Oh The Places We Will Go...

When I was about 25 years old, my Indian boyfriend of two and a half years left for an arranged marriage back in India. We stayed together until 4:00 a.m. on the morning of his flight to India. We both held each other and cried for, what felt like, hours. When it was finally time for him to leave, I told him that if he changed his mind, even while in India, to call me, and I would drop everything and fly there to marry him. His final words to me were, “Good luck,” and off he went.

As the months passed by, I regularly frequented a local organic vegetarian restaurant that was down the road from my house. I was a busy girl with several work contracts on the go, and cooking for one didn’t really appeal to me, so I can say, without exaggeration, that I ate there, between lunches and dinners, easily eight or nine times per week. As a result, I was obviously classed as a “regular” and, thus, got to know the staff very well. After a while, I began a regular practice of going to the restaurant right before closing because it was a much calmer, quieter atmosphere to eat in, and, often, I would get my meal for free, because it was just going to be thrown out, anyway. The young man who worked at the cash would let me stay and eat while he cleaned up and closed down the shop. Naturally, we began to converse on a regular basis. He appeared to be quite a bit younger than me, but he was intriguing, nonetheless. He came from Morocco, was Muslim and had a very thick accent. Despite our cultural differences, we seemed to relate, on some level. Sometimes he would sit and have tea with me, while I ate my supper. This eventually turned into him taking me for lunch on Fridays. He had Fridays off because he respected the Islamic day of prayer and attended the mosque that day. After prayer, we would meet up at various Moroccan or Turkish restaurants around town for lunch. Our conversations were long and interesting. To me, he was someone different, and I learned things from him. I have always been very open to other people’s traditions and practices. I find them fascinating and interesting.

That summer, I decided to list my townhouse for sale. I felt that the market had reached its peak, and I would likely never get much more for that particular house than at that very moment, so I listed it, and I was right. It sold in one day for full price! The only condition was that the buyer have the opportunity to view the inside of the house within 24 hours of making the offer. That means the buyer drove by, saw the For Sale sign, called immediately and made an offer of whatever the selling price was without having ever seen the inside. I, obviously, accepted the offer and graciously welcomed them into my home that evening for an official showing. Within a couple of days, the deal was done. There was only one problem: I had nowhere to live.

The next night, while enjoying my supper with Moroccan Man, I told him of my predicament.

“Why don’t you move into my building,” he said. “It’s just down the road.”

“That’s a fine idea, but I don’t want to waste my money on rent. I need to buy a place soon, so I don’t throw all of my profits away on rent,” I explained.

“Well, it wouldn’t cost that much because you could share an apartment with me. Right now, I live with my brother. I could move in with you, and one of my friends could move in with my brother. That way, you would pay only half the rent, and it’s cheap.”

He provided an interesting argument.

“OK. Let me call tomorrow, and see if they have any empty units available,” I say.

The next day, we met again at the end of the day, and I ate my supper while he cleaned up the restaurant.

“Hey, I was thinking I can’t move in with you unless I am married to you, because I am Muslim,” he says so nonchalantly, like this never dawned on him before.

“Oh. Well, I guess we’re not moving in together then,” I say.

“Well, we could get married,” he says.

I am somehow only a little shocked by this statement. What’s more shocking is I am actually considering it. At this particular point in my life, I feel I have just been abandoned by the man I so dearly loved and was willing to give up everything for, for him to go to an arranged marriage. I am feeling particularly insecure about myself, and here is a man willing to marry me at the drop of a hat. Somewhere in the back of my mind, this makes me feel safe. Safe that, at least, there is someone out there who wants me, and I won’t end up alone.

I ponder the proposal a little more. Can we even call it a proposal?

“Well, what do you mean,” I dare to delve a little deeper.

“It’s not a big deal. We just have to go the Mosque and say a few words, and then it’s legitimate in my religion for me to live with you. I do love you,” he says.

This, too, should shock me, but it doesn’t because, I think, a few nights prior, when he hugged me goodbye, he whispered, “I love you.” I was in shock then, so I jumped in my car and drove off without a response. I mean, what am I supposed to say? He’s the cashier at my favourite restaurant that I eat lunch with on Fridays. I wouldn’t even say he’s my boyfriend.

I ponder it a little more while he cleans up the restaurant. I have learned a hell of a lot about arranged marriages in the past little while, and, what I have come to accept is that there is no “one person” out there for you. Basically you can marry pretty much anyone, and make it work, if you really want to. Arranged marriages are built on a mutual respect that eventually cultivates into love. That’s the theory, anyway. I’m not so sure it actually goes that smoothly in practice. Anyway, I conclude that if my Indian Lover Boy can marry a stranger and make it work, so can I.

Decision made. I will marry Moroccan Man next Wednesday. After all, it’s not a “real” marriage. It’s just an exchange of words in a Mosque, right?

Over the coming days, I begin the preparations. The preparations are nothing except that I must inform my father that his presence is required, because I am not Muslim, and he must grant permission for the union. Without missing a beat, my father agrees to be there, no questions asked. He had met Moroccan Man a few times before, and like me, he finds most people interesting. He is a very sensitive man, and most people can find a way to play on his heartstrings, on some level. I think the fact that Moroccan Man had left the land he knew so well, abandoned his family and those he loved to come to a new country in hopes of a better life where he was unfamiliar with the language and carried not a dime in his pocket found a few heartstrings to play in my father’s heart.

So on Wednesday, just as planned, we all piled into my father’s pickup truck and headed to the Mosque. There was me, my dad, Moroccan Man, and Moroccan Man’s friend to act as the witness on his side. When we arrived at the mosque, me clad in my usual Nikes, T-shirt and cargo pants, I started to feel anxious. I realized I didn’t know how to behave in a Mosque. Nor did I know what was culturally acceptable for women and what was not in a Holy place such as this. I did come prepared with a scarf to cover my hair, but it kept sliding off, and, somehow, in all my cultural discussions, I had never learned how to fasten a hijab to one’s head properly. What made it worse was that everyone was speaking Arabic, and I had no clue what was going on, where I was supposed to go, or what I supposed to do. I felt alone, even though there were people all around me, but they were not like me. Eventually, we were all guided into a room where we were to convene on the floor. We took our respective places, and the “ceremony” began.

First, the religious leader, known as a “Sheikh” in Islam, asked for our identification. Moroccan Man’s friend quickly jumped in to say something in Arabic. Even though I only know about 10 Arabic words, it was clear that Mo Man’s friend was trying to explain that we had to skip this step, and not to worry, that it was all good. In the moment, I didn’t quite understand, but I now know that it is illegal to perform a marriage without proper identification—but when you are an illegal immigrant in this country, you don’t have any valid identification to show! It was clear that the Sheikh understood. Again, at the time, I had no clue what was happening, but I now know that the Sheikh was being told, in not so many words, that the man he is about to marry to this white woman is an illegal immigrant, and, by performing this marriage, he is helping a poor Muslim boy gain a piece of freedom, and, as such, he is aiding in the advancement of all mankind. “Man” being the operative word here. I’m giving the poor old Sheikh the benefit of the doubt here, because I am almost certain he never intended to make my life the living hell it turned out to be after leaving the Mosque that fine sunny Wednesday.

When the ceremony was over, I felt completely overwhelmed by everything. We all walked outside, and when the sun hit me, and I breathed in the fresh air, I was overcome with tears. I just started sobbing. At the time, I couldn’t put my finger on why I was so sad, or even if sad was the actual emotion I was feeling. Today, I can only explain it as a state of lunacy or temporary madness that I was experiencing. All of it as a result of poor self-esteem, unfortunately. I was so upset I told my dad to go home on his own, and I would take public transportation home.  I just wanted to be alone, to clear my head a bit. Of course, my new husband accompanied me on the bus and tried to console me by telling me I was just going through the usual shock of being married. I can’t remember what I did the rest of the day because it’s all a blur now.

That was August 4. On August 23, I started the first day of, what would be, my last period for the next nine months.

 

 

Sometimes I am embarrassed by this story but then I realize that I had to go there to get to here and here is pretty damn awesome!

Did Hell Freeze Over?

Can anyone find out for me if Hell has frozen over?  It must have because I have an online dating profile.  I swore I'd never, but like they say, never say never!  I have only had an online profile for 5 days now and I have learned more about people in these past 5 days than I learned in my 3 year Psychology degree.  I could write a book about the past 5 days because it's literally become a full-time job just answering e-mails, texts and keeping track of who's who, who I told what to, and trying to remember the details of each person so as not to offend them when I actually meet them and forget everything they already told me.  So here it is.  My Top 10 Rules for online dating.

Top 10 Rules for Online Dating (for the ladies):

1) Men need their ego's stroked way more than they need what's in their pants stroked

2) Don't try a new shampoo, new make-up, or break in new shoes on a first date.  Stick with what works.  There's nothing like having flat, greasy hair because you felt like splurging on a new bottle of "moisturizing" shampoo with some unpronounceable oil from a foreign land in it.

3) If someone sounds too good to be true that's because they are too good to be true!

4) If someone refuses to send you a photo of themselves in advance, there is a good reason for it.  Skip the date and eat your Haagan Dazs alone.

5) Coffee dates are lame.  If someone wants to take you for a coffee they are too cheap to buy you dinner.  If you've sent them a photo and told them about yourself and the best they can do is coffee, move on sister.  A girl's gotta eat, you know.

6) The word "serious relationship" is NOT synonymous with fun. In fact, it's a total fun killer. Drop that word from your vocabulary all together.  First, ladies, start accepting that it's OK to have a little fun.  Fun is also (not always) synonymous with the word "whore".  Let go of the idea of a serious relationship.  They don't happen over night and they take time to establish.  And, furthermore, they never happen when you try too hard.  Instead, take online dating for what it is - fun!

7) Download the app "Keep Safe" for your phone because you are bound to have some nasty pictures of random naked men texted to you.  They are like a bad accident - you don't want to look but you just have to.  So tuck those away in your password protected "Keep Safe" app so when your kids are playing Angry Birds on your smart phone they don't get an unexpected anatomy lesson.

8) Remember that you are a woman.  You hold the power.  Statistically, women get substantially more hits on their profiles then men do.  Don't get discouraged.  There are millions of men on the planet who think you're hot and want you.  To be honest, I don't know the "statistics" but it sounded good, didn't it.

9) If you're sitting at home wondering if you should call, text, follow up after your date, etc.  He's doing the same thing so stop being so insecure about the whole thing and just call him for God's sake.

10) Perhaps trading in the Ford F-150 Super Cab for a less intimidating vehicle might help you attract men that want to spoil you.  It's OK to be spoiled once in a while. Even though you can do everything yourself doesn't mean you should have to.

Leaving on a Jet Plane

Saying goodbye is so hard for me.  I hate it.  Then again, in a technology driven world such as ours, the world just seems to be getting smaller and I feel like I will be linked to everyone somehow for the rest of our lives.  So that's my justification for avoiding goodbye's in general. I've convinced myself that there is no need for goodbye because we will surely meet again.

Last October I went to Vietnam, alone, leaving my husband and kids behind.  And now I am 11 days away from leaving for Vietnam again.  I have written a book/journal chronicling the last year of my life.  I doubt I will ever publish it but this is the excerpt from my book about my "good-bye" before I caught my flight to Vietnam...

"I woke up at 3:30 a.m. this morning to catch my 6:40 a.m. flight. I promised my daughter I would wake her to say goodbye, and, so I did as I promised. I look at her curly locks all tied up in a scrunchy so as not to suffocate her in the night. She has the most unusually naturally curly hair that grows about as quickly as grass during a drought. I think she’s only had about a half-dozen haircuts in her whole life, but when that mane is wet and all flattened out, it reaches past the middle of her back. It’s the source of many morning arguments, that hair of hers.

She cocoons herself in her bed sheet 365 days a year, regardless of the temperature. She’s generally a warm person, so it’s not unusual for her to be sweating in her cocoon and her little loose neck hairs to be curled up even tighter than usual. But, this morning, when I lean down to hug her good-bye, she’s not sweating—she’s warm like fresh-baked bread. She appears to be expecting me because she un-cocoons her arms before I get low enough to hug her. She likely heard me blow-drying my hair.

“Mommy’s leaving now,” I whisper, resting my cheek on her head.

“Love you, mommy,” she squeaks out in her sleep, while reaching up to hug me.

“I’ll see you in 16 days. I love you so much, curly.” I have aptly nicknamed her “curly,” and I am the only one who calls her that. Only when I’m angry or when she is not listening to me, do I call her by her real name, Freddie.

I turn off all the lights and sneak downstairs. We live in a four-bedroom house where two of the bedrooms are upstairs, and the other two are on the main floor. The two “big kids” have their rooms upstairs, while the master bedroom and baby’s room are on the main floor.

In our bedroom, I feel up the blankets in the dark until I reach my husband’s shoulder. I trace my hand over his cheek and hold him by his head to tilt him back so that I can find his lips. I give him a kiss.

“Have a great time,” he says, still asleep.

“Thank you so much,” I say, because, after all, he has supported this opportunity for me for personal and professional growth, somewhat to my surprise, since I told him about it three months ago. And, without his encouragement, I may very well have backed out of it.

“I love you,” I say and sneak out into the hallway. I rarely tell my husband I love him, because I feel I should only say it when I really feel it, and, right now, at this very moment, I really feel it.

I pause at my son’s door. I don’t dare kiss him for fear of waking him, so I peak in his room at his tiny curled up form on his “big boy” twin-sized bed and draw in one last deep breath of that smell that is so uniquely his. No other room in the house smells like his, and, over the past two years, I’ve probably spent more time in his room than any other room in the house. I spent countless hours breastfeeding him in the brown rocking chair in the corner … the same rocking chair my mother rocked my brother to sleep in 30 years ago. I spent the first year of my son’s life sleeping on his bedroom floor. First, so that I could always hear him breathing to be reassured that he was still alive; and second, so that our nightly feeding sessions would cause as little disturbance as possible to the rest of the sleeping family.

The smell of my son is a mix of fresh, new diaper scent, olive-oil bath wash, clean laundry and new baby smell. It’s heavenly. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever gone a day without planting a kiss on his head and taking in a big whiff of his smell. I love it. It’s actually very calming to me. If I stand at his door any longer I will be brought to tears, so I gently close it, put on my Nikes and head out to the airport.

As I drive to the airport, I am a fury of mixed emotions. I feel so free and liberated that I have the ability to fly halfway around the world, by myself. Free to do pretty much whatever I want, whenever I want. But, I also know that when my son wakes up, he will call out for mommy, and mommy won’t be there, and, unfortunately, at 2 years and 1 month old, there is no real way to explain that to him."

 

This time will be a little different.  Kids are older, I've done it once before, our family dynamic has changed, and I know from experience, that everything will be great - for them, and for me.  Vietnam, here I come!!!

 

Today I Cried

It's well after twelve noon and I'm still in my jammies.  I can't remember the last time I did that - stayed in my jammies for 1/2 the day.  Actually, I can.  It was in my early twenties when I lived in my first house alone.  About twice a year I wouldn't so anything on a Sunday but stay in my jammies and watch old Bollywood movies on Omni TV.  That would recharge my battery for the next 6 months or so while I proceeded to work 16 hour days at several different jobs.  Don't get me wrong.  I chose to work that much.  I loved every minute of it. 

Then somewhere along the way I had a child, got kind of married, lost my kind of husband to deportation (don't get me wrong on that either, loving every minute of that too :), started up, bought and sold many businesses, got married again (for real this time), bought and sold many houses, had more kids, fell in love a few times, fell out of love a few times, had my heart broken a few times, broke a few hearts a few times...and the journey just keeps going.

But today is different.  Today, I am changing directions.  Of course, the path of life only moves forward whether you want to go that way or not.  So I am moving forward, of course, but I guess you could say I've chosen to pursue the other fork in the road this time.

In my jammies, I sat on my new front porch, on my new patio set and created a budget for the first time in my adult life.  I have always done quite well for myself so I felt I could just live care freely when it came to money.  Perhaps I still can, but it's not the responsible thing to do.  I hate the word responsibility.  To me it almost always translates into stress.  But that's not true.  Living on a budget should, in fact, make life less stressful (I'll let you know because today is only day one) and living by some sort of rules, like a budget, might actually allow for more freedom.  You think?  I think.  Or at least I'm willing to give it a try.

After spending more than 2 hours at the computer working on financial stuff for two of my businesses, marketing for one of my businesses, and organizing my new personal budget I decided to make cookies in anticipation of my kids coming home from Daddy's house tomorrow.  I felt on top of the world.  Still in my jammies, music cranked, and cookies on the stove I began to cry, and cry.  I couldn't pinpoint exactly why though.

So I turned to a page in one of my favorite books by Iyanla Vanzant to try to figure it out.  Here is what she writes:

Throughout our many experiences in life, we cry different kinds of tears.  What we are probably not aware of is that each type of tear emanates from a specific place in the body, and that each type has certain distinct characteristics...What we are probably less conscious of is that each tear, regardless of its origin, or its effect, contains a seed of healing.

Angry tears spill forth from the outside corner of the eye, making them easier to wipe away as they come at unexpected moments and inappropriate times...Angry tears create heat and stiffness in the body, because when we are angry, we usually don't know how to express what we feel...

Sad tears spill forth from the inside corner of the eye, finding their way across our nose, cheeks, and lips...and the things that bring them forth are usually the bitter experiences in life.  Sad tears come from the heart.  They usually bring a bending of the shoulders and a drooping of the head.

Frightened tears take up the entire eye, clouding our vision, as fear will do...They spill over the whole face.  Frightened tears come from the soles of the feet.  They shoot through the body and create trembling or shaking.

Then there are shame-filled tears, which fall when we are alone with our thoughts and feelings.  Shame-filled tears come when we're judging ourselves, criticizing others, or beating up on ourselves for something purely human that we have done yet can't explain to ourselves to others.  Shame-filled tears come from the pit of the stomach and usually cause us to bend over - not in pain, but in anguish. 

Combination tears are the worst tears of all.  They are filled with anger and sadness, with fear and shame.  They have a devastating effect on the body, bringing the stiffness of anger, the drooping of sadness, the trembling of fear, and bending of shame.  They make you cold when you are hot.  They make you tremble when you are trying to keep still.  Most of all, they make you nauseated.

...Through our tears, we get in touch with those experiences that we have forgotten, hidden, or buried away in the pit of our souls...

So this Sunday afternoon, I stood over my cookies crying combination tears.  The worst kind.  Anger towards those that have recently hurt me, even though I know it wasn't intentional.  Sadness, that what I always dreamed of happening at my house was happening at that very moment but I was not there to witness it. Fear crept up from the soles of my feet that made me think perhaps I haven't figured shit out at all and have chosen the wrong path.  Shame-filled tears caused me to brace myself on the stove because I felt silly for doubting my choices and my path in life.  There was so much more than that but that's all I can put into words.  It was, and is, definitely a much needed cleansing.  In hindsight, I should have chosen to do a Spring nutritional cleanse. That would have been much easier ;)

Today my kids are outside in the sun, jumping on the trampoline at the house that I used to live in.  I picked that house, and the trampoline because all I ever wanted was for my kids to play outside in the summer sun and for me to have the patience and sanity to join them.  All I ever wanted was for my husband to leave the cave, otherwise known as the basement, and come and play with us and show some enthusiasm on the weekends.  I'm sure my memory is clouded, but all I can remember is struggling with my kids to get off their Apple gadgets and get outside and play.  I can only remember stressing about all of the things around the house that needed to be done and not having the time or energy to jump on the trampoline or swim in the pool with them.  And all I can remember feeling was resentment.

On the other hand, I am so grateful for my pyjama day and the pure freedom I have to choose whatever it is I will do today, even if that's nothing.  I am grateful for my health, my smarts and my ability to find the good in everyone and everything.  I am grateful that my kids are healthy and thriving.  I am grateful for my new house and my new truck.  I am so grateful for the wonderful businesses I own and all of the wonderful women (and the few men) who work for me so loyally all of these years.  I am grateful, most of all, for the ability to do anything I want to do in life.  I don't have a single thing that stands in the way of me being able to do anything my mind can dream up.  And yet, I have a small  fear that I could lose all of that.

Today I cried for the woman I want to be and prayed that through the tears I would find the courage to celebrate the lessons I have lived through, grown through, and learned through.  The lessons that brought me to this place in life.  And at this moment, this place in life is right where I need to be.  It's perfect.

A 7-Year Old's Blog Post

My 7 year old daughter has her own iPad and here is what she wrote tonight in her "notes" section....

I wish my parents were together but they aren't.  It's sad but I talk to my dad about it and sometimes I  cry. It's sad seeing my parents fight.  My mom is happy so I think soon I will be better but who knows.  There are fun parts and there are bad parts.  Even though it's not as happy as my parents together I will live, so I will be fine.  I have two nice homes so it will be fine.

Ok different subject.  My brothers are annoying.  Ok, really this is the subject - my mothers spaghetti is terrible.  Parents really don't know what children like.  Only my friends mom gives her "fruit by the foot".  It is awesome.  Sometimes I get delicious food even though my mom says it's healthy.  It is good to eat healthy food but I don't eat that stuff.

Isn't it amazing how one kid can make you laugh and cry all at the same time in just a few sentences? 

But as someone once said "In each family a story is playing itself out, and each family's story embodies its hope and despair."

And I believe that we all learn through experience, and the spiritual path is full of different kinds of experiences. We will encounter many difficulties and obstacles, and they are the very experiences we need to encourage and complete the cleansing process.

Throwing all Caution to the Wind

Throwing all caution to the wind may be a liberating and empowering experience once in a while but I just woke from a dream with a very strong message about, perhaps, my own addiction to throwing caution to the wind.  Odd that it comes after having a string of discussions with people who really care about me about this exact issue.  In many ways I am a very self disciplined, rigid person with a strong sense of right and wrong; however, in other ways, usually financial ones, I tend to throw all caution to the wind and go for it anyway, despite the long term consequesnce or negative impact that spending may have on my life.  I go for the immediate gratitude and let the rest fly away.

I had a dream tonight that I was at some sort of party.  I new some of the people there.  At the entrance of this special party you purchase a type of drug that apparently makes you stay up and have the party of your life for three days straight.  The only problem is you won't remember a damn thing about that party because you will have been in some sort of blackout that prohibits you from remembering what you did.  At the entrance of this particular party the woman selling the drugs was my insurance lady.  Indeed, in real life she is my insurance lady but she is also more than that.  I have known her for over 15 years.  She helped me launch my first business and she is quite a bit older than me so I sort of trust her to take care of my best interests, especially in instances where age and wisdom set precedent over mine.  In my dream, I bought the drugs from her and in her usual loving tone she said "have fun, sweetie."  I suppose I did, but of course when the party was over I couldn't remember anything but I did feel remarkably energized and free of stress when the party was over.  On my way out they (my insurance lady included) were advertising for another hit of these drugs for another three day party.  Someone I know who had attended the first drug induced party with me, who at least from outward appearances, looks like a rebel decided to call it quits.  She conceded that she had tried it once but was not willing to risk it again.  I, on the other hand, decided to go for it again without putting any thought into what another three days of partying and doing drugs would really mean.  This is a rather odd dream for me, by the way, because I have never done drugs nor have I ever partied for three days straight.

In life, most people, even those who care about you, likely won't say anything when they see you throwing caution to the wind because, after all, it has little to do with the outcome of their own lives and likely won't have any significant consequence for them.  In fact, they will often encourage it or egg you on maybe because they get to live vicariously through you and through the crazy stories about the journey but not have to be impacted by it themselves.  This happens to me all of the time, in fact.  People even congratulate me on my apparently brave ("brave| has become synonymous with "crazy" in my life) choices and encourage me to keep it up when in reality those decisions will have ill effects on my life.

In my dream, in front of everyone, I decided to purchase another hit of these drugs.  I chose the most potent one because my usual life motto is "go big or go home".  I have been the type to take it all the way or not even bother at all.  But then, for some strange reason, I stopped.  My rational mind kicked in and decided it was probably silly to party it up in oblivion for three more days.  I mean, whatever the type of drug it was implicitly dangerous.  So for whatever reason I changed my mind that day.  As I was leaving the party, my insurance lady drug saleswoman remarked "Well, that's probably a good idea Nat, because this one is known as 'suicide'".  Literally, people were known to commit suicide after their three day party binge..  I walked away calmly but was appalled at the fact that this woman who supposedly cared about my well being didn't even bat an eyelash at the fact that I was buying the suicide drug and was quick to sell it to the next taker. 

I woke up after that and the message was so clear to me.  I have been saying for a while now that my current way of doing things no longer works for me.  It no longer serves me as it once may have.  I am working on radically changing many aspects of my life at the moment.  I have, however, chosen to do things more slowly and more calculated than usual, this time though.  I had to write this down because I must remember to think next time before throwing caution to the wind.  I may be famous for it but I won't let it define me.  Redefining myself time and time again actually brings me more freedom and liberation.  I am reminded that I have control over who I am and what I choose to do with myself.  This time I will do things differently.  This time I will be the super hero because I made the plain old boring choices that, in my mind, lack excitement and risk, but I will end up stronger and more powerful in the end and isn't the end when we tally the score anyway?

All Under Control

I sent my daughter to a birthday party yesterday without a gift.  I know, bad mom!  It totally slipped my mind.  She was being driven to the party by another parent and I just totally forgot about a gift.  Thankfully before going to pick her up from the party it donned on me so I left a little early, made a pit stop at Wal-Mart and got a gift with all the fixings which I assembled in the parking lot all nicely into a gift bag complete with tissue paper and a card.  I ran into the party at the last minute for pick up and said "Curly, we forget to bring the gift".

My story seemed to go over without a hitch.  We grabbed the loot bag and all of the other goodies from the party and headed out.  When we got into the truck my daughter said "Mom, I thought you forgot to get a gift".

"I did.  But don't worry I always have everything under control.  I got it there before the party was over," I boasted.

"Ya, when the gift opening started I thought to myself shoot there is no gift here from me so I ran up to the birthday girl and said my gift was the shortest and sweetest....a hug." And she wrapped her arms around the child and gave her a genuinely nice birthday hug.

Another party attendee piped up and said "A hug?  That's all you're giving her".

"Listen kid.  What would you prefer, friendship or a gift?" my daughter said with complete confidence.  There were no more comments after that.

I laughed until I cried.  Here I was thinking I'm the one who has things under control.  That may be true but it doesn't come close to how well my 7 year old daughter has things under control.  What a cool kid I have!