By the mere fact that I'm a mom that I live for my children and basically fulfill their every need: feed them, wash and iron their clothes, wipe their asses andlove them to death one would think that I'd be secure in the fact that mychildren indeed love me.
And I am. Or so I thought.
Dear My Little Buggers,
In honor of Mother's Day, I wanted to take this time to write a letter to let you know that:
I was applying my make-up yesterday morning (what little I wear), trying to get out the door, shooting orders like a drill sergeant at the boys to get their back-packs packed, brush their teeth, and get jackets on - when I noticed out of the corner of my half-eye lined eye that my littlest bugger was looking up at me, on
Four lives. Four beautiful lives. Four strong men. Dad, Husband, Brother, Grandfather, Companion, Uncle, Best Friend, Co-worker. Gone. Some lived a long fruitful life; others were taken way too soon.
Questions unanswered. That hole in the heart; never to be filled again. The pain it will never stop. I imagine over time it will dissipate, but it will never stop.
At lunch the other day, a friend and I were discussing our families’ summer vacation plans.
This is my son. He's white so he’ll never pose a threat to anyone in his life because well, he’s white.
While I hope it's true that he'll never pose a threat to anyone, I hope it's true because he's a good boy - not simply because he's white. But apparently that's not how people like George Zimmerman think.
It’s the third inning of my softball game, I’m catching for one of the hardest throwing pitchers in my town’s league and I’m talking 80 mph windmill pitch for twelve-year-olds.
After seeing and holding the newest member of our family I've realized that there is nothing as pure, beautiful and amazing as the sight of a new born baby, but the smell, the smell of a newborn so lovely, so clean, it actually reminded me of the air in Oregon, strange I know, but it did.
For my family, 2012 is all about organization. My husband is whipping around my house faster than MacGyver disassembling a bomb. It’s quite frustrating as I feel like a slacker.
