with him, what he says, how he thinks, or even the fact that in some areas he obviously can’t or hasn’t thought. It doesn’t matter that I believe that he is probably making remarks like this out of some sort of self hatred. He has a right to be an idiot on the air if he wants to and he doesn’t have to apologize to anyone for it! He owes no one an apology for being less than a decent human. Being a creditable, decent, humane individual isn’t a requirement for having your rights protected in this country.
We in America need to remember that we are guaranteed the right of free speech. We don’t need to apologize to anyone for the things we say. Whatever stupid, ignorant, ill thought out, uneducated, pitiful opinions we might have, we are free to state them to the world if we want to and we don’t owe apologies to anyone for them.
We are free in this country to be idiots, racists, bigots, and fools if we want to. It’s a free country. So, I say: Go Imus! Talk it up!
Just make sure you stay away from my house because your right to free speech ends at my property line. I have no problem with temporarily seceding from the Union and kicking your sorry ass from here to next week.
Barring that, talk on, ya idiot! I’ll defend your right to do so on the public airwaves until America isn’t America anymore. Which could be next year if we keep on in the same way we’re going now.
I’ll put the coffee on the for the Homeland Security guys, just in case. If having sex on an airplane is in their domain, defending Imus’ right to be an idiot might be too. *sigh*
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Posted by thought4food
April 10, 2007
My dearest husband and I have the best friends. Wow! This one is going to be harder than I thought. See, it’s really hard to say exactly how great our friends are. It’s easy to tell about the kind of friends who come over on Saturday and drink a beer and hang out. Or the kind of friends who watch the Superbowl with you.
But our friends are so much more than that. If you’ve read much of this site you might know that last September our house burned down. In the minutes, hours, days, weeks, and months since then we have been firmly in the palm of our friends’ hands. They have kept us with them, safe and sane.
While Bella was in the hospital, our friends kept Buddha and Possum with them, bought them clothes, school supplies, etc. They bought us clothes. They taught the grand-kids that when bad things happen, their world will pull together instead of explode apart like it had always done in the past. Our friends changed the way they looked at their world and its possibilities. They changed the kind of world our grandkids live in.
We are their grandparents, giving them a safe place to land comes with the job description. Our friends are a different story. They didn’t have to do that. They didn’t have to do any of the things they did and they would have still been our friends and we would have still loved them just the same. But they did do it. They made a circle around our kids, all three of them, that made them feel safe and secure in a way that we could never have done because we were in the same boat they were in and at the time we couldn’t do it.
Now, our friends are the most eclectic group of people you could ever hope to meet. No two of them are even remotely alike. We couldn’t have gone out with the intention of picking completely different people for friends and done as good a job. And yet, they are all remarkably alike in several respects. They are all fantastic people. They are all interesting. They are all interested. They are all intelligent in the extreme. They are all fun and funny. They are all thoughtful and kind. They all have remarkably different personalities. Some are shy, some are extroverted, some are hyper, some are laid back, some are psycho, (ok, I’m in that category) some are insanely sane.
But when push comes to shove, we move like a well oiled machine. We have gone from single, to married, job to job, dating to parents, and now to grandparents. And we are still here, still together, still a unit. Sometimes we see each other more often, sometimes less, but we are always in each others thoughts and we are always in each others hearts.
We all have our faults and our quirks. We like that about each other. It’s those very things that make us all unique and intriguing to each other. We have differences of opinion. That’s what makes a horse-race. We like that too. We’ve all made mistakes. That’s why they put erasers on pencils. That’s just one more way we’re all alike. We learn from each other. I can learn more from one night with my friends than I can from 6 days on the Internet. And that’s saying something. I’ve been to the end of the Internet and back several times now.
I’m the oldest of everyone. The youngest of our friends is about 30 years younger than me. That gives a pretty broad range of perspectives.
I wouldn’t trade our friends for anything on the face of this earth. Not one thing. Because as long as we have them and each other, there is nothing else we need, and nothing we need that we won’t have. And as long as they have us and each other, if we have a dime, they have a nickel.
There needs to be a word between friend and family. Framily. That’s what they are. Our Framily. And if I had tried to invent them I wouldn’t have done as good a job.
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Posted by thought4food
April 7, 2007
I remember the first time I realized that I was me. That I was a real person. That I was separate from everyone else.
I was about 5 years old. I woke up in my bed with the sun shining just like every morning. I was coming downstairs to find my mom, just like every morning. When I got to the bottom of the stairs and started across the living room, I saw my shadow on the wall.
It hit me then. I was a person. You can’t have a shadow if you aren’t a person. I stopped. My shadow stopped. I moved. My shadowed moved. I looked at my hands. They moved, they opened, closed. They did everything I told them to do. I was a real person. All by myself. Totally enclosed and complete! I was somebody!
When I looked up from my hands the entire room looked different. The sun was brighter. It almost blinded me. It was very hot. I couldn’t remember feeling it so hot on my skin before. I could see a bajillion dusties floating around in it. I wondered why they never made me sneeze and if they could clog up my new lungs. That was how I felt. New.
I had just been made into a real person. I had just been made into me and turned on. I said my name to myself over and over. I danced in the living room, I danced in the dining room, I danced in the kitchen where my mom was at. I wondered if she knew that I was a person.
She didn’t seem to notice. I thought that maybe she was too busy to see it. I would just keep it a secret for now. I wanted it for myself for a while. I wanted to be me all to myself just for now. I would tell her I was me later. It might hurt her feelings to find out that I wasn’t her anymore. I didn’t want to hurt momma’s feelings. I was too happy right then.
I spent that whole day watching my feet walk, my hands make mud pies, my mouth chew, my hair fly in the wind, my eyes move in my head. I saw me running in other peoples’ windows. I felt the sidewalk hit my feet. I concentrated all day long on what it felt like to be me. It was pretty heady stuff, that being me all by myself.
And, I kinda liked the secret. I decided to keep it for a while longer. I giggled to myself for days. I watched everyone with my secret self eyes. No one else would know but me, because I was the only one who was me, now.
In the end, I’m not sure I ever did tell momma that I wasn’t her anymore. My daughter never told me that she wasn’t me anymore either. Maybe we all end up being kind enough not to tell our momma’s that.
The older I get, and the more I talk to my momma, I sometimes wonder if not being your momma is something that gets reversed as we age. Because, unbeknownst to any of us at the time, my mom, I, and my daughter all taught ourselves to tie our shoes with our left hand, you know, just in case we should ever need to know how to do that. (insert innocent “what????” face here)
Y’all all do that too, right?………….RIGHT????????
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Thought For Food 