If there was ever any question that I am emotionally stunted, this morning laid all doubts to rest. For weeks after my daughter tied the knot, friends would ask how I was faring, how my mama heart was adjusting to the loss of one of my chicks. I would smile and assure them I was fine, that in my steely emotional fortitude, I hadn’t even cried on the day of the blessed event. Oh, I got all choked up and lumpy in my throat that day and I did almost lose it when they ran the gauntlet and drove away. But I managed to suck the tears back into my eyeballs and make it through just fine, thank you very much.
It took a full four months after the fact for the first tears to fall. I missed my baby. A few genteel tears fell like a soft spring mist one morning and that was that. So I thought.
I’m a serious procrastinator. Better to just come out and own it rather than make lame excuses, don’t you think? Many moons ago I promised my online friends some pictures of the blessed event of my daughter’s wedding. Today marks six months of wedded bliss for her and my new son, so I find it a fitting time to finally share some of the fun of that magical day.
With as much stealth as I could muster, I made my way to the dilapidated building. I paused for a moment, unsure as to how I should proceed. The enemy was somewhere behind me, of this I was certain, and my hesitation gave fear the opening it needed. A feeling of dread swept over me, a certainty of imminent attack making my blood pulse. Spinning around, slashing with my knife, I encountered only empty air. I raised my weapon, mean and black, and perused the area…
When I became pregnant for the first time, having endured several months of fertility treatments, I was confident that I knew exactly what I was getting into. I’d read books and articles, I’d studied other parents in my sphere, and in my youthful arrogance I was sure I’d be the perfect mama.
Then, after birthing my daughter, reality walked up and b*#ch slapped me, knocking me flat on my smug posterior leaving my ego bruised and bloody. Dazed, I realized I didn’t know squat. This motherhood gig was HARD.
Addiction is a cruel, manipulative master and being a Christian addict adds a whole new dimension of guilt to the mix. Today I celebrate 8 years smoke free. In honor of the anniversary of my freedom, I’d like to revisit a post I wrote a few years ago.
While my story won’t provide a magic formula that tells others how to climb out of the muck, I hope it encourages everyone that our God sees us, and will meet us exactly where we need him to. May we all be reminded today that our gracious Father can bring insight, growth, and beauty out of all things…even our fears and our frailties.
Grace and peace to you.
“I had a very, very bad dream!” My 6 year old daughter climbed into my lap and looked up at me, tears clinging to her long dark lashes. “I dreamed you went away and couldn’t come back.” She sniffled and snuggled in closer. She was obviously devastated, but then, so was I. You see, I had just received word from my doctor’s office. There was a mass in my throat and, with a long history of nicotine addiction, I was scared. I had quit smoking again two weeks earlier and I couldn’t help but wonder if I had quit just a little too late.
I’ve never been much for the forced romance of anniversaries and holidays. It’s not that I’m a romance Scrooge or anything, rather, it’s the expectations of grandeur on specific days that I resist. Call me crazy, but I expect a bit more wooing in the day to day.
We all yearn for someone to find us utterly irresistible, don’t we? As children, many of us dreamed of finding that one person who would make us feel wanted, accepted, and safe. We all desire to be swept away by our beloved, yes?
Then we find that one…the soul mate, the knight in shining armor and it’s so intoxicating! But then what?
Read the rest over at The Family Road Map!
Photo by bngdesigns, courtesy of pixabay.
If success tastes sweet, and defeat is bitter, then what would you call an experience that, while technically a fail, brings great satisfaction and joy to your life? Is it sweet or bitter? Or would it better be described with other words of gustatory perception such as salty or sour? Hmmm. Not quite right, any of them.
I recall as a child, learning about the different perceptions of taste. The teacher demonstrated with small dixie cups, each filled with a mystery liquid. She used cotton swabs to dab a drop or two of each flavor onto different areas of our tongues and we contrasted sweet with salty, sour with bitter. Later on, I learned, a new category was added. Umami. U-u-what??