HAPPY BIRTHDAY...A POEM WITH MUCH LOVE

A
WORK IN
PROGRESS…

For Den-Den
Love always and ever Dawn Marie

One child
Daughter
Mother – Sister

Storyteller

Lives in the make believe
World

Marries the make believe
Men

Ignore their pain
Magic – not there…
Ever suffering…

Ever loving

Giving and taking

Just one
Part…

A piece with
Missing pieces

First of the
Ten

She is a work in progress.


One child
Son
Uncle – Brother

Hand first

Never to be a father

Called and became a Father

Always to be a friend

Actor or Artful
Dodger

Linus without his
Blanket or
Adaptations

Does the dresser
Really speak up in
the end?

Just one
Part…

A piece with missing pieces

Second of the
Ten

He is a work in progress.


One child
Granddaughter
Daughter – Niece

Soho

The mother of the brother
Daughter of non-fathers

With the daughter
-not to be a mother

Her daughter is the sister of the brother
-not to be an uncle
With an uncle for a brother

Off beat poet

Fears growing
Old? Up?

Just one
Part…

A piece with
Missing pieces

Last of the
Ten

She is a work in progress.


She started all this
Then
--She left

Yet it continued
Diseased – Ulcerated
Fragmented

No longer One Holy Church

One family, One God

Strong, faith searching
Together

Forgiving, loving
Healing

Just one
Piece

A part of our missing pieces

The beginning
Of the
Ten.

We are a work
In
Progress.

It’s seven o’clock in the morning and as I sit in the quiet with my coffee and cigarette, I decide that it is Thanksgiving, a good time to have a thought or two.

Why do some people call today ‘Turkey Day’? OK yes most people do enjoy a meal of good ole’ Tom. And yes an abundance of the fixings and pie. (I personally don’t care for turkey or ham, but I am craving the Shop Rite canned cranberry sauce and mashed turnips). But today was never meant to be a celebration of food.

Thanksgiving was meant to be a day, set aside by man to not only remember to be thankful for our abundance of turkey, but of our abundance of blessings. It was meant to be a day of prayer and thankfulness for all we have been given. Abundance not only because of our hard work or choices, but because of the abundance God blessed us with each day. We need to remember how much we have been given.

I know who is on my list of ‘readers’. Some of you have forgotten, and some may wonder what have they to be thankful for. A few may even wonder what I have to be thankful for. I can’t answer this question for each of you, but I will tell you just a bit of what I am thankful for.

Garry, my true love, is a gift from God for me! He is healthy and strong. He blesses me by working so he can both provide and allow me to stay home...to take care of our kids, heal, and grow. He is a man of compassion, integrity, and humor! I am so thankful for the way he knows how to teach, play with and protect his family!
I am blessed, I am thankful.

Jason, my first born (homemade), is my gift from God. He is both my student and my teacher. I’m thankful not only because he is my beautiful baby, but because he has been my rock. He saw and understood my mood swings long before anyone else. I could not hide it from him. Yet he loves me despite both what I could and could not control. I am so thankful that I can now watch him grow into the man he was meant to be.
I am blessed, I am thankful.

Jaymie, not only my daughter marriage but daughter by choice, she teaches me so much more than I have hoped to teach her. She is my Tweety. (Tiny sweetie) Shy is both shy and spunky. I watch her stay strong as she embraces her new life with God and her husband by her side,
I am blessed. I am thankful.

Samantha (also homemade), is my greatest joy and my deepest sorrow. She blesses me daily with her strength, stubbornness, and humor. God blessed me with her more than anyone could understand. She made me ‘step up to the plate’. She showed me that I could be “more than a conqueror.” That I could not do everything on my own. That life isn’t fair, but it is good! That we will both be OK on our own. She continually blesses everyone she knows with her mixture of hope and laughter.
I am blessed, I am thankful.

Obadiah, (a child of prayer), blessing everyone he meets with his smile and sensitivity. He taught me to be humble. I learned I couldn’t fix everything if I just loved him enough. I learned from him that children are gifts that we need to give back to God (daily). I am thankful that Obie showed me that I was not in control. I am thankful that he has taught me all of this just by knowing and loving him.
I am blessed, I am thankful.

Georgia, (also a child of prayer not blood) because of her I have learned patience. I prayed so long for her. Being blessed to receive this I again needed some of that patience a necessary tool for a parent of a girly girl. I am thankful that she taught me cheerleaders aren’t what I taught they were. That she taught me that as I dreamed of sugar and spice, she also couldn’t be changed with a bit of love and perseverance. (She will always run screaming away from bugs no matter what I say!) I am blessed by both her outer and inner beauty. Thankful for bringing both giggles and ‘pretty ponies’ into our home. Mostly I am thankful that she doesn’t want to talk about wrestling at the dinner table.
I am blessed, I am thankful.

I could fill a book with all that I am thankful for....Family, friends, a home, washing machines and a diner that can cook a respectable dish of liver and onions!

But I need to stop now and make two vegetables and a desert while trying to remember that although I hate to cook...I can!

Dawn Marie

* Happy Thanksgiving! Most of this note was written two years ago. Much had not changed, much has changed. Yet still…I am blessed. I am thankful.

The wedding part one…

With just a few weeks before this blessed occasion I wanted to strangle my first born! There were none of the tears that I was expecting on a daily basis, but instead the sighs of exacerbation as to how could I have raised a child like this. I really didn’t need this.

With what I suspect was just sheer malice, my sweet and sticky child, my minister of God still refused to put his cereal bowel away! This has been a long running battle of at least 18+ years! You would think he was incapable, obsessed with the notion that cereal bowls belong on the floor next to the couch. I tried to remind him that if he was old enough to get married he was old enough to put the offending bowl in the sink (better yet dishwasher), but my words were in vain. Yes I know that in those early formative years I should have made him eat at the table, but I can’t resist his smile.

With just a few weeks to go his room was still uninhabitable. Most of his Stuff should have been packed away by now. The refrigerator unplugged for years now should have been carted off to the dump! (Three months latter it is in front of my craft supplies and everyone is still afraid to open it)

Only a few more weeks to go and still his is auguring with me as to the tackiness of the decorations that I planned for this special event …but that is for the wedding part two…

How can silence be so loud?

We all know what happened to that loose lipped Irish man, what a story, was he the victim or the bad man? What a story, is it true?

Oh the pain that caused his family, do you think it hurt him or his family more?

What was not said spoke so loud.

“How long has it been?”
not long enough.

“Where is…. I haven’t heard”
Safe, we cried last month

“Can you believe what I heard….”
No I can not. The silence is too loud.

The pain of faces speaks of the silent yelling in their ears. It echos, as we do not hear.

“you did not come last time, I looked for you.” That is why I did not come.

Smiles hiding gritted teeth and never a shoe tossed with such importance.

But where are the others… no that’s right they do not exist. If silence did not survive then neither did they, did our family not at least learn that. ‘Oh how your family has grown!’ and only the eye searches out the sibling not there. Relief, fear, anticipation what was that twinkling?

They don’t exist, they can not hurt me, they can not tell.

How can silence be so loud?

We all know what happened to that loose lipped Irish man, what a story, was he the victim or the bad man? What a story, is it true?

'Oh the pain he caused his family, do you think it hurt him or his family more?

The family took the true pain. Silence broken set him free. He will never be here again’ and He smiles in a better place. Those that could not be there are his companions now. They will talk again but the pain is less as they think on the many that went.

How can silence be heard with so many voices? It echos as we do not hear.

Authors…hmmm

The Rules: Don't take too long to think about it. Ten authors who've influenced you and that will always stick with you. List the first ten you can recall in no more than ten minutes. Tag at least ten friends, including me, because I'm interested in seeing what authors my friends choose. (To do this, go to your Notes tab on your profile page, paste rules in a new note, cast your ten picks, and tag people in the note.)

This was sent to me by a few of my favorite people on Face book but as hard as I tried I thought too much about it.

Unpublished Poets that changed me with their written words that I have kept each piece in my special wooden box,

1. Braswell (eyes of blue and green declaring that they have love)
2. Stewart (she has to fly…)
3. Parker (blind us with you imagery)
4. Sugar (I love you)
5. Jay (thank you for teaching me the world is safe)

Published poets whose poems I love because I wanted to write just like them.

1. Emily Dickinson (I’m nobody who are you)
2. Ogden Nash (I never saw a purple cow…)
3. Robert Frost (I took the road less travel by…)
4. Max Ehrmann (Desiderata - you are a child of the universe)
5. Rudyard Kipling (And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!)

Song writers whose words were penned to music that changes me in so many different ways that sometimes I just can’t get them out of my head.

1. Queen (sail away sweet sister)
2. Queen (fat bottom girls)
3. Pink Floyd (comfortably numb)
4. ? (Disco duck)
5. Joan Biaz (forever young)

Screen Play written whose names I wish I knew: they sold there work so I can remember those quiet hours that mark different times of my life.

1. Forest Gump
2. Breakfast Club
3. Beloved
4. I am Sam
5. Aristocats

Fiction books that I just love and believe that everyone should read at least once. They will stay in you heart and forever, I promise just try to read them and then forget them.

1. Robert Munsch (I’ll love you forever)
2. Shel Silverstein (The giving Tree)
3. C.S. Lewis (Scewtape letters)
4. J. R. R. Tolkien (The Hobbit)
5. Max Lucado (The crippled lamb)

The best Non Fiction author of all. I pick up his book almost everyday, think about him almost hourly. Only author who I love to attend book clubs about at least weekly, often more. Has he influence me more than I could ever explain. But go ahead and try me…we all know I am opinionated.

1. God (Song of Solomon)
2. God (Leviticus)
3. God (Luke)
4. God (Romans)
5. God (Obadiah)

I kept each list to five because unlike all the authors above I need to learn to edit myself a little, :0)

Gotcha Day…Ok I made it up, but if the greeting card folks can do it then so can I.

I have two children that I have not had the pleasure of attending their ‘birth’ day. I missed out on the knife in the stomach labor pains and stitches where no one should have stitches. But then again after those 17 min of hard labor with Jason (two hours for Sammi) I have come to the conclusion that I never really thought my presence should have been required. I have tried to explain to my homemade kids that there actual ‘Gotcha Day’ was September 3rd and November 13, but neither really cared to hear anything about it! (They were born in June and August) Although Georgia and Obadiah like to celebrate my holiday,

Today is my oldest son’s Gotcha Day…18 years ago we went to the airport to pick up this little boy. He saw me, ran and jumped into my arms… calling me Mama. From that moment he was mine. You can’t convince me any different. Although over the years a few of you have tried. There was no pregnancy, morning sickness or kick the kidney games. There were no sleepless nights because of 2am feeding, no diapers, no first words. Just another beautiful child to love forever.

Just as special, just as scary, just as awesome. Mostly just as hard to explain to someone who hasn’t given birth either thru their body or their heart.

What I didn’t know in ’87, ’88 and ’91. Was the labor pain were just beginning for me. The morning sickness and kick the kidney games would make way for, sick with worry and kick the heart games. That sleepless night would become a way of life. And I would often wonder why anyone would want to hear the words come out of their mouths.
Ok one of them has not grown out of the diaper stage but then again Samantha never gives me those looks of disbelief that she could be related to me.

These children of ours are so very different and so much alike in that they all can make me wonder what I would ever do without them. Then wonder can I do about them. They showed me the true meaning of “Because I said so…” as well as ‘I will love you forever’

So here’s to Gotcha Day…the days I celebrate the joy and fear that I felt when… a Doctor, a flight attendant, and a Judge changed my life forever.

The party and a Paul Simon song

I was raised by a hard man. Just my brother and me. We learned to whisper, Whisper quietly so no one could hear. They were raise by a hard man, 12 of them sharing the same lot. They learned to whisper, but with such noise all around they didn’t learn how to whisper softly.

I left for the party thinking about the whispers. Knowing that there was no way to stop them whether I was there or not.

“She’s not doing well. He’s not doing well. She’s not doing well. Their not doing well.”

“How could she\he\ she\ he have more children? Should have stopped at one...two...three...four…!” She\he still smokes. She \she\he should have taught them better…I did.”

“She is afraid of everything. She hates San Francisco. They hate me. They are judging me. They didn’t invite me.”

“He got fat, she lost too much weight.”

They blame me. They blame you.”

“What a shame…how sad…They kill bugs!”

Soon I am whispering to. Not quietly as I was trained, but loud and mean and sad. Whispering none the less. Why don’t we know that everyone can hear but no one is listening?

Why couldn’t we just talk, listen and ask questions? Then we could cry, laugh, and know the truth.

There are no more hard hearted amoungst us.?! Just whispering.

And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more.
People talking without speaking,
People hearing without listening,
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dared

Disturb the sound of silence.

And whisper'd in the sounds of silence.

Paul Simon

I recognize the number on the Caller ID. Tears well up. Oh God no. Not yet. I am not ready. It is too soon. Yes, I know what I said and no I haven’t change my mind. I don’t know when I will be ready. She just can’t leave today.

Hello… hi…good. I understand, just call me when it is all set up.

Thank you.

I am being opinonated again!

I am opinionated. But come on folks who isn’t? Go ahead tell me that you aren’t and I will listen to your opinion.

I have an opinion about everything…
*How to make the perfect fluffer-nutter.
*What colors go together.
*The best breed of dog.
* That socks are over rated.

*Who should be president
*Social issues
*moral issues
*the school system

*Hunting
*Fishing
*Professional sports
*Construction boots

*motherhood
*fatherhood
*my parents.

*animal rights
*children’s rights
*citizen’s rights
*our responsibilities vs. rights

*freedom
*free speech
*free expression
*free love

*hippies
*cheerleaders
*jocks
*geeks

OK you get the point, I am opinionated. We are all are opinionated. I like to express my opinion when asked. And sometimes when I am not asked. I love to write. (May still not be very good at it but I do love it). And as is expected some won’t agree with me. Some will not understand. But input good or bad is ALWAYS appreciated.

My husband has often said to me that I need to hire an interrupter who speaks ‘Dawn” because I am often hard to follow. But then again he is opinionated!

The Woodstock generation…hippies…flowers child…? Espousing views of peace and love? Being on the tail end of the Baby Boomer’s I have had a small glance at this generation that ‘changed the world’. You look at my music collection or peek in my closet you might just think I am an old hippie too! But I have very little respect or admiration for the whole movement. (music and clothes are great though)

Hippies were not concerned with world peace, civil rights, women’s rights or the environment. There were many of that time that were…my favorites being the Peace Corp, Martin Luther’s peace marchers and the house wives asking for equal rights without the free love.

Majority (not all) of the hippies were spoiled 17-25 years old trying to break free from the parent and rebel against society. (Don’t trust anyone over 30.) They decided that their battles cries of ‘If it feels good do it!’ and ‘Free love’ were what really would change the world. The term ‘Dirty Hippie’ had very little to do with their values but more to do with their body odor. Free love had little to do with ‘teaching the world to sing in perfect…’. But instead ‘doing it’ with anyone available! (Great time for ugly people)

What does this lead to…men with 12+ children…women with no means to support them! Cause hey it don’t feel good to raise a child, just making them! I have at least 5 siblings from three mothers who spent to much time in the Hait\Asbury district. Opening up your mind with LSD and herion…well we know what that led to. It killed their very best.

Their children were raised with no rules and now are raising their kids with too many (helicopter parents). Someone had to be the adult and it should have been the adult!

This was written by another ACH (Adult Child of a Hippie) “So this is a cautionary tale. Go ahead, eat carob. Weave your own dashiki. Get off the grid. Open your mind to new experiences. But when your microbus pulls into the festival lot, don't drop acid and ditch your daughter at the child-care tipi. Sometimes your mind can be so open, your brain falls out.”

No I am not a hippie…and proud of it!

Why I glove spill cheek!

"Heading off to the womb center again today, I hope they see a better change than I have, wow poor Johnny this is a very long process. Well we will get thru it."

This was posted on Facebook by my mother (60+) about her husband (70+)...All I could imagine was the two of them going for infertility treatments. Of course it was concerning a serious matter and it was a simple typo. A typo that 'spill chick' never would have picked up on!

This made me realize that I still had a post in Facebook limbo that I wanted posted on my Blog. So here you go...

SPILL CHEEK! WHY I GLOVE IT...

My very first memories of spilling honors was inn the 2nd grade Spilling Be...Eye was inn first space, know one new how to spill 'neighbor'. Butt some how I did. Thee children left. The word is play...yea!!! P-A-L-Y. I can steal here the wiggles from my glass. I wanted to dye.

Past forward too forth grade... I have learned how to sheet because Mrs. Dauw had knot relied that it is best knot two due the protest and post test in the same oder. Butt she is old and feeble.. at least 40.

Past foreword too 6th grade...I have whiten this word 10 thymes...25 tines...50 thymes...and now 100 tines. Why didn't someone mention that the 'I before E accept after c', dose knot apply in the work foreign.

Their was a spilling curse on hour hole family, it marry well have stared with my deer Grandmother. Butt now the course has been woken bye the family commute...bye spill cheek!
Oh how I dish I could go hack in thyme and knot have too ax...Dose spilling count? Now I have spill cheek! What a site eye wood bee handling my report hard too my parents...100 present in Spilling!!!

Of corpse it is only a stream...ewe cane knot go hack! Butt instead eye no that as eye have a flare for woods...Eye kneed knot every wormy again about my spilling curse!

HANGING ON BY A THREAD...

Sometimes you’re holding on by a thread.
Not six strand embroidery thread or nylon
But that thin white cotton stuff.

Sometimes you’re being held down by a chain.
Tied to a tree, keeping you from going to far
Choking you as you trying to get loose.

Sometimes you are being led by the reigns.
Made to run around and around in circles,
They are trying to break you. They will use the whip.

Sometimes you are a kite.
Tethered to a stick, up and down, side to side.
Dependant on the fickle wind and some fool at the controls
You want to be free but don’t want him to let go.

Sometimes you are caged on the roof top.
No room to move, you know how to get home again,
If only they would release you.

And…
Sometimes you are let free.
There is still a piece of that thread but this time
It holds a message for the world.

Cut the thread.
Break the chain.
Let loose of the reigns.
Give me over to the wind.
Sell the cage.
I was meant to be free.

Happy father’s day! OK, one day late. We went to visit our son and I got the pleasure of watching this father and son get covered in slime, maple and chocolate syrup. All to watch about 30 children laugh and ruin their clothes and know that people at this church loved them. But I have written so much about these to men...so not today. Father’s day? There is a lot more to my story.

First let me explain, I a long time ago made this a day to celebrate the best father I know. Because I wanted to honor him just a little more then most days last night I gave him one of my greatest joys. The privilege of riding in the passenger seat, late at night on a horrible fast highway. Concrete mediums, speeding trucks, glare, people cutting you off and giving you dirty looks!! All passengers we sound asleep unaware of how much of a sacrifice this was for me. Thankfully God and the Pennsylvania Road Dept. had the good grace to provide an hour long traffic crawl so I could stop my tears and cease my Lamaze breathing. I am a huge fan of country music and its was Father’s Day…so… sappy 'daddy' songs that could make the hardest of us shed a tear or two. Between 11pm and midnight (when the day closed on the old songs) I was forced to think about the other fathers in my life.

My father’s father, I have heard very little about except he drank too much and Grandma Cyl divorced him. All he gave to his son’s was his name, one kept it but the other did not. The man that raised my father I have heard was a mean man with some major mental issues. Grandma Cyl divorced him too. Grandpa Mac (#3) from what I knew of him was a kind man, set in his ways and loved me like a true Grandpa. Grandma Cyl divorced him. I am sure that my father (Cyril) was told that these men did the best they could. I wonder if he believed that? I do not.

So what of my father, Cyril? He was a charming man. But he was also a violent abusive drunk and addict. As well as a lying thief. He has a rumored 22 children which sadly I only know 11. He didn’t raise any of them for long, but sadly that was too long for too many. Grandma Cyl told me he did the best he could. He told me he did the best he could. We told him he did not.

My Daddy’s father, I have heard was a drunk, mean man, neither faithful to his wife or children. I remember my Daddy telling the SOB did the best he knew how. I don’t think so.

And my Daddy, George? I loved him so, I was the princess. But he was also a mean abusive drunk. Never laid a hand on me but did my mother. He was also unfaithful to Mom and therefore his children. I don’t know about his four boys, but I know I heard that he loved us in the only way he knew how. He did not.

My Mother’s Father, I have heard was also a mean drunk. He also abused his children emotionally and physically. I only knew him as a man in a wheel chair who couldn’t speak but still let me know he loved me. One day this feeble man raised his fist to hit me and I saw in his eyes what I had heard was true. Grandma stood up and told me he didn’t mean it dear. He meant it. I have heard that he did the best that he could. He did not.

You only need to look at my brother, to know those men had the choice to do other than they were taught. Duane did...they did not. We are a product of are upbringing, but not slaves to it. Those fathers knew what was right and they knew they were wrong…They did not do the best they could.

My Grandfathers are long past away. Cyril died alone on a mattress on the floor of small room where he painted. George decided 5 years ago that he needs to move on and didn’t want to see or talk to us. I guess he didn’t know I still needed a Daddy.

I still love them all and I have forgiven each of them as I knew must. As I wanted too. Old country songs may fill my over active tear ducts, but nothing will ever convince me that each of those men did the best they could.

So Garry is what Father’s Day is all about. A Day I use to honor the one father in my life who did his best!

This is a repeat from 2 years ago one of my favorites found in bit and pieces from journal and letters in an old wine box.


… I went back into my many journals and notes and let them do this essay for me. (Mind you there was a lot to type) I tend to be a rambler, but keep with it if you are even a little bit intrigued.




June 16, 1988

Jason my sweet baby,
This morning I lay in bed staring at the clock, watching the minutes pass by and then the moment came.... June 16, 1988...you are a year old now. It went so fast Sweetheart, so very fast.

You were at your best today! All smiles and giggles, the hit of the party.......

What I want to say most of all is that I love you and you will always be my little baby, Starting from Mommy and Daddy's love...you are pure love...a baby, a toddler, a teenager, a man. But always our Jason Scott. A star was born!

Mommy



September 2, 2002

Lollipop...Happy New School Year!

I can't believe my baby is in high school....Enjoy and be GOOD! Remember that all the coolest kids are on the Honor Roll! Here's lunch money and a little extra.

You've been blessed ---Mom




August 12, 2004

Lollipop---Really have you looked under your bed? What a MESS! I even found a rotting apple in here.

But baby at least you have a clean heart and a sweet spirit. Always sweet and sticky my boy lollipop!

Your favorite Mom!


June 16, 2008

Jason Scott, Jason, Jay, Lollypop,

My first born, my baby...You just turned 21...your now an adult, a man.

But yet you are and always will be my baby- my baby boy- my pumpkin bread. I still feel you kicking...But now it is a kicking at my heart.

You will always be that little boy coming back, with a very frustrate look, to give me a kiss whenever I called saying I REALY needed one.

The boy who had trouble using the brakes on your bike, your solution...to dive for the grass when you needed to stop.

My tiny 5 year old, a natural wrestler....being squashed into the mat or even squashing the other guy. Both were so painful for me to watch. But such pride I had in you and how you always stuck it out!

My three year old telling me as I cried for the loss of my Grandfather that he would be ok.

Your bed time prayer seemed to always be for world peace and that Brian would be saved.

You, asking me for a brother or sister who can walk and you much later telling me that Obadiah wasn't the one you wanted.

My boy, reading only three books from beginning to end...all thru middle and high school...and proud of it.

My baby's 1st grade teacher telling me you were the messiest kid she ever taught and please buy Velcro sneakers... (Your shoes were never tied for long.)

My heart breaking because you had a crush for years on a little girl who often crushed you.

Always (and still) scaring me because you refused to stay out of trees.

My 7 year old baby crying in fear and gratefulness, when your cousin saved you from drowning.

You telling me it wasn't fair...you should be the one with a broken arm...not Samantha.

My son, who never told me that I should stay home with him while Sammi was in the hospital.

You, asking Jesus into your heart and life.

My little boy...13...being dipped to let the world know your decision.

A teenager angry with his brother for the pain he causes all of us.

A young man forgiving his brother as you knew you must.

A child barely 18 telling me he is in love and plans to marry her...not understanding that the pain on my face was because I knew it was true and my baby was leaving me for another

Peter Pan afraid...no refuseing to grow up. Knowing that you must, yet fighting it all the way.

My baby boy brutally honest...holding hard to your beliefs. Cynical of the world but knowing also it was safe. Knowing your calling...fighting your calling...finality embracing your calling.

My son, loving me, protecting me, critical of me, embarrassed by me, proud of me...Rising up and calling me 'Blessed' even when you didn't feel like it.

You no longer coming to me...even in frustration...for a kiss when I call for it...saying I need one.

You’re off to serve the lord...away from your true love, family and friends for the first time.

You’re leaving me as I knew you would 21 years ago...when you kicked me hard one last time.

Jason Scott, Jason, Jay, Lollypop,

My first born, my baby...You just turned 21...and now you are a man.

Happy Birthday! I love you!

Mom










September 2008,

Be your Father's Son...always ready to help even when you don't feel like it. Honest, hard working, and reliable. To funny for your own good. Laughing when your mother doesn't get it. Young at heart always a twinkle in your baby blue eyes. It's alright to be a pessimist!

Remember what your mother taught you...when you give... give your best. Be yourself, God loves you the way he made you quirks and all. The world is safer and kinder then it appears. And when you make a presentation, project, or report....extra credit if it looks "creative'. It's alright to be an optimist.

We will miss you...until I notice there are no more dishes in the living room!

Mom


**Not much has changed in the last two years. He is still my Lollipop. In August he will marry Jaymie. (My Tweetie) He became a Pastor, licensed by Freedom Valley. He is going on to get his degree. But today is his birthday and I can still feel him kicking.

I have a very large Band-Aid on the side of my van, it is about 1’x3”.Not one of those cute little Dora or Hello Kitty ones either. It is a very grown up flesh tone ones. You might have seen my vehicle…it’s a boring grey color. The color a silver van turns to when you never wash it.

This is my attempt at covering a “booboo”. I was hit by a speeding shopping cart filled with about fifty pounds of cement. To be fair it was my shopping cart that I forgot to unload before starting to drive away.

But I can say that I have never hit anything moving! Never had a moving violation nor had a claim into my insurance company (too embarrassed). I did though lose my license for contempt of court when I didn’t pay library fines (did you know they can arrest you for that?) But those books were not moving!

I have hit a house. This made a 90 year old lady very upset as I had destroyed her 40 year old rose bushes. A tree (while moving at a speed of 1mile per hour) with a car I had owned for less than a week. A dumpster, my excuse being that it is the same color as the grass. Several of those silly short poles they put around buildings phone booths and other structures that a person might damage with their car. Twice I hit cars that were stopped for red lights (3,000 in damages for one and a totaled Mustang for the other), no damage to those NON MOVEING vehicles.

So I am very proud of my driving record…no speeding tickets or careless driving violations. More parking tickets than I can recall and a few no seat belt tickets.

So I will continue to hold my head up high and buy a few more Band-Aids!

Dawn Marie

My Mom mentioned Jason’s birthday.
It started a brain spin that inevitably led to yet another attack of the Mom tears.

June 16… he will be 23.
June 16 (smile) Jason never did like having his birthday so close to the last day of school.
June 16…Georgia’s last day of school. Last day of school
Friday is Sammy’s last day of school.
Tears.

Nineteen years of school, most good years and some not so good. But they were years of learning for her and years of normalcy for me. She may not have learned how to read but they taught her how to take off her coat. She learned how to make friends. She taught them how to be friends. She learned so much, more then I ever thought she would.

Graduation day is a mile stone in the life of a child. Don’t you all remember your graduation? The parties…hanging you tassel on the rear view mirror? The look of pride and shock on your Mom’s face? (Well my Mom’s) I still have my diploma and a stack full of pictures. (Plus a pile of faded cards)

My baby girl won’t have any of those memories, parties, the tassel, diploma or cards. She won’t mind. She will just continue on happy…not knowing or caring. She might eventually wonder what happened to all her friends and I am sure they will never forget her. But she adapt to this new change, what ever it will be.

For Samantha Joy this will be just another day. I wish I could say the same.

***If you follow my writings you know that I have just posted an edited version of what I wrote last week. But there is more to the story. After this I hope I can put it all to rest, go on with our new life. (Sammi’s and mine)

What was getting to me? Why was I so sad? Because I hate change? Sure. Because I hate the unknown? That is a given. Yesterday I finally realized that what I wanted was what I wrote. I wanted to celebrate! She earned high honors more than most graduates. She worked harder than I ever did in my school days. I should have been shouting ‘Yea Samantha’. I should have been telling others how proud I am of her. She has accomplished so much.

I didn’t. I didn’t even realize that this was so important to me. This epiphany came after an acknowledgement of the graduates in our church. I was so upset thinking aw poor me I wanted this for my daughter but she isn’t part of this. Later I found a card and graduation gift from her teachers in a huge bin of her ‘stuff’ that had accumulated over the years. And I finally knew that this really was a time of celebration! That was what I longed for didn’t know.

To be fair my friends and family were trying so hard to let me grieve, knowing that really I don’t like what I have always felt was unearned praise. Mostly that I can be very moody and they didn’t want to make it worse. I love them because of that. I could have told them…I knew our church was honoring the graduates. I didn’t even tell a lot of our family. My pain was caused by no one but myself.

I am NOT asking for cards and gifts. I plan to celebrate ‘Samantha’ on her birthday. But for now, will together celebrate with a Mommy and me day…hair cuts and color, shopping and swinging at the park. Plus a huge bag of chips with a French fry chaser! This is what she likes the most and she deserves it!

But if you have a moment…email or facebook us. Just a line letting the world know how proud you are of HER!!!

You go girl!

In about an hour I leave for a meeting. I have gone to this meeting every year for 17 years. For many years it was an necessary evil that I had to endure. Quite a few of those years I would end up in tears of frustration, anger, and sadness. But eventually this meeting became a time of chatting with trusted friends, grateful that things are looking up.In about an hour I leave for a meeting. I will never "HAVE TO" go to this meeting ever again. I will never be invited to this meeting again. No more discussions about goals achieved. No more angry outburst amongst a group of adults with with same objective but different methods. No more laughs and hugs when we decide that all is as it should be and it is more than we expected.In about 45 minutes I leave for a meeting...for about 3 hours I have been crying. A good friend reminded me I don't like change. I hate when he does that. He has this habit of telling me the truth even when I don't want to hear it. I hate change...I hate letting go...not being in control. I still stamp my feet and yell, fall on the ground kicking a screaming, and hold my breath until I turn blue. (OK maybe I am only doing this in my head, but those of you who know me know I AM doing it!)I want..I want..I want! In 33 minutes I leave for a meeting...and like always, temper tantrums never get me anywhere. So I will dust the chain smoking ashes off of me...put down the chocolate... wash out the coffee cup. (My coping mechanisms) I will hit spill check and send. I will wash my face and grab some tissues just in case. I will leave for my meeting.This is my last IEP...last child study team meeting...last year of Samantha's formal education. She will graduate in June 2010. No more meetings.

*I wrote this about a year ago…it turned out to be a great meeting! We were all so pleased with her progress and chatted about all the programs available to her. Her teacher had become my trusted friend, her school a second home where all both knew her and loved her.

Three day latter I was told that her teacher was being transferred. Soon I was informed that her class was no longer because of budget cuts. The only school option was so inappropriate for Sammi that it hurt to watch. Her case manger was n't part of this department. And eventually I learned that all post high school programs were dependant on our Governer’s budget and availability. (Meaning not likely anytime soon) The residential placement that we had decided was best for the whole family (not an easy decision) had a waiting list of about 20 years.

Watching a grown woman fall apart is never a pretty site. So in December... 2 state agencies, and the public school system decided that we qualify for emergency residential placement. It may happen this summer.

So I just took her off the school bus for the very last time. (45 min late because they had the wrong address.) Eighteen years went by in a blink of an eye, today isn’t a good day. But tomorrow will be a lot better.

Yes I still have been writing essays. I just haven’t been finishing them! Just a few minutes ago my Mom mentioned Jason’s birthday. But this didn’t bring on the need to write, instead it started a brain spin that inevitably led to yet another attack of the Mom tears.

June 16… he will be 23. June 16 (smile) Jason never did like having his birthday so close to the last day of school. June 16…Georgia’s last day of school. Last day of school…Friday is Sammy’s last day of school. Tears.

Nineteen years of school, most good years and some not so good. But they were years of learning for her and years of normalcy for me. She may not have learned how to read but they taught her how to take off her coat. She learned how to make friends. She taught them how to be friends.

Graduation day is a mile stone in the life of a child. Don’t you all remember your graduation? The parties…hanging you tassel on the rear view mirror? The look of pride and shock on your Mom’s face? (Well my Mom’s) I still have my diploma and a stack full of pictures. (Plus a stack of faded cards)

My baby girl won’t have any of those memories, parties, tassel, diploma or cards. She won’t mind. She will just continue on happy…not knowing or caring. She might eventually wonder what happened to all her friends and I am sure they will never forget her. But she adapt to this new change, what ever it will be.

For Samantha Joy this will be just another. I wish I could say the same.

Lady Katie

She was perfect. A beautiful, tiny gift from God. Not yet a week old and you could see that she was as brilliant as her Daddy and talented as her Mom. It was likely she would be as generous and stubborn as all the Irish clan before her.

Her Daddy is my first best friend...Mommy is my forever friend. Why don't I love her? Why do I look at her and see all of this and yet not want to pick her up and whisper in her ear all of Gods plans for her? This has never happened before! Even 12 years latter I would pick up my sweet Howard, (11 weeks old, ugly as sin with an altitude to match) and coo and smile over such an amazing little creature.

Why do I look at her and not care? Not want to be a part of her life? I don't want to feel this way...I certainly try to not let it show. I doubt anyone believes me. Three years later I see I was right. She is so curios, so smart, sweet and stubborn. But I am beginning to see that is was never about her. This beautiful girl that people turn around and look twice at. She is beaming with the love all around her. She is a mirror of all that is good in the tired old earth.

It has always been about me. How could I resent her? Could I be jealous? Could envy be stronger than love? Or could I be weaker then this 'green eyes monster'?

She is a miracle. God given to celebrate the love of my brother for his bride? My niece is all the sugar and spice that I am not, but dreamed MY own little girl would be.

My Katie all I wanted...Sammi is not. She talks a mile a minute taking in all the world, has to teach her...Sammi does not. I could go on but I am beginning to dehydrate and my shirt is no longer absorbing my tears.

Don't cry for me though. Katie would have none of this. She makes you love her. She makes you proud to know her. Katie brings out the giggles even in the rain clouds. It may have taken those three years for her to soften my harden heart, but she did!

My brother took her out of my reach 9 years ago but no one could take her from my heart.

My lady Katie is now a bride! Sammi may never become a bride but when you look at Katie it doesn't seem to matter. That this is God's plan not all about me. I hope she will let me hold and whisper into her ear all that I wanted to 19 years ago. I am so blessed she whispered in heart.

MY JONATHAN

1 Samuel 20
"Jonathan, out of his deep love for David, made a covenant with him. He formalized it with solemn gifts: his own royal robe and weapons—armor, sword, bow, and belt."
"Jonathan repeated his pledge of love and friendship for David. He loved David more than his own soul!"
2 Samuel 1:26
O my dear brother Jonathan, I'm crushed by your death. Your friendship was a miracle-wonder, love far exceeding anything I've known— or ever hope to know. (David)



At Wednesday night's 'School of the Bible' we have been studying "11 indispensable relationships you can't be without" by Leonard Sweet. Chapter two explores 'Who's your Jonathan’, your true friend. This gave me many 'Thoughts For The Week', thoughts of a lifetime. Maybe your have already guessed what these thoughts might be. You may know that "indispensable" can not begin to describe this relationship. But on the off chance that these thoughts are news to you, I will continue.

My Jonathan, my true friend promised me so much....

"I ... take you ... to be my wife,
I promise to be true to you,
To love you,
To share with you all that I have
I will try to help you to grow
to be more fully yourself,
I ask that you be patient with me,
I will love you
In good times and in bad times
In times that we have much,
In times that we have little
I will honor you and cherish you
As long as we both shall live.
I love you."

.... he has kept those promises...

'A Jonathan walks with you in all seasons...'*
I read that 80% of couples with a sick or disabled child will divorce. (I never went in for statistics. I am to left brain for that) in 1988 after only three years of marriage, Samantha joined us. Blind, stiff, always in pain, with frightening seizures, unable to comfort, not wanting our touch.
I was trained to care for Sammi; I'd worked as a nurse in a Hospital\Home for children just like my daughter. But my Jonathan, my true friend had no idea what was in store for us! Twenty years of diapers and wipes, heavy duty laundry soap. Couches and carpets were now disposable, coffee tables dangerous. Co-pays he didn't know how to pay and his partner no longer able to contribute to the budget.
He never stopped to think...it's not my job to change her diaper. Instead he let our son know that he could and should now help because he was a man.

'...like (in) the winter of your discontent, when a miasma of gloom settles like a fog around your soul...'*

I've heard that 80% of men leave when one of the children is out of control. A runaway, a thief, addicted to booze and drugs, in jail, homeless, angry and hurt. Together we told our teenager to leave, but more than once my Jonathan has offered him our home again. He would do what he knew was right. My Jonathan, my true friend, protected our family the best he could with both a gentle and tough love.

'A Jonathan believes in you when no one else does.'*
Most likely 80% of husbands would not tolerate their wife’s 'calling' to bring home every baby, child, teenagers, or adult, she thought needed help. Not to mention dog, cat, rodent or reptile. My Jonathan, my true friend, looked into his heart and saw it was a 'calling' they both shared. He has opened our home to eighteen children (two homemade), a few Adults, and a menagerie of assorted pets. (That he tried his best to ignore) Some for as little as two weeks and a couple for the duration. Even when we were surrounded by eight children (four in diapers), he never forgot his promise. There may have been a few days of exasperation and exhaustion but even last month he was s still saying 'sure' when it looked like seven more would be showing up soon.

'A Jonathan stanches the internal bleeding from your blanched body when depression...drains the life from your soul.'*

I think that about 80% of those guys whose wives were Bi-polar would skip town. My Jonathan, my true friend, stood by me and helped me to stand. When I could barely leave the couch, care for the kids, or myself. When the mania moved from feelings of high energy, creativity, and productiveness...to out of control spending, loving, hating, and a mind cycling round and round like a hamster on a wheel. Finally a blur of symptoms both high and low at the same time. Instead of leaving he tried yelling, pushing, whispering... anything it took until I would admit that I suffered from the same illness that shaped the lives of my Grandmother and all her children.

'A Jonathan gives and gives and wants no payment.'*

My Jonathan, my true friend, hasn't stood by me because of a sense of obligation. Not just because he is a Godly man, honorable man, or just because he takes his vows seriously.

'A Jonathan has seen you naked, in all your treachery and lechery, at your most heinous and most luminous, and loves you anyway.'*

My Jonathan, my husband, stands with me because he is my true fiend. He is my best friend. Because every time I look at him with bewilderment (why?) he always replies 'because I love you.'
... Your friendship was a miracle-wonder, love far exceeding anything I've known— or ever hope to know.... (David) 2Samuel 1:26
Dawn Marie

I may repeat this often...not my favorate but important!

I wrote this in January 2010...

have several ‘ramblings’ on the back burner of my twisting spinning overactive mind. I write in my head all the time. It can be quite annoying, yet posting seems to calm the unspoken thoughts inside me!! But all too often as I write I know it will never be enough, that these demons will never quiet. They will never leave me alone, there is just too much to share…there is just to much that shouldn’t be shared…there is just to much that can never be shared.
Shush now. Monday…

“Bi Polar…It is what you have, not what you are”. This has been told to me by one of my closest friends more than once. I have never quite understood this statement because I have dealt with it almost all of my life. It is what I am.

It is what so many in my family have been for generations. I couldn’t have just started with Grandma or my natural father. What about Great grandparents? Great-great Grandparents? I know very little past two generations. Aunts, Uncles, cousins, siblings…is it what they have or who they are?

Yet, why am I Bi polar and Duane is not? It is on both sides of the family. Oh lord, Please protect our children…our grandchildren and their children. I have seen it skip generations. Cousins without…daughters with. This side of heaven I may never know. But wouldn’t it be amazing if the gene could be fond and quieted for them. Yes it is what I have. A disease, hereditary, chemical, controllable... but not curable. Tuesday

It is what I am? Bi Polar. My Doctor told me, ‘if you must have a mental disease than this is the one to have.’ So many creative, talented, successful people are Bi polar. This is a short list that I have edited for space… (I took out most athletes and politicians ‘cause I just don’t care!)

Buzz Aldrin, astronaut
Hans Christian Andersen, writer
Ned Beatty, actor
Napoleon Bonaparte (1769-1821), general
Tim Burton, artist, movie director
Jim Carrey, actor
Agatha Christie, mystery writer
Winston Churchill, 1874-1965
Francis Ford Coppola, director
Emily Dickinson
Patty Duke (Anna Duke Pearce), actor, writer
T S Eliot, poet
Ralph Waldo Emerson, essayist
Carrie Fisher, writer, actor
Robert Frost
F Scott Fitzgerald, author
Larry Flynt, magazine publisher
Sigmund Freud, physician
Cary Grant, actor
Shecky Greene, comedian, actor
Mark Twain, author

Is this why I want to be a writer…an artist? Is this why my house is purple and there is a duck butt in my living room? Is this why I love my bright orange burlap tunic with my pink pants?

About four years ago I came out of the mental illness closet. I hope at least one of you was surprised?! This took three days so technically I have kept to my goal of writing every day (except Sunday). I suspect I will have to write more on this subject…so much to share!

Re-write...new ending!

I wrote.... 8\2008
This morning I started thinking about getting a tattoo. I want a heart broken in four pieces & stitched together...and a vine with 4 yellow rose buds! I quickly sketched it and knew it was perfect.
When I showed this to Jason, he couldn't understand. I explained that as much as a mother loves her babies, they have broken her heart! This is the way is meant to be, but it is her love that stitches it together.
Four yellow rose buds, my four children. Yellow roses have always meant love to me, they are my flower. Three on top and below. The one that is separate is the one who needs me at any moment.

Obadiah
A child crying in my arms because I have told him that his father is not coming to get him as he promised.
A man so broken by the world...so confused and angry...My heart is breaks for him.
I can only pray and love him.

Jason
A child kneeling at my side praying for his sister so, young he can't understand.
A man fallen in love with a women other than me. Becoming a man and leaving his mother.
I can only pray and love him.

Samantha Joy
A child in my arm crying because everything that touches her causes her pain.
A woman, my heart breaks, knowing one day her seizures could lead to her dieing in my arms or worst yet…I will not be there to hold her.
I can only pray and love her.

Georgia Melody
A child of six tearfully asking me "Why didn't she want me?" (Her birth mother)
A woman one day breaking my heart leaving her, because I have learned that this is the way it is suppose to be.
I can only pray and love her.

Yes this is the tattoo I would get.


Dawn Marie

This is the first essay I put out there…this is the first oil painting I did…And this afternoon this was the first tattoo I got! (AND ONLY!)

Mama and Mama

“Hey Mama, Happy Easter!” I love this kid he always calls me on the holidays. Never collect even if he has to beg on the street for the money. I tell him it is OK but he won’t.

“Did they give you special permission to call because it is Easter?” Rehab won’t let him call or write until 3 months in. They did not make an exception this time.

“It will be OK Mama, I’ll stay sober this time!” With a silent tear and prayer we talk about life and love. Past joys and sorrows, who is doing what, what is the same and who is different.

“Mama, can I still come out for the wedding?” I love my kid. I don’t know if he will ever know how much. He didn’t need to ask, it is his brother’s wedding. We are family.

“Bye Mama, It will all work out!” Oh Sunshine, one day at a time. Mama…one day at a time.

Easter already?

I have a Holiday Tree. I have boxes full of stuff to hang on this tree all year round. I used to even hang Furbees on it in August as the poor month lacked its own holiday. Why then is it Good Friday and as of 7am the tree still is covered with snowmen (January)? I have no eggs, no baskets, chocolate bunnies, spring dresses, ham, or people to cook and serve ham.
But I do have two grown children and an eight year old…..well got to go!

NOT MY DADDY

One of the perks of being a Blogger (not getting paid) is that you get to repeat old pieces from different venues. This one goes with the painting “Colors of Cyril”.

He died just a little over 9 years ago. What I miss the most is the “what could have been’.
Did he understand when we told him that “I did the best I could.” was not acceptable.
Did he believe us when we told him we forgive him? Did he accept the message of God’s love, forgiveness and grace?
We all cried. We embraced the brothers and sisters we never knew, we worried about the one who wouldn’t come, the one that couldn’t come and the one that didn’t know. Together we spread his ashes.
Did he smile at the thought that we all turned out all right? Did he regret that he didn’t see it happen?
He was my father, not my Daddy. He was an artist and a writer. He was an abuser and abused. He was a drug addict and an alcoholic. He was Bi Polar. He was good at multiplying (12-22 kids). He is part of me. He is part of who I am. Some of the good. Some of the bad?

When he died his mother gave me some of his poems. This one we all wrote together over the phone.


DID I / YES I DID /
YES THAT TOO / AND THAT /
NO I DON’T HAVE AN EXCUSE /
YES / I KNOW THAT IF I DID
THERE’S NO ONE LEFT
TO GIVE IT TO / YES / YES /
SORRY DOESN’T EVEN WORK FOR MYSELF /
WHY SHOULD I BELIEVE
IT MIGHT WORK FOR YOU

CYRIL

Undercover Boss

One of my new shows is “Undercover Boss’, mostly because with March Madness my DVR thinks it is recording ‘Cold Case’. This got me to thinking (really I do think too much). What would the big boss think about what I do today and would he like the way I handled it? Would at the end of the show he give me that big reward or chastise me and tell me I need more training?

I work in the Plumbing Department.

Leaky Eyes. Do I calmly let her know that her school project is perfect because she worked real hard on it? O do I gruffly remind her that 30 minutes before it is time to leave for school is not the time to fix the things ‘freaky eyes’? My answer…”you get dressed then draw the eyes; I’ll make your lunch then paint them on. While your putting your backpack together we will blow dry them and hope it works!” I handled this both calmly and gruffly.
….Good problem solving, poor time management, adequate people skills.

Leaky Diapers. Let me start this with the fact that the diaper wearer has stayed home now for 3 days due to an “intestinal bug” so I will not need to go into details.
The diapered climbed into the disperser’s bed…compounding the problem and increasing my carbon imprint on this earth. At least one large load of laundry, very hot water, very strong soap!
Now according to the employee hand book I am to smile and coo at this poor uncomfortable child. Clean her gently letting her know she has done nothing wrong. Redress and re-diaper (for the third time) with a thankful heart for all the joy she brings me and the privilege to care for her. Well I did not!
…Back to new employee orientation!

Leaky Wallet. This Dept is always busy trying to play catch up, never actually stopping to make repairs just a lot of creative uses for Duct tape.
…..Consider out sourcing, situation appears hopeless.

Leaky Dog. This is the catch 22…the dog leaks all over the bed because he feels if the diaper can leak than so can he. Solution after 3 years of negotiations with the leaky dog… he has to go. This will of course cause major havoc in the leaky eye dept. (seriously affecting my semi weekly employee review.) Also due to issues in the leaky wallet dept it is not feasible at this time to pay the shelter not to kill the dog. The leaky diaper wearer again proves to add to the chaos by leaking again. Thus costing wallet to leak yet another 82 cents and put a smile on the face of leaky dog (honest).
…..Give this woman a raise!

Dawn Marie

Did I mention that I have yet to fix the leaky tire?

I am back

How much we want to be recognized!! Here I am! Here I am! Some dream of that ’15 min of fame’ promised to us by an artist in the 60’s. Or some just want there spouse to remember that special day! We are willing to make fools out of ourselves or let whispers of self doubt eat away at us!

When I was little Ronald McDonald challenged us to have a back yard carnival to raise money for sick kids or send in a donation. I of course needed to have a carnival. It was sad, even pitiful! We made our donation and my Dad made sure it was a lot more than the two or three dollars I managed to get out of my cousins... I was heart broken.

I made with my friend a float for the 4th of July parade, I might have been 11…the looks on the faces of those judges was not ‘oh how cute’ but instead ‘why?’ Again pitiful!

I threw two great Christmas Parties and learned that I never should have tried for the third. Almost no one showed up.

I just held my first Art Show. It was attended by those I love and who love me. Strong women who have been my friends for years. Strong women who helped raise a very complicated stubborn child, another strong woman (my mother) would have flown out if only I asked). Gentle men who would hold me up in a storm. New Friends who thought nothing of taking out a few minutes of their day to make another smile. My Best Friend at my side knowing the chances of me not being hurt were slim. It was amazing in that none of my art would appeal to any of them, (I knew it and they knew it)

Where is the pitiful? I chose to focus on the one friend I saw in the parking lot picking up her car after an outing with friends and head home without what seemed to be a second thought about me. I knew about her day, I knew it would be a long one, but all I could see was she couldn’t stop in and see me.

I could have smiled about the fun we had at that Carnival, the bravery in pulling that silly wagon through the streets of Chester, the memories of those Christmas party’s and the 97 dozen cookies I made. The pride I had both in Georgia’s and my art, how good it felt to express ourselves and bravely share with others.

How much I want to be recognized. I am willing to make a fool out of myself but without fail I will let the self doubt eat away at my heart. What is my point? Do I want you to feel sorry for me? No. I want to recognize myself and show my daughter that fame will last for 15 min. so let’s remember the fun!

BOYS DON'T CRY

Boys don't cry...

Not when they are babies and they see a man coming to hold them, who happens to be tall,
They would not scream at the top of their lungs.

They might start drooling, or spitting up on him or act shy and snuggle tight to Mommy. But....


Boys don't cry...

They would not scream bloody murder at the age of three, passing the toy store with a variety of mechanical animals having fun in front ...or at the sight of Chicken Dance Elmo (especially when somebody forgets and has the nerve to turn)

They might try to take them apart...never quite able to put them back together...or use it as a projectile misfile for their unsuspecting mother or sibling. But...

Boys don't cry...

They would not tug frantically away from your grip, when they realize you are taking her to see one of those relatives...you know the one's with those scary hearing things in their ears.

They might drive that favorite uncle or grandparent crazy with question after question about the device until said person turns it off. But...

Boys don't cry...

Not when your strolling down the “walking boards" and you happen to pass the entrance of a haunted house they would not jump from their stroller, climb up you leg and scream so loud that people are staring (most likely thinking that you are beating the sweet little child.)

Instead they WILL beg you to give them the six dollar entrance fee, promising to never to ask for anything ever again. But...

Boys don't cry...

They would never start sobbing (a huge drooling sob) when I tell them that they have to wear the blue shirt to school...between the gasping tears they would not claim that they were ugly. Certainly this would not go on for 45 min...I dropped the "ugly?" in the blue shirt, still crying child off, (they would know I would)!

They knew that what ever was set out for them was what they were wearing...clean or not, blue or not and they would not say a word about it. (Until they were in their twenty's) But...


Boys don't cry...

Not at the top of their lung when you show them a really cool bug (dead), or refuse to come into the house 'cause there is a Daddy Long Legs near the door, and panic when they see a snake in the flower garden (earth worm) finally deciding that they were NEVER playing in the yard again because of a alleged bee sighting.

They might bring in every 'cool' bug the find (dead or alive). Pull the legs of the now 'Daddy No Legs’ (fireflies also fear boys) And after being stung by a bee run out with some elaborate plans for revenge. But...


Boys don't cry...

Of course, boys don't cry at the thought of Halloween, or back up so quickly at the entrance of Lowe’s that they are outside and Mommy trapped inside. They would never vow to give up all the potential candy, because some houses have balloon Frankenstein’s in the yard. (Or worse) They would never keep their parents from their traditional Saturday lunch at the diner, because the same blow up creatures is at the door. Especially, not at the age of seven.

They will count the days after Easter for the chance of candy and spookiness, dreaming of just as many tricks as treats. But...

I prayed for many years for a 'girly girl' of my own. My daughter is 13 year younger than my youngest son, and now I know that boys don't cry...they are nothing like girls...totally different creatures no matter what anyone says!

Girls cry...but they smell better!

IT'S MY ART!

“I tend to admire a hard-driving entrepreneur far more than a creative artist, to value producing measurable results more than time to appreciate the beauty around me.”--Jerry Scott 2008


It's My Art

I heard this line many, many years ago, on a TV commercial. I think it was for Life Insurance? The minute I heard it I took it as my own! My mantra so to speak.

I have had a house cleaning business, hand painted shirts I sold at craft shows, prepared tax returns (for lasagna), and sold jewelry at home parties. Whether I made a display sign, put it on a business card (I think I handed out three), or just thought it to myself---each business was dubbed It's My Art.

Every time I set a table for a church function, planned a craft for school children, or fostered a baby—I would think It's My Art!

Occasionally when bailing a boy out of jail, stroking the hair of a beautiful girl in a hospital bed, picking up the never ending cereal bowls, or tried to calm a sobbing drama queen...I sigh...It's My Art?

Too often when washing laundry, dishes, or scrubbing different porcelain areas in the house... I will think...It's My Art ...NOT!

Every now and then when dressing for the day, finding that perfect outfit, or fearfully looking around for the host of 'What Not To Wear' to spring from the bushes...I think, what can I say...It's My Art.

When I paint the house trim in shades of purple, use metal flashing as a chair rail, or lovingly put just one more rubber ducky in our bath room...Hey... It's My Art

Now I am painting with oils, drawing with charcoal, turning a bedroom in an art studio (Sammi didn't need her own room). Now I am typing up old poems and essays and bravely sharing my thoughts. I am even considering another attempt at working with clay! And with each piece I create-- I am proudly thinking... It's My Art

So as I type these thoughts, and work on my book... and partly because my friend no longer calls his Blog...Thought For The Day, I have titled my new endeavors... It's My Art


Note for the quote above....

Jerry, the second I read the thought you penned, I laughed. You are one of the most creative people I know. You appreciate beauty in the eyes of those who come to you with their sorrows and their joys. You paint a loving picture when you speak of your hope in Jesus. You eyes sparkle at the beauty of Bev and your family. And you too uptight (and a little modest?) to admit that It's Your Art!