From Hair to There

January 2013

For as long as I can remember

my hair has always been 

a prized possession

and an indicator 

of my emotional state.

When I was little 

it hung down to my waist

and my Grandma Maggie would

sit me down every afternoon 

to comb and curl 

and fasten with giant elastic ponytail holders.

The unwieldy holders 

with the big colorful balls

that would regularly snap from around my hair,

hit her knuckles 

and squeeze an "Ay!!!!"

from under her breath.

I'd sit with my drying curls in my hands

and watch "Facts of Life"

before going to play GI Joe

with my cousin Kevin.

My mom kept my hair long

and treated it with 

the most expensive shampoos and conditioners.

A luxury I didn't truly appreciate

until decades later 

when I lived on my own

and could only afford Suave.

The first time my dad took me to get a haircut

I told the girl I wanted it to my shoulders.

My dad begrudgingly gave in

wholly regretting it later 

when my mom met us at the door

with tears and shrieks
and

"Oh my god you're HAIR!!!!!"

I was 11
and it was my first rebellion.

At 14 I dyed it burgundy
with an ancient box of Clairol

and she grounded me for a month,

and when I was a senior in high school

and the cheer coach quit
at the beginning of the year,

I felt angry and abandoned

and like I needed a new identity.

So I cut off a foot and a half of hair

and said goodbye to my cheer ponytail

forever.

The summer before college,

in love with Paul but feeling

like my skin didn't fit,

I left the Newport beach house

my friend's parents rented every summer,

walked to a local salon

and paid $100 to cut it all off.

My poor boyfriend
wondered what had happened to me.

As the years have worn on

it's been every length

and every color.

Long and short and in between.

Dec. 2009 - My favorite 3 year old girl is also in this picture

Jet black and sassy.

February 2006 - mine and my BFF's best hair day ever

A reddish Louis Brooks interpretation.

 

Summer 2011 - Ugh with the cigs

I am secretly addicted

to cutting my own bangs in the mirror

at midnight 

with fabric scissors

and having to get them fixed 

by a professional

when the sun rises

the next day.

With both babies

the mixture of hormones and prenatals

made for long luxurious locks,

but without fail I would come 

to take shears out on myself

when months later
I couldn't make sense of anything

let alone what to do with long hair.

The last time I dramatically cut my hair

James was 10 months old

and my relationship with his father

was a mess of knots.

I wanted to cut away the past,

the energy,

the memories of some pretty tough years.

For months I had pleaded with my girlfriend Renee to chop it,

but believing it only to be a case of the baby insanity,

she refused.

Finally after months of my relentless insistence,

she caved and cut my bra band length hair into a pixie.

March 2009 - That baby face is killig me

It's been growing for almost 4 years

and I can't remember the last time I dyed it.

I'm sprouting grays

and sometimes I fantasize

about doing something crazy

with the cut and color,

but truly the desire is not there.

Sometimes I think it's because now I'm boring

(which I kind of am)

but also I think it may be because I'm content.

On Marriage

Calm down

no one's getting married any time soon,

let's not get ahead of ourselves.

Had I gotten married at any point in my 20s

it would have been solely because

I wanted to throw a party.

I wanted a wedding

not a marriage.

The idea of forever and ever

was colored by a fantasy pen;

all pretty dresses and flowers

and presents.

Lots of presents.

I finally broke the news to my mom

that the time for elaborate plans

and insanity has come to a close.

If anyone decides to put a ring on it,

it'll be in a backyard

or a forest.

I would say that up until recently

I had no idea of what a relationship was made of

let alone a marriage.

No clue about a partnership

or maturity

or unselfishness.

Me: Party of 1

all day every day.

When I got pregnant with James

his dad made a half-hearted proposal

while I sat on his lap at my kitchen table.

"So...do you want to?"

"Yeah.  I guess."

I spent the next two weeks 

researching elopement

and the Santa Barbara courthouse

and finally decided 

that I just couldn't do it 

without my parents.

And so the idea was tabled until we imploded

and never got back there again.

He didn't want to marry me.

I wanted to marry him,

but only to save face.

Like somehow if I was married

you wouldn't see that I had gotten pregnant accidentally.

Again.

Or that I was in a failing relationship

and it was unraveling 

and I felt like a fraud.

I think about how sure I was that I wanted

to be married to my first love

at the ripe ol' age of 18.

It makes me laugh.

How positive I was that everyone was crazy

when they said 

we'd be completely different people in our 20s

and 30s and so on.

I know a few couples who make it look really easy.

And I also know a few divorcees.

I have nothing but admiration for my friends

who took the leap young,

but I feel pretty far from it at present.

It's seems that the happier I am in my relationship

the less I feel a drive to validate it to others and myself.

Because I see now that all this time

I only saw marriage as a way to show the outside world

that I was loved and worthy

and I don't have to do that right now.

Because I have the blessing of contentment

and it is 

PRICELESS.

And it's way better

than that ridiculous Robbins Bros. ring I picked out

two lifetimes ago.

Camping as Spiritual Experience

Love nest. 

This past weekend

Paul and I went camping

with 100 of my friends.

100 friends?!?!?

Yes 100 friends.

Every year a big group

of my people

heads out to Lake Piru

for 3 to 5 days

of heat and dirt and 

water fun.

I have avoided it

for 5 years strong

as it has always conflicted

with a weekend retreat 

I take in Malibu.

My retreat consists

of a private room 

at a peaceful monastery,

a massage,

and delicious meals 

prepared on a regular schedule.

Weekend in Malibu > Weekend in Piru

This year the retreat was moved

to the third weekend in August

so I had no excuse to miss

the annual camp out.

Admittedly I was resistant.

I didn't want to be hot.

I didn't want to be dirty.

I didn't want to overwhelm my guy

with having to meet and hangout

with a gazillion new people.

I hadn't been camping in 10+ years 

and it seemed

uncomfortable.

On the other hand,

Paul is a camper.

He has taken Lucas 

numerous times over the years

and also enjoys annual trips 

with his brother and friends.

I would venture to say

it is his preferred form of vacation.

Last week I came by his house

and he had started 

to get the gear together.

He had also begun writing

our "menu"for the weekend 

and beyond being adorable,

the gesture seemed to ignite a flicker

of excitement in me.

But only a flicker.

Then on Thursday we researched

Dutch oven recipes

and hit up Target.

By Friday I was pumped.

Lucas was in Arizona visiting family

with Paul's mom

and James was with his dad

so the trip was just us.

We left in rush hour traffic because

I couldn't get out of work any earlier

and had to stop twice because

there was a need for beverages and snacks (him)

and for new sunglasses (me).

Two hours later we made it

and started our weekend.

We cooked a tri-tip on the campfire (success!)

and attempted a pineapple upside down cake (failure!).

My guy was patient and kind

as he walked me through a refresher course

 in how to camp.

Always keep the tent door zipped!

Don't eat in the tent!

Kindling and a teepee-shaped start

make for a good fire!

And it turns out...

I love camping!

A uniform of no make-up

and jean shorts suits this girl 

just fine and dandy.

There had been a giant flash rainstorm

before we arrived Friday so it wasn't 

as dusty as I had expected.

The weather cooperated too

and it wasn't uncomfortably hot at all.

Saturday my sweet friend Michele

took us out on her boat for a bit

I spy a 4 star resort. 

So fun.

and I survived my first tubing experience.

I am holding on SO tight and the boat wasn't moving yet.

My guy is a camping minimalist

so we didn't have an air mattress

which for this side-sleeper 

made for sore arms and hips.

I think I have him convinced to buy camping pads.  

Cross your fingers people.

Cross. Your. Fingers.

And we didn't bring any s'mores supplies

which was a major bummer when Paul turned out

the world's most awesome fire and coals

Saturday night.

Really my only whining stemmed

from feeling dirty.

I'm a big fan of showers

and scented body wash

and lotion and perfume

and and and forever more.

I tried to make the whole weekend

sans shower but I just couldn't.

Thankfully my sweet Jaimie

The yin to my yang.

let me sneak into her RV for some hot water/lather action

and Paul was grateful too so that I could finally 

stop whining.

 We had such a great time

and we make a good team

and I think our time

together with each other,

apart hanging with other campers,

and letting him into the circle

of my closest friends

was magic times infinity. 

 We left talking about next year here at Piru,

a May trip in Yosemite, 

and Lake Isabella in a few weeks.

I left on a pink cloud 

and a super high of knowing

that I am one hell of a lucky girl.

This guy...

Camperforlyfe yo.

1-8-5

185.

That is how many pounds

I weighed yesterday

when I got on my parents' scale.

It is only 6 pounds less

than what I weighed

the day I brought James home 

from the hospital.

It is 42 pounds heavier 

than the weight 

I put on  my license

when I was 17.

143 pounds.

A lie by the way.

I think I weighed

somewhere in the 150s.

My 29 year old self wants to punch my 16 year old self for hating this bod.

I have struggled with my weight

my entire life.

Always hating something

about my body.

My stomach has always been soft,

my shoulders broad,

my feet too big.

I love vintage clothes

but have never been able 

to really fit into them

and

I think the last time

I felt comfortable in a bikini

I was 5.

I put myself 

on my first real diet 

when I was in 5th grade.

Skipping breakfast and lunch

and jumping on a ski machine 

after dinner.

High school was much

of the same

and my unhealthy body image

fueled unhealthy habits.

I'm pretty sure I've been

on every single diet ever.

Atkins.

4-hour body.

"Eat nothing and Drink only lemon water" diet.

(I think I made that one up)

In college I subsisted

on caffeine, nicotine, and diet pills.

And I was genuinely disappointed

when they outlawed my favorite

weight loss go to.

Strokes and death be damned,

I needed to be summer ready.

The first time I remember 

really loving every inch of my body

was when I was pregnant with Lucas.

Yeah I gained 75 pounds 

and got lost in a triple-chinned,

swollen foot,

moon face haze,

but I was growing a baby dammit

and I loved myself for it.

3 days before he was born.  Fat and happy.

I was barely 21

and my body bounced back.

By his 1st birthday

I had lost all of the weight

on Weight Watchers

and running 4 to 5 times a week.

When I got pregnant with James

I was somewhere in the low 160s

which sounds like a lot,

but my clothes were fitting well

and I was feeling good.

I gained 60 pounds with him

and lost most of it quickly.

However by the his 1st birthday

the depression of my failing relationship

had ballooned me 

to almost my pregnancy weight.

Yesterday as I looked for pictures for this post 

 the boys and I came across images

from his birthday party

and James didn't recognize me.

I have yo-yoed ever since

and cannot seem to get where 

I like the size of my clothes.

I no longer hate my body

but I know it should be healthier.

One of my worst habits

is that I hate to exercise

and another 

is my love affair with cake.

My 30th birthday is

5 months and 1 week away

and I would like to feel

hotter, healthier, and stronger.

Yes in that order.

The goal:

lose 30 pounds by January 29th.

Bring myself down

to a weight I remember feeling 

good about.

I know from past experiences

that if I set up a big elaborate plan

I will fall short and give up

so I'm starting with small goals.

Yesterday I weighed myself

and took measurements.

I set a goal of doing something active

for 30 minutes

3 times this week.

I ran intervals on the local track

while Lucas was in swim class

and of course it felt great.

Next week I'd like to do that

and maybe use that exercise ball

collecting dust under the stairs.

The one I constantly yell at the boys

not to bounce in the house.

So here's to 5 months

and 1 week of getting

in better shape.

And for honesty's sake...

I'm not giving up cake.

Soil

A few years ago

I made a new friend.

I think I can remember

the exact moment 

I knew

she was my people.

It was a summer weeknight

and we went for ice cream at Ride Aid,

her 4 year old daughter in tow,

and we spent an hour perusing 

the aisles.

Of Rite Aid.

And we didn't buy anything.

And it was so much fun.

There is something about this friend

that makes me feel safe.

Un-judged.

Peaceful.

She has come over

many a late night

to let me talk

and then cry

and then laugh

and then talk some more.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

She and I play tennis

with our thoughts

and feelings

and perceptions;

about this world we live in,

the men we have loved,

the mistakes we have made,

the children that have chosen us

to be their mothers.

She has answered my call

when:

I wanted to go dancing,

when I needed help moving,

when I wanted to hike Runyon,

and a zillion other random requests.

Her soul is just a little older 

than mine,

but we've been friends for lives

past and present.

There really is no one else I know

who I am more myself with

and I am so grateful.

Sometimes

I want to know 

someone understands me

in all my neurotic,

obsessive,

insecure,

glory.

Someone who sees me.

And still loves me.

Someone who reminds me

that all of this is circumstantial.

Our true truths

are of another world entirely.

Saturday we played phone tag a bit

and finally were on the phone 

at nearly 11pm.

I told her I had

a full head and a heavy heart

and she was at my house

in an hour,

her now 6 year old daughter in tow.

She and I were BFF in a past life too.  Swear.

We stayed up late talking

and in the morning

she and her daughter and my boys

all piled into my bed

for chats and giggles

until we got up

and I made breakfast.

The kids played

and we cooked

and then somehow

we all managed to get ready 

and out the door

for an afternoon pool party.

My blood pressure

never rose above zen.

A few months ago

we were talking

about relationships.

About how sometimes 

we want things from the men

in our lives

that they are incapable 

of giving.

She told me about

her belief

that men and women

are like seeds and soil.

The seed cannot 

give anything to the soil

because it has nothing to give.

The soil nurtures the seed

and must get its nourishment 

from other sources.

Other soil.

She said women must be like that,

we must be each other's soil.

And so she is with me.

Palm Springs is for Lovers

The last time 

I celebrated Paul's birthday
with him

he was turning 18.

I made his mom's enchiladas,

blindfolded the poor guy,

and took him to my favorite spot in the world;

the sand in front of the beach house

I shared with my girlfriends

every 1st week of August 

since my freshman year.

Before this past weekend,

the only time we had

ever gone away together

we spent a day and night

camping in San Onofre

and we were freshmen in college

and our parents were pissed

and we never...ahem...left the tent.

This birthday he will be 30

and we have a few more bucks

and our parents watched our kid

and we managed to...ahem...leave the room.

Honestly
I only have a few pictures
and a few words
because it was such
a precious time
I didn't want to spoil it
then
with a camera in my face
or now
with too many details.

I over-packed.

We left Friday around 11am

and time pretty much

became play dough 

after that.

Paul works graveyard in the ER

and had done so Wednesday
and Thursday night

so I drove his car.

This is a point of contention

between us

because admittedly 

I am a terrible driver

and he is a control freak.

For all my hopes and wishes

he never fell asleep

and so I had to listen to a litany of 

"Don't rev the engine"

and 

"Eassssy...easssssy".

At one point when I thought 

he'd drifted off

I reached for my phone 

to check the directions

and without moving his

head he plucked 

the phone from my hand.

It's all very funny to me now

but ask me again in 30 years.

We pulled into town

as the Germany/Greece match began

which meant the birthday boy's 

first request was to find a sports bar.

For those of you not dating 

soccer fans,

it is Euro Cup time,

which means every few days

90+ minutes are dedicated to intense

soccer viewing.

We stopped at a place called

Over the Top Sports Bar

which was comfortably cold

and host to a few German fans

and a pretty yummy steak salad.

Afterward we checked into

our room at Los Arboles

and my guy who had been up

since 6pm the night before

finally fell asleep.

I napped and then spent

a few blissful hours

watching cable from the comfort

of the world's biggest, softest
most amazing bed.

We had dinner and dessert

at Las Casuelas

where I had shrimp tacos and gucamole

and then we walked it off
around Downtown Palm Springs.

She was hanging in Downtown too.

The next morning we did

what we really wanted to do

with our time alone...

we slept in.

When we finally got up and going

we stopped at Wal-Mart for snacks

and Woody's for lunch

and then headed to the Aerial Tram

for a mid-day hike and adventure.

Tram bound.

Let's paint some happy trees.

The weather was beyond beautiful at the top

and we hiked for a few hours

before stopping at the viewing deck

to eat trail mix and apples

and watch little kids chase squirrels.

We came down and drove back

and finally got in the pool.

The water was delicious.

And so were the margaritas

and chips

and my second serving
of gucamole.

We had an 8 o'clock reservation

at Copely's

where we ate 4 courses of amazing

under the stars.

Lobster risotto anyone?

After that,
I think it was my terrible idea

to head to Morongo casino.

I am an ex-smoker from hell

who doesn't like crowds, 

so a smoke-filled casino

filled to the brim
with frenzied gamblers

was probably not the best place

for me to be on a Saturday night.

I lost 20 of Paul's dollars
on a slot machine

and was ready to go home after that.

The next morning we headed to

El Mirasol,
a Mexican restaurant
attached to our hotel

where I had the world's best

Chilaquiles and eggs.

And more guacamole.

After we checked out
we headed to the 

Hair of the Dog English Pub

to watch the Italy/England match
with a bunch o' Brits.

Mixed in with the rest
of the weekend
was a bunch
of snuggling
and chatting
and laughing
and a photo booth
and a $1.99 red turban too.

It was bliss.

And Paul drove home.

Let's Get Blindsided!

I was going to write about somethng else today.

And then I put on my brightest, friendliest skirt,

blow dried my hair,

and came into my fabulous office

to start the day.

I was well-rested and positive-vibed.

Good thing too

because my boss walked in

shortly after me,

closed the door behind her,

and gave me the option of a pay cut

or 2 weeks to find a new job.

And the boys and I

wouldn't be able to survive

with the pay cut,

so I guess I have 2 weeks

to find a new job.

No pressure.

The strange thing about me is

that last week I couldn't find my ATM card

and nearly had to be committed to the looney bin

but here the sledgehammer drops

and I get focused.

Super quiet

zen-like

focus.

I mean I want to barf a little

and maybe later I'll cry

but right now:

survival mode.

I'm really fucking scared

but I know deep down

it's going to be OK.

I'm really fucking disappointed too.

Because I love my job.

What I do

and where I work.

Who I meet every day.

Because this was supposed to be IT.

But it's not.

Apparently there is another IT

on the horizon.

Something grand after another 

uphill climb.

But oh that damned uphill climb.

I've climbed so many mountains

I should be an Eagle Scout.

And sometimes I don't want to be the strong one.

Oh that Christina...

she's just so strong.

Well you know what

sometimes I want to crawl

into the fetal position

and give up.

But that's not an option

so I guess I'll just dust off that resume

start making calls

cross my fingers and toes

plug my nose

put on my seat belt

and dig in. 

Game on.

Kicking ass in a cute skirt since '83.

The Ex Files

I got a mad crush on one of the guys in this picture.

For those of you just joining us,

my children have different fathers.

To further add a twist,

I am currently dating

the father of my eldest son.

We were high school sweethearts in 2000,

broken up in 2002,

accidentally pregnant in 2003,

barely tolerant of each other in the subsequent years,

and for the last few months...

a couple.

Christina and Paul 2.0

In those 10ish years we were apart

we obviously dated other people.

I went on to have another son

and he went on to

not have any more children.

That...
has had it's own feelings to figure out.

We co-existed in a strange realm
where we would have been totally OK
with never, ever speaking again
but instead had to see one another
almost every day.

No matter how much of our non-child related lives

we tried to keep personal,
or how much we didn't want to be around one another,
we shared a son and were thus forced
to take somewhat front row seats to each other's lives.

That means he knows a lot about my ex
and I know a lot about his.

That also means he knows
a lot about the uglier sides of my sunny disposition.

And I his.

All new relationships
exist on the suspended belief that
your new guy or girl is pretty awesome
and almost perfect.

The days go on and you begin
to peel away layers,
uncovering this annoying trait
or that cumbersome piece of emotional baggage.

It is tricky business to already kind of know
what you're getting yourself into.

It is trickier business still
when his ex is a part
of an extended circle of friends

and my ex is the father of my other son.

Honestly tricky is not even the word.

It is getting to know someone
I already know

but don't really  know

all while our skeletons hang everywhere
except in the closet.

I exist in a sort of suspended state
where the past must be forgiven
and mostly forgotten,

and the long time future
is left unplanned and un-discussed

because it can be
terrifying and pressure filled

and really if we were a brand new couple

with only a few months behind us
no one would be asking me
about marriage and co-habitation.

Lay off folks.

And really the only one who
consistently asks me if we're getting married...

is our son.

This little man
who has only known us apart
is trying to reconcile
the latest developments.

And truthfully we've tried to
keep it all separate...

Paul and Christina
starring in

"Mom & Dad"

and

Paul & Christina
in

"Grown-Ups who Hang Out and Kiss and Stuff".

But honestly
when parents are under the impression

that they're keeping a secret from their kid

the only ones they're really fooling

are themselves.

'Twas blindingly apparent
a few months ago when
Lucas bounded into the kitchen and asked,

"Are you guys in loooooove?"

All while Paul and I stood
miles away from each other.

I dunno. Maybe.

Kids man.

I mean really I'm not much
of a believer in happily ever afters.

I think relationships are hard

and they take work

and there are no guarantees.

It's gritty, dirty, messy business.

Or so my jaded side believes.

My glitter-wearing,
unicorn-riding,
cotton-candy eating
lovely love self
believes that relationships
are sweetness and laughter
and wanting to be better
for myself and for him.

After all...
not everyone gets a do-over.

I mean if it's gonna be such messy work
I might as well have someone around
that I really, really like.

He is wearing a teeny, tiny pirate hat.  I am wearing the look of love.

B.F.F. (Or Not)

I went to an all-girls Catholic high school.

An idea most people meet with

a look of horror,

but I loved it.

I mean not initially.

Initially I was convinced

that my parents hated me

and never wanted  me to find a boyfriend.

I got pregnant anyway. Sorry mom!

The dress code was a uniform

with "free dress" days

that allowed for pedal pushers.

Pedal. Pushers.

I mean

the fact that we had to wear penny loafers

was a degree of fashion torture

that can probably be blamed

for my adulthood obsession with heels.

And I still remember

getting a detention

for constantly wearing red nail polish

to my sophomore algebra class.

I'm currently rocking lavender grey nails.  Take that!

But once I settled into

the dude free uniformed existence

I loved it.

Mostly I loved it

because I had a host of girlfriends.

Originally there were 17 of us,

then 12,

and then 8 plus the one

who'd moved away.

A motley crew

of freshman driftwood

that somehow glommed onto to one another

on the concrete

outside of the home ec room

sometime around September '95.

17 years ago. Whoa.

Some of them

had already been friends for years

but not me.

I was the only one

from my group of elementary friends

that had gone on

to that high school.

  

I remember Brianne and Kierra,

older, more experienced sophomores,

telling us that it wouldn't always be this way.

That we would all go on

in different directions someday.

If you can count your closest friends on one hand,

you're lucky.

I shook my head.

No, no, not us,

I thought.

We're bonded forever and ever,

the end.

I don't know

how we all landed together

but we did,

and we stayed that way

through 4 years of high school.

We were

cheerleaders and homecoming queens,

soccer players and ASB leaders,

choir members and drama kids.

Drinkers and pot smokers,

mean girls (to others and each other)

and community volunteers,

journal writers and note passers.

Dichotomies and contradictions,

blondes and brunettes,

little girls growing up together.

We bore witness to each other’s

first loves,

heartbreaks,

car accidents,

and piercings.

It was a mine field but we managed to plant roots.

4 years of roots.

Roots that stayed on

after graduation

and boyfriends

and different colleges.

Roots that lay dormant

as we drifted in and out

of those first post-high school years.

Phone numbers I kept

even after I got caught in a rip tide of

new friends and bad habits.

Phone numbers I called

with the news that I was pregnant at 20

and wanted my oldest friends

at the baby shower.

And they showed up.

They showed up

and I was so glad

to see the faces that had known me

before I was anything else.

They were there when Lucas was born

and they were at most of his birthday parties.

8 years of roots.

Our lives sort of kicked into high gear after that.

Weddings (5 of them!) and babies (3 of those!),

new houses and engagements,

reason after reason

to get together

and just be girlfriends.

Bridal showers and birthdays,

a weekend on the Russian River,

and a boat ride on the Peninsula.

Dinners and Christmas parties,

housewarmings and life, life,

lots of life!

I relished in having longtime friends.

Knew how lucky we were

to have so many years behind

and so many years ahead of us.

12 years of roots.

It'll be 2 years since my initial blackballing from that group.

A summer of weddings that weeded me out.

It started with phone calls

going unanswered and not returned,

birthday dinners I was excluded from without my knowing.

It was a tearful Christmas cocktail party where

I admitted my missteps

and offered my apologies,

sobbing quietly in the kitchen

and left painfully unforgiven.

It was my first lesson in:

"I was wrong" + "I'm sorry"

(does not always)

= everything is better

Losing a friendship is kind of like a death;

disorienting and emotionally charged.

Now multiply that times three

and throw in the sting

of knowing harsh things

have been said about you,

and it's pretty much a shit sandwich.

It has been one of the most brutal experiences.

Ever.

And I know brutal.

14 years of roots.

Every story has two sides,

and I only know my own truth.

The truth is I tried to be there as much as I could.

I tried my best

with 2 young children,

and a failing relationship,

and a full load at school,

and 3 jobs.

Admittedly sometimes my best sucked.

Sometimes I was selfish

and sometimes I was crazy

and sometimes I tried to please too many people

and sometimes I made the wrong choice.

16 years of roots.

According to “The Five Stages of Grief”

I’m in acceptance,

but I’m not sure.

Denial and anger

(and why isn’t sadness a stage?!?!)

still float to the surface now and then.

Mostly because try as I might to

 hidedeleteWTF everyone from Facebook

I still get to see the shit I’m left out of.

And it sucks.

Thanks Mark Zuckerberg!

One of the greatest resources of perspective

in all of this

has been the friends

old and new

that have stayed by my side

through the crazy.

  

The ones I knew

wouldn't punish me

if I came up short

in the game of tit for tat.

The ones who patiently waited out my worst

and taught me how to be a better friend.

And I could say something

about being forever indebted to those girls,

but these friends don’t believe

in debts.