So a few of my internet friends have recently posted a list of random things about themselves. I thought I'd join in on the fun.
1. I am 5'9...and three quarters.
2. I bite the skin around my fingernails. Never my actual fingernails, just the skin.
3. I dream of going to law school at Notre Dame...if only I could talk my husband into South Bend, Indiana.
4. My son was born exactly 9 months and 23 days after we were married.
5. I have loved reading since I was very small and was often yelled at for still having the light on in my room long after bedtime.
6. I've always secretly wanted to be a writer and have had an idea for a novel bouncing around in my head for awhile.
7. Had I not gone to graduate school, I would have joined the Peace Corps and part of me will always regret not doing so.
8. I am Roman Catholic but do not go to church with the frequency I should.
9. I've only ever lived in Virginia and would like to live in South Carolina in the near future.
10. I was 23 when I graduated with an MSW.
11. My parents have been married for 26 years, only 5 months before I was born.
12. I had 3 great-grandparents and one set of grandparents alive when I was born.
13. My favorite books are the Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold and the Kite Runner and A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khalid Husseini .
14. My best friend lives in West Virginia, and I miss her every day.
15. I miss being in school--learning, reading, writing--all of it.
16. If I was financially able, I would have 6 children--some biological and some adopted.
17. I've pondered being a foster parent in the future.
18. I'm currently addicted to Haagen Dazs frozen yogurt--especially vanilla honey granola.
19. I have a bad sweet tooth and have given up sweets--aside from #18.
20. I've only ever been in love twice, and I don't think I really understood it until the second time.
21. My mom is one of my best friends and I believe my father is one of the smartest people I know.
22. I would like to be a stay at home mom, for at least a little while, but I'm not sure I'd be good at it.
23. Procrastinator should be my middle name.
24. I love trash television--especially reality shows like Keeping up with the Kardashians and Real World.
25. My husband and I never miss an episode of Gossip Girl, One Tree Hill, Lost or Grey's Anatomy.
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Friday, December 12, 2008
Angel Baby
I'm utterly perplexed. Simply no understanding exists. How can you have a child, a beautiful little girl and do what this woman did?
The remains of a child have been found near Caylee Anthony's grandparents' home. I think we know who the little one is. It's Caylee. We know. They know. Can Casey's parents continue to believe their daughter had nothing to do with this? Claim complete innocence? How could they not have known?
I cried last night when I heard this. It's never an easy thing to hear someone has hurt or killed their child or any child, but this one has hit me harder. I think the world is all feeling this way. We've been following this story for months. Hoping beyond reason. Maybe she would be found. Okay. I think we knew the truth all along but didn't want to believe it. I'm not sure if it's harder now because I have my own, but I'm sure that is a factor.
In my imagination, I'm strangling Casey Anthony. Chinese water torture. Pulling her fingernails off one by one. Taping her eyelids shut so she can stare at pictures of Caylee all day long. I vehemently am opposed to the death penalty, but I believe Casey should be punished and reminded of what she has done for the rest of her life. I believe she will receive her just rewards when Saint Peter denies her entrance through the gates of Heaven. God sees all. I believe he forgives if you are truly repentant. But it doesn't mean I have to.
I pray and know Caylee is with God, where she belongs. But it's not fair. She had multiple decades of life in front of her. Her heartless bitch of a mother stole that from her. For what? A boyfriend? Freedom from responsibility? Why have a child? Why not let someone begging to be a parent raise her instead?
I work in the field of child protection. I know many parents make mistakes. This is not a mistake, it's murder. Willful. Purposeful. Ending of a life. A precious, new, beautiful life. I don't get it. It hurts to think about.
I would die for my son. No questions asked. Take me. Let him live. My greatest fear is someone hurting him. Wiggly not living well into old age. My husband says the same. I will never be able to understand cruelty of this nature. I feel it too much. I am overwrought with emotion today.
Rest in peace, baby Caylee Marie. May justice be served in your honor. May we always remember you and your spirit live on.
I'll never understand. Nor should I.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Ana Michelle
I feel the need, this month, to discuss someone immensely important in my life. She left me more than eleven years ago, but I believe she is one of the most influential forces in who I have become.
I was only 13 when we met, she 15. I was in awe of my older friend. She and her two brothers moved into the house across from mine. Just another family in the string of military families who would inhabit that home while the owners were stationed in Africa. I didn't know. Had no way of knowing, what it would mean to have her as a friend.
I rode the bus to the high school in the mornings, even though I was still a lowly middle schooler. Ana showed me the ropes, let me hang out with her friends. Made me feel part of them. Special. I loved it. We talked about movies, music, television, friends, boys. Had sleep overs. I went to church a few times with her family. She gave me my first alcoholic drink, nevermind that I was only 14 at the time. She told funny stories and loved her brothers. She did everything passionately.
The day she died is still so vivid for me. A game of street hockey. A bicycle. A boy telling me once, my brother telling me again, my mother telling me a third time. Collapsing to the floor. My father telling my mother to take me into another room for fear of watching the emotional wreck I had become. Ana's father hugging me and telling me to never let it get that far, never that bad. Seeing her brothers cry. Not knowing what to say. Tears coming. The funeral a few days later. A skirt with a missing scarf. Screaming on the inside. So many kids missing a friend. My mother holding my hand. My parents afraid to leave me alone. Sitting on the staircase talking to the only person who understood how I felt. Only wanting to talk to Ana again. See her smile, laugh one more time.
I wrote to her. For two years. I put my thoughts and emotions on paper. It was my catharsis, my way of healing. I wrote her letters, poems. Copied song lyrics. Whatever it took. In the last entry, I realized I was officially older than she was when she died. More mature than she would ever have the chance to be. With each milestone I cross, I do so with the knowledge she never did. No driver's license, no senior prom, no high school graduation. No college memories. Adult friendships. College diploma. Marriage. Buying a home. Having children. She never did.
Close to a decade after her death, I found out she overdosed on muscle relaxers. Too many for her heart to handle. I still want to know what was going through her head. What she was thinking. What could have been that bad? Suicide never makes sense. It's sharper, it stings more to the people left behind. Why did she go? I forgave her many years ago, but it was not easy. I forgave her for myself, but not for her family. I see them from time to time. Talk to her brothers. The pain is still visible in her parents' faces. I remind them of her. The good and the bad.
For years, just the thought of Ana would send me into a sobbing puddle. Never knowing when or why it would hit, but there she was. Or wasn't. The pain grew duller with time. Less sharp, more like a missed friend visiting when it comes. I miss her, still. I think I always will. The life she should have led, the person she should have grown to be. I don't know that we would be good friends today, lives have a way of changing us and pulling us apart. I hope we would. She'll always be with me and live on through me.
I dreamt of her often after her death and still do on occasion. It helps. Getting those last conversations. The "I love yous" and "I miss yous," even if it only a dream. It helps. Even if I always wake up in tears.
Happy Birthday, Ana. You would have been 28 today. In my heart, in my mind, you'll always be 16. Forever young, they say. I hope God is treating you well. I still imagine you dancing in the wildflowers and waving hello. Maybe there is a bunny rabbit running along side you.
I was only 13 when we met, she 15. I was in awe of my older friend. She and her two brothers moved into the house across from mine. Just another family in the string of military families who would inhabit that home while the owners were stationed in Africa. I didn't know. Had no way of knowing, what it would mean to have her as a friend.
I rode the bus to the high school in the mornings, even though I was still a lowly middle schooler. Ana showed me the ropes, let me hang out with her friends. Made me feel part of them. Special. I loved it. We talked about movies, music, television, friends, boys. Had sleep overs. I went to church a few times with her family. She gave me my first alcoholic drink, nevermind that I was only 14 at the time. She told funny stories and loved her brothers. She did everything passionately.
The day she died is still so vivid for me. A game of street hockey. A bicycle. A boy telling me once, my brother telling me again, my mother telling me a third time. Collapsing to the floor. My father telling my mother to take me into another room for fear of watching the emotional wreck I had become. Ana's father hugging me and telling me to never let it get that far, never that bad. Seeing her brothers cry. Not knowing what to say. Tears coming. The funeral a few days later. A skirt with a missing scarf. Screaming on the inside. So many kids missing a friend. My mother holding my hand. My parents afraid to leave me alone. Sitting on the staircase talking to the only person who understood how I felt. Only wanting to talk to Ana again. See her smile, laugh one more time.
I wrote to her. For two years. I put my thoughts and emotions on paper. It was my catharsis, my way of healing. I wrote her letters, poems. Copied song lyrics. Whatever it took. In the last entry, I realized I was officially older than she was when she died. More mature than she would ever have the chance to be. With each milestone I cross, I do so with the knowledge she never did. No driver's license, no senior prom, no high school graduation. No college memories. Adult friendships. College diploma. Marriage. Buying a home. Having children. She never did.
Close to a decade after her death, I found out she overdosed on muscle relaxers. Too many for her heart to handle. I still want to know what was going through her head. What she was thinking. What could have been that bad? Suicide never makes sense. It's sharper, it stings more to the people left behind. Why did she go? I forgave her many years ago, but it was not easy. I forgave her for myself, but not for her family. I see them from time to time. Talk to her brothers. The pain is still visible in her parents' faces. I remind them of her. The good and the bad.
For years, just the thought of Ana would send me into a sobbing puddle. Never knowing when or why it would hit, but there she was. Or wasn't. The pain grew duller with time. Less sharp, more like a missed friend visiting when it comes. I miss her, still. I think I always will. The life she should have led, the person she should have grown to be. I don't know that we would be good friends today, lives have a way of changing us and pulling us apart. I hope we would. She'll always be with me and live on through me.
I dreamt of her often after her death and still do on occasion. It helps. Getting those last conversations. The "I love yous" and "I miss yous," even if it only a dream. It helps. Even if I always wake up in tears.
Happy Birthday, Ana. You would have been 28 today. In my heart, in my mind, you'll always be 16. Forever young, they say. I hope God is treating you well. I still imagine you dancing in the wildflowers and waving hello. Maybe there is a bunny rabbit running along side you.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Carolina State of Mind
In my mind I'm going to Carolina...
Bubby and I took a trip when we were juniors at our respective universities. We drove 2900 miles round trip. 10 days. So in love. It was a blast. One of the stops along our travels was Charleston. We fell head over heels for the place. Now, more than four years later, I long to go back.
In the months and years we spent at separate schools and in different towns, we dreamt of being in the same place and creating a life together. Not many of those conversations came and went without the mention of Charleston. At times, I think, these dreams and longings were what kept us together. We would talk about the colorful houses we saw in Summerville--the lovely little town we stayed in on the outskirts of Charleston with one of B's gracious fraternity brothers. The houses with the multi-level porches. A rocking chair and babies. Magnolia trees. Hot, sticky summers. A slower pace. We both grew up in a growing, bustling metropolis and knew whole heartedly, we would not be returning to that place. Avoid the rat race, we said. Charleston, or there about, seemed like the perfect idea for us.
So how did we end up here instead of there? Life happened. I was accepted into an accelerated graduate program in the area we live in and when I graduated, this is where we stayed. It is close enough to our families to visit when we want, but far enough away to avoid the unwanted pop-ins. We're comfortable here, but I still don't feel settled. I don't know that I want my children to grow up here. It's not a bad place. There is a lot of growth here and we're able to access pretty much whatever we want fairly quickly. There are four shopping malls within fifteen minutes of my house--which is wonderful except for the whole being poor thing (see reference below to the indentured servitude). It's still a busy area, which we were trying to avoid. As a fairly outgoing person, I've never made a really good friend here. I have a few from work--but none whom I would call a best friend. B is in the same boat. Maybe I just don't think we fit here. I wonder, though, if we would have an easier time anywhere. What makes me think the community would be easier to acclimate to in Charleston?
What does fit is B's job. He L O V E S what he does. It's foreign to me. I'm passionate about my work. Social work picked me not the other way around. But I've never loved my job. I wish I did. The red tape, the inability to help in the way I want, the political system, inane policy and mandates. It's hard. I find great joy in working with families and children, it's the other crap that ruins it for me. I wish it made me happier. I know I could find another job if we relocated, but I don't think (no, I know) B wants a different job. Even talking about moving is a touchy subject for him. It stings a bit. He has a deadline though, we must be settled in the house we plan on growing old in by the time Wiggly starts Kindergarten. We shall see.
We bought our first home a year ago in May and we are now indentured servants to the all mighty Mortgage. It's simply understood--we can't move any time soon. So why do I continue to desire to do so? Have I now built up this place on such a pedestal to which it can never really hold up? I certainly hope not.
For now, I can dream about the house we could buy with the multi-level porch, the rocking chair and the magnolia trees. The pitter patter of Wiggly and other babies' feet. Did I mention this house could also be nearly twice the square footage for the same price as our current house? *sigh*
Bubby and I took a trip when we were juniors at our respective universities. We drove 2900 miles round trip. 10 days. So in love. It was a blast. One of the stops along our travels was Charleston. We fell head over heels for the place. Now, more than four years later, I long to go back.
In the months and years we spent at separate schools and in different towns, we dreamt of being in the same place and creating a life together. Not many of those conversations came and went without the mention of Charleston. At times, I think, these dreams and longings were what kept us together. We would talk about the colorful houses we saw in Summerville--the lovely little town we stayed in on the outskirts of Charleston with one of B's gracious fraternity brothers. The houses with the multi-level porches. A rocking chair and babies. Magnolia trees. Hot, sticky summers. A slower pace. We both grew up in a growing, bustling metropolis and knew whole heartedly, we would not be returning to that place. Avoid the rat race, we said. Charleston, or there about, seemed like the perfect idea for us.
So how did we end up here instead of there? Life happened. I was accepted into an accelerated graduate program in the area we live in and when I graduated, this is where we stayed. It is close enough to our families to visit when we want, but far enough away to avoid the unwanted pop-ins. We're comfortable here, but I still don't feel settled. I don't know that I want my children to grow up here. It's not a bad place. There is a lot of growth here and we're able to access pretty much whatever we want fairly quickly. There are four shopping malls within fifteen minutes of my house--which is wonderful except for the whole being poor thing (see reference below to the indentured servitude). It's still a busy area, which we were trying to avoid. As a fairly outgoing person, I've never made a really good friend here. I have a few from work--but none whom I would call a best friend. B is in the same boat. Maybe I just don't think we fit here. I wonder, though, if we would have an easier time anywhere. What makes me think the community would be easier to acclimate to in Charleston?
What does fit is B's job. He L O V E S what he does. It's foreign to me. I'm passionate about my work. Social work picked me not the other way around. But I've never loved my job. I wish I did. The red tape, the inability to help in the way I want, the political system, inane policy and mandates. It's hard. I find great joy in working with families and children, it's the other crap that ruins it for me. I wish it made me happier. I know I could find another job if we relocated, but I don't think (no, I know) B wants a different job. Even talking about moving is a touchy subject for him. It stings a bit. He has a deadline though, we must be settled in the house we plan on growing old in by the time Wiggly starts Kindergarten. We shall see.
We bought our first home a year ago in May and we are now indentured servants to the all mighty Mortgage. It's simply understood--we can't move any time soon. So why do I continue to desire to do so? Have I now built up this place on such a pedestal to which it can never really hold up? I certainly hope not.
For now, I can dream about the house we could buy with the multi-level porch, the rocking chair and the magnolia trees. The pitter patter of Wiggly and other babies' feet. Did I mention this house could also be nearly twice the square footage for the same price as our current house? *sigh*
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