Wednesday, May 2, 2012


Oh, what a year it's been.  One year ago, I was chatting with a gentleman who intrigued me.   He was very straight forward, almost brutally honest.  He didn't mince words.  He seemed pretty cool.  Exactly a year later, I'm living with him and his daughter.  We are a family.  And my life is dramatically different.

Now I drive a child to school some days, and some days I pick her up from school.  I make dinner most nights.  I make breakfast some mornings.  Every nook and cranny of this little casa has an object nestled into it as we are constantly trying to make room.  The hot tub is running again, the kitchen lights work again, and the yard stays mowed. 

But more than all of that--I have someone to come home to.  I have purpose again.  In a year, I've watched his child grow dramatically.  I have seen him through job changes, and we have dealt with financial burdens, exes, child drama, and monotony.  But I love him more each day.

I see him, and I consider myself fortunate.  He encourages my hobbies (guns, fishing, etc) and he is someone I can talk to for hours.  He gets me.  He has seen my most inner being and still loves me.

I find him irresistible, and I'm thankful I didn't settle on any other man before him, becuase he has the qualities I most wanted: humor, honesty, integrity, strength, a hard worker, a go-getter, a god lover,  a music lover, and a little rough around the edges. 

It has been hard at times, but it's been more than worth it.   I am smitten.

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

39, but turning 21

“So, when is your birthday?” My ob/gyn asked as she flipped through my chart.

“September 6th.”

She looked at me for just a moment, and then looked back at my chart. She flipped a page and then announced, “This year you need to have a mammogram.”

“Now, why did you have to bring my age into this?” I asked with feigned exasperation.

My doctor grinned, “I didn’t say a word about your age.”

“But it’s implied that since I’m turning 40 I am going to need mammograms.”

“Where has the respect gone? I used to be your doctor, but after your hysterectomy I’m just another person to you. You are finished with me, huh?” We both laughed.

When I was young, these appointments made me nervous. I didn’t like the idea of being so . . . exposed. I didn’t like having a piece of metal that was freezing cold used to pry me open. I was overly concerned with the pre-appointment preparations—legs shaved, hairs trimmed, all areas cleaned, empty bladder, light-weight clothes for the weigh-in process, and the age old debate of “socks on or off?” I undressed and dressed as quickly as possible so I wouldn’t be walked in on without sufficient coverage. I didn’t want to look like I never took the time to trim up my pubic area, but I didn’t want to look like a porn star wannabe with either no hair or an odd shaped shave. Besides, paps always hurt me. The “little pinch” was always more of a stab, due to my odd cervix. Ah, the build-up to a 10 minute appointment, and the anxiety I used to harbor over the experience was ridiculous.

But eventually, I had so many of these exams, sometimes 4 a year, and at times they involved biopsies, that these appointments no longer make me nervous. They are more of a nuisance. I didn’t even think about my legs being shaved, or my trimming practices. I’m obviously an old pro at it now, and I don’t sweat the small stuff in the gyno’s office.

I’m about to be 40. I’m on hormones. I have to color my hair. I pluck silver eyebrow hairs in disgust. I use wrinkle cream that I’m sure isn’t working. My skin texture is less smooth, and my eyes feel more tired. I have had to see a chiropractor about a pinched nerve, I take meds to help me poop, and my joints make cracking noises when I stand up. Being 40 means all of this crappy stuff. But it also means I’m experienced. I choose my battles more often. I work not just because I have to, but because it gives me purpose. I don’t sweat things like gyno appointments. I don’t panic at the slightest bad news. My boundaries are stronger and my filter is intact. I feel like I’m actually at a good age. I have always had a bit of an older soul, and I think my body has grown into it.

But in my spirit and sense of self, I’m still 21. I’m just a smarter, wiser 21 year old.

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

Read My Soul

I see them all around me—parents. They have a connection to their children. There is a genetic code transferred, an adoration shared, a bond that is not easily broken. There is a family tree that may one day be traced, and future generations will wonder what their ancestors were like. But for me, this will not happen. I have no chance to pass on my DNA. I have no money to adopt a child—and adoption is extremely expensive. My family tree ends with me. Even a step child will look to its real mother for history. I am merely a footnote.

This sounds extremely melancholy, but it’s something I stare at every day. No matter how hard I work, how good of a person I strive to be—my grave will be forgotten. I look at my boyfriend and his ex wife with envy, because they have something that has been denied me. And I wonder if they realize how fortunate they are. I wonder if they could grasp a life without the legacy of a child.

I look for some sense of legacy, and I come up empty-handed. I long for someone to love me with the strength and vigor and unending commitment that I would normally receive from a child of my own. But that’s a lot to ask of an adult, and I’m too old to still long for such things. I long to be a priority to someone, but I will always be 2nd unless I put myself first. I too easily put others first. I want someone to notice me without huge efforts on my part to get attention. “Love me enough to read my soul”, I should tell people. But I want someone to WANT to read it, and not at my urging. Think of me, is all I ask. Think of me on a deeper level. Consider my world, my sacrifices, my needs, my desires. Don’t know them? Care enough to ask. I am a complex person. I have complex thoughts and fears and concerns. I don’t even understand most of them. But I’ll tell you what I can.

It has been 2 years since my hysterectomy, and I still wake up every day and think about my future. I wonder who I will be in 5 years. I’m not anything close to who I thought I would be today. Will I have made peace with God by then?

I saw a quote today, “I teach others how to treat me”. It’s so true. Today, I put myself first. Today, I stop taking the back seat to everyone else. And hopefully tomorrow as well.