Not to be placed on a mantle and too busy collecting them to simply be trophies

I'm not raising decorative girls.

Girls who chase boys and bat eyelashes.

I'm teaching warriors.  Lionesses.  Freaking goddesses.

Book reading, race winning, mind blowing girls.

Are they beautiful?  Hell yes, do you even have eyes?!, but that's the least of it.

They are strong enough to choose which games they want to play.  And skilled enough to beat you at each of them.  They are witty enough to out talk anyone, but selective enough to avoid the drama of idiocy.

Yes, their eyes are beautiful.  Wide open and dark, but absolutely never half closed in a flutter.

Extraordinary beauty, and power beyond my wildest dreams - but absolutely never voiceless in struggle.

Flexible yet unwavering girls.  

Wise and thoughtful girls.

World altering yet mostly humble girls.

Proud and confident girls.

These girls will be women that change you.  Those women will be the kind you marvel at from your perch outside of their wingspan.

So, for now, hold your breath and count my blessings. 

Because, while they have the kind of beauty usually reserved for sunsets and myths, I am not raising decorative pieces.

These girls, my girls, are now and will only grow to be more supremely compelling.

All we can do is hold on and applaud as they go by.

"You think you're good, bitch"

There were signs.

Warnings.

We tried dating, and it didn't work.  He was too suffocating from the beginning.  Wouldn't let me leave when I was ready.  Always wanted one more minute, one more try, one more reason.

When I broke it off, he kept up the barrage of attention regardless of how hard I ignored him.  So I tried the "nice" approach - responding to every tenth text, gently telling him it was too much.

Eventually, I told him I was seeing someone else - thinking it would get him to move on.  After a few days, he was back.  So, I thought we could try being friends.

There was no reason not to be nice.  He wasn't a bad person, we just weren't good together.

I tried to encourage him to try with other women.  Building his ego from the sideline was, I thought, the way a friend would treat him.

Still he always wanted to see me, take me to dinner, just hang out.  Anything.  

Finally, after months of asking, I decided I was just being silly and made plans for a friendly dinner.  Still very clear that this was not a date, I agreed to hang out for a little while.

I immediately knew, in my gut, that it was bad.  He was drunk and couldn't keep his hands to himself.  Still, I thought, be nice and stop taking it so seriously.  As calmly as I could, because this wasn't my first tango with too much liquor and not enough control, I kept moving further away and reminding him to stop petting me.

After awhile, the subtlety stopped.  On both sides.  And, it got ugly fast.

But there were signs that we were heading down the wrong road.  I could've derailed the problem dozens of times before I was shoved against the wall.  I had so many chances to deflect before the bruises shadowed my perspective.  It was in my hands to stop long before I was in his.

And that's why I can't keep quiet this time, though I desperately want to hide.  That's why, despite knowing I have let these things happen too many times before, this one has to be different.  

It isn't always a husband or a parent or a boyfriend or a stranger.  Sometimes, it's a friend you're trying to pacify.  Sometimes, it's faster than a long road.

And, in those times, being nice isn't defense enough.

I don't want to write this, and I really don't want to relive it, but everyone knows the darkness starts somewhere.  That place is different every time.  

And, this time, it started months before I was pressed face-first into the side of a parking garage.  

Control is not something someone should want to take from you.  And, when it happens in small doses, big ones are coming.  Even from someone as harmless as a "friend".

Being nice, especially in cases when no mountain of nice is enough, isn't the only option.  

No is an answer.

I thought of three things before it was finally over:

This concrete is cold.

I wasn't supposed to be here tonight.

I wish I could say that being called a bitch was the worst part of this evening.

And, I can think of only one now:

If it can happen to someone that has learned from experience how to fight back, that person has to speak up for anyone who can't.

Not all art is pretty

No one ever said I was easy.

I am not.

All those other things I've been called?  Yes, whether I applaud your nerve or shake my head at your ignorance, most of those labels fit just fine.

I am a mouth full of seemingly unfiltered thoughts.  I am eyes that have seen straight through masks.  I am fists clenched in anger and feet ready to run.

I know I am hard, and I have very little use for those who want me to pretend otherwise.

I am full of edges carved by hands not skilled in careful or beauty or love.

Venturing into me isn't for the weak minded or those just looking for a challenge.  Honestly, there are very few times I'm not holding my own breath when trying to climb inside my thoughts.  Those who have been here before left behind cliffs not safe for diving and walls not made for climbing.

The few who have ever tried to navigate my danger have all turned back.  It's not worth it.  The fight seems endless, the reward less than glorious.

No, I am not easy.  And, yes, even "hard" seems light handed.

But, my God, I care.  Immeasurably.  Unendingly.  Silently.

When I love, it's without boundary marked in time or pain.  When I feel, it has no bottom.  When I hand over my words, know that I have no other gift.

The edges protect me and the darkness comforts me.  These are not choices I made, and I would absolutely prefer the cream filled center of a teddy bear heart.  

But I can't pretend to be blind when the brush of a hand is sensory overload.  

I am not easy and probably not worth the effort.  These things are true, yet I love anyway.

Because no one promised it would be easy.  Because the center may not be soft, but it is safe.  Because I want there to be a reward if ever I become worth it.  And because, while it is not pretty, all of these edges have to be protecting something.

Grasping for control

Earth shattering fact about me (in italics in case you can't sense the sarcasm):

When things spin out of control, I like to hop on a less-than-merry go round heading in the opposite direction. You know, to realign my world.

I like to control the madness in the only way I understand...

Pile on the bad decisions.

Want to buy me another drink?

Make it a double.

Skip meals for days to ensure the girls get to gorge on their favorites?

No doubt.

Ghost of Questionable Judgement Past comes back?

Round 6 *ding ding ding*

As Oliver said, "please, sir, may I have some more?".  But, you know, less with the vital nourishment and more on the nine toes off the edge of a bridge side.

Can self destruction be classified a quirk?  Can you slap a cute name tag on the self-imposed scars and call it normal?  I hope so because otherwise:

"Hello!  My name is Surrender."  

"Unsalvageable"

"Derailed".

In every sense, I'd rather own certain disaster than put money down on an iffy castle in the clouds.  I will not wager one more losing bet on the risk of a warmth I don't recognize.  So, when everything is wrong, I see that and raise it a hundred.  I'm all in.  Checkmate.  Touchdown...or whatever, I thought I needed one more piece of gaming jargon to round out the random gambling reference.

I'd like to say I'm doing the best I can.  I'd like to say I see the light and am barreling through the tunnel.  I'd like to write on my nametag "Hello!  My name is Managing just fine, thanks".

Instead, in my lifelong goal to be honest at all costs, I've saddled up my pink horse and am determined to stay on this ride until the world outside stops tilting the wrong way.

Two years, four months

I am divorced.

According to the email from my lawyer, while I sat in the surgical waiting room with my sweet girl on Friday, a judge was declaring my marriage officially dissolved.

So, I've been divorced for three days without knowing it.

And I'm not finished sorting through the emotions that come with all of it.

But here's what I know so far:

Exactly two years, four months since he unwillingly moved out, he finally signed the papers that declare we are no longer a union.

It's been a long, torturous, exhilarating, learning curved, bumpy ass road.  Yet, I sit trying to sort out if I have moved an inch at all.

I hate it and I love it all at once.  I'm not ready to say happy though.  Can I be happy that a promise I made was broken?  Can I be glad for burning down the house my children knew?  Can I be anything more than numb to what should be the top of the roller coaster?

Do I want to go back?  Not at all.  Behind me is dirty and dark and blindingly lonely.

Do I want to keep moving this way?  Not really.  This road is unsure and terrifying and shockingly still lonely.

So, at least for awhile, I need to sit still and try to breathe.  Make some decisions that aren't life changing.  Close some doors I shouldn't have opened.  Let go of some desires I'll never be able to quench.  Drink some wine and calm some floods.

One thing is certain.  Above all else, I am not the same person I was two years, four months, one day ago.  

For better or worse.  Richer or poorer.  In sickness and in health.  I'm officially on my own now.

Fairy godmother

I've talked a lot about my grandma.  She was the absolute beacon in my life.  I spent more time at her elbow than anyone else on earth.  And I credit her with getting me through the childhood I can remember.

But there was another rock of a woman that took me on before that.  There was a woman, not much older than my mother, who took me in and raised me through a childhood I can't (or won't) recall.  She had a perfect, beautiful family of her own; yet, she still found a place for me.  She loved an unlovable kid as though I deserved it.  And, she has always loved me... especially when I wasn't worthy.

I can only imagine the broken kid I was.  But this picture says it all - I was held together by love and generosity and beauty.  Included in a family for the first time, I got glimpses of how it should be.

I remember watching her love and being dumbfounded by the depth.

I sat at her table and felt nothing but acceptance.

She was the mother I needed and the aunt I treasured.

She took me to get my first pair of glasses when no one else would.

She bought me the first bra that actually fit.

She took the time to braid my hair and didn't mind that I just loved the feel of her hands.

I watched how she carried herself and pretended to be her, but didn't have the confidence to show anyone my act.

More than my actual godmother, I swear she is my bippity boppity boo, magic wand and all, Fairy Godmother.

She cried at my wedding like I was her own.  And, although no one is as important to her as her actual children, she has never made me feel less than.

She has welcomed me into her home every summer since I was a kid.  And, now that I bring the girls, I get to watch her turn the spotlight on them in a way only she can.  They absolutely light up in her presence, and I can only nod in agreement.

She is magic.

I wouldn't have made it without her, and anyone who watched knows that.

She is generosity and honesty and a true example of a lady.

My fairy godmother, my aunt, my friend, and the woman I can point to and say, "girls, follow her lead."

Thank you.

I love you.

We love you.

Always.

It's ugly out there

Anyone who knows me knows that I mind my own business.  Always.  I don't involve myself in other people's lives, I'm strictly a by invitation only kind of person.  I keep my head down (literally) and move through the public blissfully ignorant of what's going on around me.  And I like it like that.  A lot.

So, to pull me into your life, you either have to be tall, dark & tattooed OR a raging fool who absolutely requires a reality check.

The lady at the store this morning wasn't really my type.

I heard this baby crying off and on the whole time I was there.  Then I caught up to them in the checkout line.  He stood, whimpering, rolling the cart inches back and forth.  Annoying?  Sure.  We've all been there.  Kids can work your last nerve.  Scratch that...kids seek out your last nerve, put a big red X on it, back up, take a running start, and break dance on your last nerve.  Every chance they get.  That's their job... Find your line and conga through it.  What is your job?  Well, in this case, it wasn't to almost dislocate his shoulder, spank him, and shove him back into the cart like the last cheez whiz can you're cramming into your overflowing trash can.  Cue the boy crying again.

I stood in the line next to hers, raised my eyebrow at her, and decided to see where this was going.

She left a couple of minutes before me, as it takes longer to weigh produce than it does to scan cans of sloppy joe mix.

In the parking lot, I find that she has removed his diaper and is spanking him through the van door.

Nope.

I've been told I'm intimidating.  Let's see...

Yep.

Look.  Everyone has a breaking point.  Everyone has bad days.  I haven't slept more than an hour at a time in almost a week.  I was nursing my venti macchiato as if it were keeping me upright at the moment this boy came into my life.  I get that.  Truly.  Kids are hard.  

Suck it the f*^% up.  If you have to remove a diaper to put your hands on a person, that's a good sign you shouldn't.  You outweighed me by at least a hundred pounds, so you had more than three people sizes up on your son, also a good sign you should keep your hands to yourself.  And, when confronted by this stranger in the parking lot, you backed down faster than you could replace his diaper - a definite sign that you shouldn't be laying a finger on that kid.

Anytime you need a reminder, feel free to replay our interaction over again in your head.  Meanwhile, give that baby a nap and redraw your breaking point.

I'm going back to my own, quiet world.  Please don't make me come out again, it's ugly out there.