You are currently browsing the category archive for the ‘Writing’ category.
Dear Benjamin,
You are 21 months old! Holy cow! I am not sure I realized how much you would change between 18 months and 2 years – but here you are, growing and changing so fast I can barely keep up.
You talk. A lot. I know every parent thinks their kid is special, but when I read an article on temper tantrums that says kids under 2 1/2 ”usually have a vocabulary of only about 50 words and can’t link more than two together at a time” I have to wonder about you telling me to “wait a second please” or to “come play pool please” at 21 months. Obviously you are not a “usually” kind of kid when it comes to talking. So while I don’t think you’re necessarily a genius, in some ways you are just like me. Sorry in advance for all the grief this will cause you.
Your dad came up to me about two weeks ago and said “Baby! I just had one of those moments that make being a parent worth all the hassle” and told me about how you and him were staring up at the sky watching an airplane and he was telling you all about planes and the sky. A few minutes the plane flew by you looked up at your daddy. “Go?” Your Daddy asked you where you wanted to go. You pointed to the sky, “Up der.” “Benjamin, how are we going to get all the way up there?” You stopped, like you were thinking hard, concentrating, then you threw your arms in the air and told your Daddy, “Jump!!”
You love watching TV and playing pool. If you had your way, that’s all you would do. You also love playing with blocks and puzzles, but those toys require fighting with the dog and Frankie likes to chew up anything he can get his hands on. When you wake up in the morning you ask for ”TeeVee, mommy, go dawnsteers, UmiZoomiez?” (Team Umi Zoomi!) or “Bubblebuppies” (Bubble Guppies). If you never learn how to correctly say “Bubblebuppies” I’ll be OK with that, you say it better than they do anyways. I try to limit your TV, but of course we’ve been sick so it’s been a good way to keep you entertained while Mommy and Daddy lay on the couch moaning about how much they hurt.
Pool. It drives me absolutely crazy that you’re fervently and passionately attacking the pool table with your dirty fingers, rubbing a broken stick across the felt, pushing the balls across the table and occasionally across the room… but it makes you SO happy. It’s one of the few things that I just have to learn to get over as a parent. It’s really because I’m jealous, though. My Dad wouldn’t let us play pool until we could demonstrate a respect for the pool table – and here you are, not even 2 years old, holding one of my Dad’s broken cue sticks (so it’s only half a stick) asking me to shoot the black ball at you so you can put it into the triangle. You’ve very proud that you know it’s a triangle, you tell me every time you pick it up and set it on the table. “Tri-gale” you tell me with a smile. I at least console myself with the fact that we can work on our colors, and shapes, and words while you play. You know most basic billiards terminology (stick, table, pool, balls, cue, rack, triangle) and can pronounce most of the colors (even if you don’t tell me which is which). You know some balls are striped, but you won’t correctly identify any of them by color. You just repeat them back to me as I say them – orange, black, blue striped, black, and on and on.
When you want someone to take you with them, whether it be to pick you up or just take you with them upstairs or downstairs, you hold your arms out and say “Take-um.” It’s so cute! We think it originated from us telling one another “Here, take him for me for a second?” We never correct you. “Take-um, Mommy!”
Bedtime has been a challenge lately. You want to do so many things and you don’t want to stop and slow down. When we would put you in your crib you would jump up and down, holding the railing, until you launched yourself onto the edge and flipped over… which would have landed you on your head had I not been there to catch you. I found you a toddler bed for $35.00 on craigslist and immediately reserved it. As I was researching how to transition you (you’ll learn about how I obsessively research everything) it said not to jump to conclusions as soon as you tried to get out of the crib, most kids aren’t ready till they’re closer to 3 years old, blah blah blah. You were trying to pole vault! What was I supposed to do? So transition you did. It only took one failed attempt, then we both got the hang of it. You seem to like your “big boy bed.”
At bedtime we usually read a book – the bible storybook, or the farm animals book, or Green Eggs and Ham, or Mr. Brown. You love things that rhyme and/or involve animals. Sometimes, instead of reading (or after reading), you’ll ask me to sing. “Sing, Mommy?” and oh, son, I love it when you ask. I don’t have an angels voice, but I love that you still want me to sing to you. Those are sweet, precious moments with you.
But it’s tempered with reality. A few short minutes later when I get up to leave, you start screaming bloody murder. I have to rush out of your room and quickly shut the door so when you run to follow me all you get is the cold reality of a door you can’t open. You sob, then retreat back to bed for a quick cry before settling down. I hate leaving, but staying is even worse because you’d never sleep then! It’s cruel, but you need your nap and I need time to fold laundry and watch reruns of Bones. Trust me, it’s for the best.
You have temper tantrums – usually because we won’t give you soda, or let you watch 2 hours of TV, or you didn’t take a nap, or you’re tired, or you don’t want to go to bed, or get dressed. But they don’t last long, and I can usually distract you.
This is getting long, but here are a few more things I don’t want to forget:
“Go disway” while pointing in different directions, the way you call a slice of cheese “maccheese” and wail if you don’t get “peekles” from the fridge, “No Frankie No!” while swatting at both dogs, the way you say shout “kick!” when kicking the soccer ball, how much I enjoyed dancing with you and Daddy at Teresa and James’ wedding, jumping on the trampoline at cousin Noah’s birthday (and then again at Ms. Leslie’s house), how when I ask you to use your manners you look at me and say “manners? (pause) peas mommy peas” while making both hands into fists and rubbing them both across your tummy (which is only a little bit correct), the way you have been giving hugs back, the way you love to climb on my back and “run run” with me through the house, the way you help me knead dough,
the way that I love you even when you’re driving me crazy.
Thanks for being cute,
Love,
Mama
Dear Supertones,
You were my first love outside of my family (and the cute boy that went to church in the town next to mine, but that’s a different story). I’ll never forget the first time I heard your music.
It was 1997 and life for this then-13-year-old girl was pretty good. I had a good family. Lots of siblings. But music…music was not really my “thing.” I would much rather be reading, sticking my nose into a book and escaping to worlds far away. Worlds where dwarves and hobbits lived among ents, and rings were things whispered about in secret.
My sisters were much more passionate about music. They had their Silverchair and Metallica albums that they listened to in secret. My parents allowed only certain types of music in the house…. anything modern and “rock” was strictly prohibited. It was the devil’s music, you see.
I wasn’t rebellious so I stuck with what was approved and allowed. I listened to some Willie Nelson, George Strait, Patsy Cline and Johnny Cash. I listened to Spirit and Bride, which was an amazing Christian band from the early 90′s on an old half-worn cassette tape. I listened to the Statler Brothers.
But see, Supertones, the day my life changed because of you was really a day like any other. We had our chores to do. We had a few fights (and only a little blood was drawn). We probably watched The Adams Family (which was the ONLY movie that 5 Threet children would ever agree on). There was no magical excitement in the air, it was a day like any other. I received your CD as a present – this was when CDs were still kind of a big deal, back when I was nervous about putting a CD in the stereo because heaven forbid I do it wrong and break the expensive machine.
I stared at the cover. Seven men in sunglasses stared back at me. You guys looked great! I had no idea what ska was, by the way. I figured, hey, how bad could these guys be? I used the remote to open the CD tray. Czzh-jjjggg. I wrestled with the cellophane on the CD case. My sisters tried to distract me. I gingerly placed the CD into the tray. Jake ran some GI Joe’s into my foot. I closed the CD tray. I pressed play. The CD player rotated my CD to the back of the stereo. It cycled around a few times to get it’s bearings on the shiny new CD.
I can’t describe the first 7 notes of your first song on that CD in words that are fitting. You know what they are anyways. I can tell you that there are drums and horns and that it’s a smashing way to start an album. You know that. But that doesn’t tell you how my musical world was shattered.
I told you, right, that I listened to country and hokey Christian music for the first 13 years of my life. I didn’t listen to rock, alternative, rap, or anything even remotely close to ska. Your 7 notes absolutely shattered the idea of what music was in my brain. It was this radical new way of looking at music.
I danced around to that CD all day long that day. And the day after that. And the day after that. Your music became a constant theme in my life; something I whistled while at the bus stop and sang in the shower.
Through your first CD I found Five Iron Frenzy and Insyderz and through them I found DC Talk and Jars of Clay and Third Day. But it started with you, Supertones. So I can’t give any other band credit for getting me through a rough spot without first going back to that first day in 1997 when 7 notes rocked my world. I can’t tell Robby Seay Band how much their “Song of Hope” means to me without a nod in your direction because you got me to this point. I can’t tell Jars of Clay how their song “Worlds Apart” is my all time favorite song EVER without a nod to the last song on Supertones Strike Back, “So Great a Salvation.”
You got me here, Supertones. Maybe not by yourself, but those 7 notes that introduce your second album definitely helped pave the way. So thank you. I know you don’t make music anymore – it was 13 years ago, I guess you’ve all moved on to bigger and brighter things. I guess I have too.
But you know what, Supertones? When I was pregnant with my son (who is now 5 months old and super cute) we didn’t bother playing Bach or Beethoven for him. I plugged my ipod into my car and scrolled down to OC Supertones, The. I rolled down to the album “Supertones Strike Back.”
I turned up the volume.
Love,
Jennet
Day 7 – Someone who has made your life worth living for
I thought about this a long time because I know all the standard answers. God, Jesus, my children, my spouse, my best friend, but you know what? *I* made my life worth living for. Me. My existance in and of itself. I am worth living for. I am important enough and good enough and awesome enough to continue justifying my existance within myself.
And you know what? YOU are worth living for. Because you’re you. Because there is so much awesome inside you that you haven’t even tapped yet. Yes, live for God and for your children and your spouse and your best friend and your neighbor and the little old lady down the street who always waves at you even though half the time you see her you’re grumpy and trying to fix your hair before leaving your subdivision.
But live for yourself, too. Please. Recognize your worth. You are a beautiful, beautiful creation and you have so much to offer to people. You have hopes and dreams and things to laugh about and stories to tell. You have lessons you’ve learned and lessons you’re learning. You have been through tragedy, heartbreak and more than a few moments of grace. You’ve survived those and you can survive these. Because you’re awesome. Please take a minute and let yourself feel good about who you are. You’re not perfect. But you’re you.
And THAT, my friend, is worth living for.
Day 04 - Something you have to forgive someone for.
Stick with me on this, I promise the questions later on in the month are a bit happier. Since I don’t currently harbor any unforgiveness, I’ll talk about an experience in the past.
I had to forgive my birth father for leaving me. I know that sounds all emo, but as a child I really had terrible mixed-up feelings about the whole situation. One of my little regrets in life is that I never got up the courage to ask my Mom more about him before she died (I always thought I’d have more time with her).
I don’t know a whole lot about him. I know his name. I initially thought he lived in Ohio (where I was born) but now I’m not so sure, as evidence points to her maybe getting pregnant with me while she was in Florida. So any real leads I might have been able to develop are pretty much gone. All I really have is his name penciled in on my birth certificate, the knowledge that he left my mom when she was pregnant and her words, “he was an asshole. Don’t ask me about him, it will upset your dad.”
But I was so angry at him as a child. Especially when stuff was tough – when my dad yelled at me, when my step-sisters made me one of the least popular kids in middle school (honestly they didn’t have to work hard at that, I’m kind of a nerd), when I was lonely and searching for meaning. I didn’t understand how someone could leave me before even getting to know me. I wanted to know what parts of me were from him – I’m the spitting image of my mother and can’t pinpoint a single physical trait I could attribute to the other half of my genetics. I’m grateful for that, but it also made me that much more curious.
I harbored a lot of unforgiveness at him for a really long time. It seemed like the majority of men in my life left when stuff got difficult – whether emotionally, physically or mentally. He was the same. I didn’t like it, I didn’t understand it, and it made me angry at him.
So… how did I forgive him? Honestly, it was at a Christian girls camp. I know how hokey this is, trust me. But one of the themes of the camp was forgiveness and they encouraged us to write a letter to a family member that had hurt us. I wrote to him. I told him how angry I was that he left, how I was mad that I would probably never meet him and how much I thought he would regret his decision to leave if he knew me now. And as hokey as it is… over time… it helped. I wrote him that letter, and then another, and another. I told him all about my life, the school I was going to, the classes I was taking, the loves of my life, my family that I had that I loved.
Eventually the anger faded. So did my desire to meet him, though. I mean, don’t get me wrong, if I was contacted by him now I’d probably do anything in my power to meet him. But I doubt I’ll go searching for him anytime soon. My dad, even though the ending of his life was tragic, was an amazing father to me. He loved me as if I was one of his own and I never felt left out of his affection. He raised me from 2 years old to be strong, ethical and to work hard for the things in life that are important to me. I wish so much he hadn’t lost sight of his own lessons, but that’s a different topic for a different day. He was an amazing father and I did not really feel the absence of a father’s affection. I guess that made not knowing my birth father bearable until I could get through the anger.
Sometimes I do wonder about him. I had promised myself I wouldn’t look for him until my Dad was dead, because I couldn’t bear him to think I was trying to replace him. But now… now it just doesn’t seem like such a big deal. I guess time helps with that.
October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month. Last year I decided that from now on I will wear purple every day of October to honor my Mom, who was killed by my Dad in the most permanent kind of domestic violence.
It didn’t have to end that way.
But life is complicated and sometimes people don’t get the help they need. Sometimes it’s because they have their own demons they’re fighting, sometimes it’s because they don’t think they’re worth it, and sometimes it’s because they don’t realize how badly they need it.
People are broken.
It’s the way of life on earth. We live in a fallen, broken, sin-stained world.
But there is hope.
My faith has sustained me through many periods of grieving. God has been gracious and has helped me to love instead of hate. He has helped me to grieve for what I lost instead of get angry at what was stolen from me. I wouldn’t be the woman I am now without Him.
So in the month of October I will wear purple every day. I will wear it and think of my Mom, whose smile is fiercely missed. I will wear purple and I will think of the women and men who are in abusive relationships and for whatever reason see no escape. I will wear purple and I will pray for broken souls to find healing. I will wear purple and share my story. I will wear purple because some can’t.
I will wear purple so that the silent will have a voice.
My birth story ended up being pretty long. Longer and more detailed than some of my readers probably want, so it’s been added to my blog site but on a separate page from the normal stuff. It’s my birth story: it talks about contractions, what pushing feels like, and how I felt about delivering the placenta. I wanted to write down what happened so I would remember, and I had enough people ask me about the experience that I decided to share. There are pictures, but no worries, they’ve all been cropped and there are no private parts or anything gross showing. Again, I thought that may be the type of thing some of my readers wouldn’t want to see. But if it makes you feel any better, let me put it to you this way: my husband is generally a pretty private person, and he personally approved the pictures for release to the internets.
Anyways. I would have gotten everything posted sooner but we decided to drive to Houston to surprise my Aunt Tina for the 4th of July – she just had foot surgery and hadn’t gotten to meet Benjamin yet. We had a blast hanging out with her and her family and they all adored Benjamin. Also got to visit with Aunt Lynn. Hopefully next trip we can meet more people! All the excitement threw Benjamin’s schedule off and we’re still kind of coping with that (hence this being posted at 2:25am).
So, without further delay, I present to you: My Birth Story.
Enjoy.
In 2003 I did a journal project where I wrote a poem a day. I made it 6 months. Most of them are completely terrible. I need to take a break from cleaning so these are a few that I don’t hate. Sometimes I wish I could write again, but honestly I’m not that person anymore. Much happier now, at any rate. Enjoy!
The staircase stood
independently
(towering above the fearful boy)
Rounded hand rails
Oak finished, sanded, stained
(his young hands already calloused)
And the early morning air
Crept in through the mailman’s slot
(he felt the chill against his lips)
The boy stood
creation finished
(he feared the staircase)
his feet did not move
and the staircase fell
with his first step
(he didn’t fear anymore)
-January 6, 2003
And the little girl
Ran away from all she knew
And then found herself
-January 26, 2003
The blank page
tells a story
of love lost
of hope abandoned
of treasures mistaken.
The blank page
tells a story
of men and women
dying before their time
of children lost
before they learn to write.
The plank page
tells a story
do you hear the cries?
-February 11, 2003
A man’s weight in gold
is but an ounce of his worth
to our Master’s heart
-February 20, 2003
The tears
wipe away
any trace
of your joy
i see you here
amongst the brambles
pain and blood aside
i have become you
-March 13, 2003
Open door
A breath of fresh air
Sweet escape
-April 6, 2003
The air in the morning
Is somehow more crisp
Though my schedule be long
and my feet sore already
I breathe in the sunrise
as the dawn is still dark
For I know it inches forward
to light my day
-June 9, 2003
I almost, almost forgot to mention: I’ve been published!
I’ll save you the exciting story of how it happened, but needless to say it was a really awesome moment for me to see my name on their website as the author of an article. Dan (@takingcharge) and the people over at CreditCards.com are amazing, I’ve loved their website for a while now so to contribute to their cause is pretty amazing. Go check it out.
I wanted to write a mini-biography about my Dad for his birthday today but found this instead. I wrote it back in 2005, back when I was writing more often. Not sure what made me write it, but I found it in an old, half-written-in journal and immediately knew it was a better epitaph than any I could write now.
~
Coming from somewhere, perhaps across the bayou, is the sound of large metal banging together. I am reminded of my father’s welding job he held throughout most of my childhood - at the sound, I am instantly transported back to the doorway of Hogan Manufacturing in Escalon, California.
The building was huge and towering, nestled in the downtown area of the small and quiet town. The building encompasses and entire city block and it’s huge doors were always imposing to me as a child. A step inside lead to a world colored by yellow sparks and flames, contrasted by the black metal and orchestrated by men like my father – hardworking men in dirty coveralls with permanent stains and blackened hands. There was little need for foremen: each man knew his job, his duty, and they toiled from start to finish without too much complaint. They had large, powerful toolboxes full of testosterone and adrenaline, with smudge marks on the drawer handles that led to screwdrivers and wrenches. A closer look, however, reveals the tender side – a steel flower, molded for a wife. A picture of the family. A row of school pictures that seemed to encompass the lid of the toolbox. A clever, yet cheesy sticker about Real Men Loving Jesus. All of these things, these tender and sappy memoirs of the soul of a man, stood as a reminder of why he toiled. Why he worked.
It is rarely for pure love of a job that we show up. It’s also duty, obligation. But most of all, love. Love for the small boy who loves guns and time with Dad. Love for the one who can’t get enough books to read. Love for the prodigal, who we never lose hope for. It is the true essence of who he was. There on the toolbox was a piece of his soul, adhered with double-sided sticky tape. The pictures stood as a reminder when the hours were long and weary.
Perhaps I’ve poeticized an ordinary man working an ordinary job for an ordinary family. But isn’t that what life is all about? Aren’t we all, in our own way, poets? Out to make the most of our ordinary lives?
She saw the old man and his old dog every week day somewhere along 9th street downtown. Sometimes twice a day, when she walked from 7th and MLK to 9th and Vale to get some coffee. It was .67 miles each way, or one thousand three hundred and forty-one steps.
She and the old man didn’t communicate. She saw him more often than she saw her father, who lived 9.3 miles or eighteen thousand six hundred and thirty-five steps away. She didn’t communicate with him either, so she figured it was fair. Communication was always difficult. There was too much she wanted to say, to ask, her curiosity always got the best of her and then she embarrassed herself, or them, or both, and honestly it was just too… she sighed. Always her mind would whirl and twirl, a thousand miles a minute and too much for her body or mouth to keep up. It was why she stuttered and why she sometimes stared at objects with no way to think of what they were. She knew exactly what it was and what it could do, and could describe it with a thousand descriptions, each one as poetic as the next. But what was it called? The words were not there.
But no matter. She passed the man, keeping her head down to make sure she wasn’t stepping on any cracks. She’d stepped on a crack once, when she was 8. Her mother was in the hospital for a week with a pinched disk. She truly believed that if she stepped on a crack she would break her mother’s back. She had experienced the child’s rhyme and so she avoided anything but the smoothest of sidewalks. She walked and she counted. Counting her steps was the easiest way to avoid cracks, it kept her focused on cracks and where she’s going and kept her focus away from the people touching her shoulders and walking past her laughing and talking and smiling in the happy way they did.
The old man always seemed to be laughing or smiling, especiallly at his dog. But then, she really only saw his face when he was sitting, leaning against a graffiti stained wall with his dog strewn about his lap. The pup was too big to be a lap dog, but he’d rest his head along the old man’s calf and throw a paw or two across his thigh. She never saw the old man’s face when he was standing, but she always recognized his dog on the faded purple leash and his tattered pants that had been worn thin by the elements. Her eyes never got past the ground a few feet in front of her, and she hardly saw higher than anyone’s waist. How often she wished someone had asked her to stand up straight, to look the world in its face. But she hadn’t ever been told to do that, and so she never did. Her eyes were focused on a world without faces and smiles, a world where she could watch where she was going.
She had never seen the sky.
