I have friend’s whose son is very sick. It came from a simple accident, with a simple surgery to repair a broken bone, and then his body went haywire afterwards and landed him in a coma for 3 weeks; fighting for his life for the first week of that.

He’s out of the coma, is awake for little bits of the day, and trying to talk through his trachea tube. He can move his fingers and toes. They are preparing to move to a rehab hospital in a few weeks, for, they hope, only a month.

They have completely given up their lives to be at their son’s bedside – a fact which, I have no doubt, is helping their son in his will to live and recover.

They don’t know, can’t even guess, how little or much damage has been done in the boy’s brain.

He’s 21.

Dad sends out email updates. I find myself reading and rereading these to the point of near-memorization. I get off the phone with Mom or Dad and cry. I say, “Thank you,” when people ask about him or send him love.

It’s almost as if I have taken him as my own.

And that’s the meat of it…knowing a sick and suffering child and family just hits way too close to home. Every thought I have of this child is intertwined with thoughts of my own and what if?

Mom and Dad’s agony and fear are almost unbearable to ponder, and yet, I continually put myself in their shoes. It’s almost as if I think about it enough, if it ever happens (dear god no) in my family, I will be better able to handle it?

I say that with a question mark because we all know it isn’t true.

Nothing can prepare a parent for this.

I think thoughts such as, “Would my child have the same will to live?”

“How could we possibly manage the f-ed up family dynamic in the hospital room?”

“Would I be just as devastated if it was Bobby instead of one of the 2 that I actually birthed?”

Absolutely – without a doubt.

“I don’t have the resources to put my entire life on hold and rent an apartment in another locale and just be at my child’s bedside. What would I do?”

And then my thoughts get so frightening that I stop myself.

I go back to thinking about their child, not mine. I think about the overwhelming love that family shares and the beauty and healing gifts it creates.

I think about their joy in even the tiniest of bits of progress and I feel that elation.

It helps me get out of the doom and gloom spiral.

It makes me want to hold mine ever so close.

It reminds me that I never knew fear until I became a mother.

And I never knew love until that moment also.

Talking about Sex with Teens

I have no problem bringing up the subject with my sweet (and sexually active) boys. Of course, I wish that at their tender ages, they weren’t sexually active, but I have the choice to pretend they aren’t because I don’t want them to be OR to suck it up and deal with reality and then make everyone completely uncomfortable by raising the topic at the dinner table.

The themes vary – I wouldn’t want anyone to get bored with the same lecture every time.

My rotation includes (not necessarily in this order):


Condom use

Teen pregnancy

Getting a girl pregnant when you live in a very religious community and how any ensuing choices might not be yours

Getting out of this teeny town and that not happening if your girlfriend is pregnant

Respect for girls

Drinking and Sex

No means No

Love and Sex

Do not brag

And so on…

They roll their eyes, they tell me that they have a lot of testosterone, they assure me that they would never pressure a girl, and they repeat after me “I will go to college and not be a father at 17 working at the local pizza parlor.”

Then I was talking to one of their friends yesterday her father’s one lecture was:

“If you come home bred up I’ll beat that baby right on out of you.”

And….there’s always that approach.



Last night, dinner was completely chaotic.  Greg, Peter, and Bobby came home battered and bruised from football, wearing their new jerseys, which prompted lots of conversation, which led to a lot of talk about tonight’s game, and which was then somehow connected to how much they hate their new Spanish teacher. Bobby needed to purchase some (expensive) items online for his college class, my cute boyfriend (MCB) was preparing to leave at 3:00 am for a fishing trip and we are still living out of boxes.

Usually whomever doesn’t cook, does the dishes, but I did both last night so that the big strong boys could move some furniture, so that I can try to finish unpacking and settling in while MCB is out of town. I also hit hard.

And we could all smell cat pee, but we couldn’t locate it.

At one point, while moving from the stove to the fridge, I completely stalled out in one of those “I have no idea what I was doing” moments and I just stood there observing the chaos of my life, my home, my family…

And I was overjoyed with love and contentment.

I never would have imagined this would be my life.  When I married, I thought it was forever, so I pictured myself at almost-fifty with that man and our two sons, who would be long distance runners and kayakers or artists. I envisioned calm, quiet, and settled for years in the house we built ourselves out in the country.

NOT having just moved into a new rental right in town, that we chose because it was convenient for all of the friends. NOT with 3 teenage boys, including the little scrapper that turned up on my doorstep a year ago. NOT with 3 football players. NOT with a loving, kind, and generous (in heart and soul) man who is considerably younger than I.

Certainly, NOT enjoying noise, confusion, and a million things swirling around all at the same time.

I went to sleep watching MCB pack. We woke up together at 3. As I lay there watching him dress and zip up his duffel, I sighed in total peace and thought, “I am the luckiest gal in the world.”


How it is in my town

“How’s that new baby doing?”barrels07

“He’s so great.  Almost 3 weeks now.”

“And how’s mama?”

“Great. Got back to barrel racing last weekend.”

Hot dang, makes my uterus hurt.



So I was running yesterday and listening to Common who I absolutely adore – probably because he is one of the most beautiful men upon whom I have ever laid eyes – and I was wondering if we met, would he totally fall in love with me?

My first thought was, “Of course.”

But then I started thinking about his world and would I fit in?

“Of course – I can fit in just about anywhere. I’m cool.”

But then, I started really listening to his lyrics and questioned, just a tad, whether it would be an easy transition.

I don’t have a booty.images

Yes, that’s the only thing that I see getting in the way – my flat ass. It wouldn’t have anything to do with our differences in skin color (since his lyrics indicate some attachment there), lifestyle, recreational activities, culture, or age.

It’s all about the lack of something to shake.

Or grab.

So then I decided that I’d better start running up more hills to try to beef it up, because I believe that I can. And I believe that once I do, suddenly, this incredibly attractive man will show up here in my minuscule hamlet, and ride off with me into the sunset.

Will we be taking the Bentley or my pick-up into said sunset?

I don’t really think that part’s significant.

As long as there will be room for my ultra-voluptuous derrière.


images-1I received a Little Blue Box yesterday!

(Not a Ring. Thank God. I had a moment of panic, even though the box wasn’t the right shape.)

I honestly don’t know anyone here in my minuscule, cattle driven town that would actually even know what a Blue Box is, let alone understand the great joy that a gal feels when she gets one.

I Google-imaged Tiffany & Co. and an entire page of that glorious and special blue filled my screen – photo after photo of boxes.  It gave me a little rush.

I painted my bathroom Tiffany Blue.

I am not a material girl, prefer sterling over platinum and don’t have much use for diamonds. But I understood at a very young age that to be presented with a Little Blue Box really meant something – it’s sort of an ultimate gift. And a marriage will last forever if the ring came wrapped with that distinct white ribbon.

I left a lot of things behind when I left the East, but certain things just become a part of who a gal is, and this deep reverence for the Blue Box is one of those things.

They made a movie about the place. Right?imgres

Inside my box was the most delicate and stunning bracelet, ever. It is perfection in its simplicity and I can’t stop staring at it.

Admittedly, it’s a bit incongruent with the tattoo wrapped around the same wrist, but I won’t let that change my opinion about either.

So first of all, I actually now understand the depth of this man’s feelings for me – a silver bracelet is one thing, a silver bracelet with a white ribbon tied around it is another.

Also, I didn’t really have anyone to tell because again, I live in a cow town and no one here knows about the Box.  I attempted to tell two friends that I thought might just get it, but to no avail.  If I have to explain the significance, it just makes me sound like a braggart.

So I called my mom.

As much as I like to think that I have given up all of that old school, East Coast, classy-shit, apparently I haven’t.

My roots are showing.