Tag Archive | family

Year of living dangerous/ Year of stupidity

So many things happened this week. One of which was I watched part of Shonda Rhime’s Ted talk about her year of saying yes. And I thought about that a lot. About saying yes to things, conquering my fear and doing things anyways.

My sister, niece & her family were here for a week. They went to Santa Cruz (my happy place!), San Francisco (I haven’t been in sooo long!). And I worked. The green eyed monster reared its ugly head. Which led me to some ugly truths.

I don’t do what I want to because at some point my fear outweighed my desire. I became paralyzed by it. I didn’t work on Thursday, and I did mostly the things I wanted to do as it was my birthday. I turned 48.

Friday, I went to pick up Ray from my brother’s house. My sister and her family were over there and she had shaved the back of her head and done a few blue streaks. My sister, who is a SENIOR CITIZEN, has been having courage all over the place. She just decided to go back to college. She shaved the back of her head and got blue streaks. She’s AMAZING.

I long for my amaze-ball self to come shining through again, too.

I don’t know if it was all things leading up to the moment, or if I was just so sleep deprived from trying to stay up and visit and still being on my regular schedule. But I had my niece L (my brother’’s daughter) shave the back of my head and give me a reverse bob. She keeps calling it some anime cut, but I just call it hot flash heaven! I was going to finish getting the tips pink, but it hasn’t happened yet because Easter.

Then yesterday, Saturday, I did a few things. Scheduled a trip to Stanford’s Pow Wow in May. Because its something I want to do and it is doable.     Came home, took a nap. Napped some more. Went to go pick up a few things and get gas.

Drove away from the pump with the nozzle still in the car.

Just so you know, apparently it happens more than you might think. They had a little form to fill out, along with costs broken out. It can be anywhere from $13 plus tax to $400.

HOLY CRAPOLA

Suddenly, it no longer felt like being fearless, conquering my fear. Suddenly, it felt like I made one bad decision after another. Exhaustion? Perhaps. Mid Life crisis gone wrong? I felt horrible, humiliated. Too old for this crap.

So I did the only thing I could. I came home and called the friend who would make me laugh about it. I think she may have wet her pants she laughed so hard. But she got me to laugh too.

And suddenly it’s just a scene in the life of. Not the plot, not a plot twist. Just a scene. I can work around that. It doesn’t have to turn my year of living dangerously into the year of stupid mistakes.

I just got the first one out of the way really really quick.

Sides of the Story

The Princeling and I spent the week up in Sacramento~ he was out of school, and since I work up there it made for a much shorter commute. I also got to stay with one of my besties and visit 🙂

On Tuesday, we went to Chick-Fill-A, as I had never been to one before.

Towards the end of our dinner out, it became obvious that someone else really liked chicken sandwiches: Fox 40 News came in to do a story on Justin Bieber being in the restaurant earlier in the day. We didn’t go there beacause of that or get goofy and try to insert ourselves into the story (I hate that), but it was interesting to watch.

The Princeling watched carefully.  When the camera woman was taking other shots, and Dennis Shanahan, the reporter, obviously had some down time, my little Prince came up with “I wonder what it’s like to be a reporter?”

I looked over, and Mr. Shanahan was not interviewing people nor talking with the camera woman. “Go ask.”

I figured he would get the “It’s great” spiel and a pat on the head. What the Princeling received, however, was a conversation about what it’s really like to be a reporter.There’s down time, but you get to meet a lot of people. And yes, there are news vans, but… and on and on.

No, my Princeling does not want to be a reporter. But he was able to interact with a professional in a way that made me proud. He learned something new, and it gave him a deeper appreciation of the news shows. Mr. Shanahan’s taking the time to speak patiently with The Princeling for those few minutes was unexpected and greatly appreciated. I have officially switch news casts, as I want to hear from a team that cares about the people around them.

Mr. Shanahan’s report is here: http://fox40.com/2016/03/15/justin-bieber-spotted-around-sacramento-before-sold-out-concert/    or you click here

The family in Chick-Fill-A towards the 1 minute mark?

Hi!

 

We had lots more fun up in Sacramento, including a trip to the capitol which… well, that post will come later in the week. There’s lots to talk about my lovelies… Till then!

 

When Nightmares Come to Visit

Halloween was my favorite non-Christmas holiday for a long time. I loved decorating my room for it, actually had boxes of Halloween decorations. It was spooky and fun: a night to pretend to be someone other than yourself, and imagining that ghouls and goblins really are around the corner. I was living with my parents, going to Cal State… when I found out that not all Halloween Nightmares end.

I did not celebrate Halloween (other than handing out candy) from the time I was 24 until I was about 38. One year, during that time, I went over to my brother’s house to hand out candy while he and his wife took the boys out trick or treating. That first night started a tradition, a way of raising a toast…

You see… my mother, she who loved the very dry and sometimes tasteless British sense of humor died on Halloween.

That particular Halloween Nightmare— you don’t ever shake. You learn to live with it, but it’s always there. I can’t remember parts of that day– I must have blacked out while picking up a chair and throwing it at a window in the hospital. I remember many friends who helped, who made phone calls and came by the house to hold my hand while I made phone calls. I also remember going to the airport to secure the flights for my sister in Missouri and my brother who at the time was in Arizona.

My friend Jackie drove me. It was a good thing she was there, because I remember wanting to punch Raggedy Ann in the face. Yes, a lady at the ticket counter, dressed as Raggedy Ann gave your good old Wynelda Ann a temper overload. Jackie quietly stepped between us, defused the situation.

When we returned to the house, it was just getting dark. Trick or Treaters were starting to swarm the streets. The neighborhood that I loved, the holiday that I adored… suddenly was way too much. As a group came up, the kids just starting to come up the drive, I told the grown ups “no Candy.”

“No candy? What’s wrong with you?!!” It was someone I knew, someone I’d known since childhood. He probably meant it in a joking matter, but I couldn’t…

“Mom just died.”

I don’t know how he did it. But there were no trick or treaters that night. None.

My soul sister came in from Reno, spent that first Halloween night with me.

After that, I couldn’t get into the spirit of dressing up, of decorating. Halloween lost its appeal for me. Slowly, the boxes of decorations disappeared.

Then came the toast. It was quite a few years after Mom had died. I was watching the house and handing out candy for my brother, Charlie. They came home, and were separating out the candy. “Hey, a Butterfinger! That was mom’s favorite candy bar!” Soon came to find out, she would con me, my dad and Charlie into buying her just one candy bar… sometimes on the same day. She was diabetic, so if we had known… well. If we had known then what we know now, we would have bought her a bag of full size bars.

SItting there, on their living room floor, Charlie, Beth and I held a toast with Butterfingers, to Mom. It’s a ritual, a tradition now. Even when all I did for Halloween was hand out candy, I always made sure that I had a Butterfinger. Sometimes alone, sometimes with family.

And the tradition spread through parts of the family.

After all that, I’m here to tell you… Sometimes nightmares come to visit, and they don’t leave. But you can learn to live with them… and start enjoying what you once loved.

Because I have a child now. He’s 9 years old. I’ve dressed him up and taken him trick or treating, but haven’t decorated beyond the general fall decorations that my dad has. That changed this year. Princeling wanted to decorate. Please mom! Please!

Love the dollar store. Love it! Halloween items were a true BOGO, and we got a bunch. Mostly stuff he chose– a mummy hand, a skull candelabra centerpiece, signs for the yard, big spider and webbing… I tried to steer him away from outright demons and ghouls, because my dad… but he had fun!

But then there’s my 2 items. That’s right. My. Two. Items. I actually found 2 things that I thought were cute. And then they needed to be mine. And they were BOGO, so how could I not? They are black and purple and witchy and sparkly and they had to be mine. I’ve started up my decorating again… Last night, we watched the Dreamworks Scary/Spooky collections on Netflix and laughed our butts off.

This morning, I’ll go over to my neice’s house and raise the toast with Princeling, the niece and her family. We’ll probably also have the toast again tonight with Pappa.

It’s hard to learn to live with your nightmare. Hard to learn to walk everyday with it.

I plan to dance with it tonight. I think Mom would like that

My wish for you is that you give yourself time to learn the steps. It isn’t easy, it isn’t nice.

Living with grief is of like trick or treaters. Sometimes you’ll get a ghoul, and sometimes it will be a princess. But you always have the power to decide which candy you’ll feed your nightmare.

And there will come a time, either soon or in the distant future, where you can dance with your nightmare and celebrate the one you’ve lost. It takes a while.It takes a lot of ugly, messy tears before you can get to the point where you can remember them with joy and not want to ball.

But you’ll get there.

Shaming

This was prompted by a lot of tangled feelings having to do with my own body and my mother. It was brought on by watching a clip from “What would you do” where they had actors fat shaming another actress… The reactions? Perfect. But…

Can I ask a serious question? Why do we feel that it’s ok to shame other people? I’m specifically speaking of fat shaming, and it enrages me.

Yup.

Enragement. Dragon fire coming out my ears…

Here’s the thing. There’s no reason to make fun of someone because of their weight. All those words, those giggles? They aren’t cute. They aren’t funny.

You don’t know the damn story.

I grew up with a mother who looked pregnant. Every time someone said something, i wanted so desperately to go after them. She couldn’t win. “Oh, she’s eating a salad, but it won’t do any good.”  or “Damn, eat a salad!” I often wanted to punch people in the face. Strangers, making hurtful comments about a person they didn’t even know.

Turns out, she wasn’t “just” fat.

Turns out, when I went up 2 sizes, I wasn’t just getting fat either. I had what my mother had. A large tumor in my uterus. You wanna go there? I was so immune to people talking crap to me about my weight which I had maintained for 20 years… that when I went up, it didn’t phase me. I was just getting fatter and fatter. Two years ago, my father made me go get tested. Last year I had the surgery.

But that doesn’t matter. I didn’t know about that when I was growing up. What I knew?

I knew that some people were ass holes and no matter how much they hurt my mother, she would not let me go after them. I can remember walking down a parking lot aisle with Mom, Dad, and someone else (a friend? my brother?). We had gone to the mall to watch a movie and were on our way home. They thought they were funny.

I thought I’d turn around and plant my fist in a face. But it was my mother’s hand on my arm, her voice saying “please, don’t” that stopped me.(I never actually fought anyone outside my family– Mom wouldn’t let me)

Don’t be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

Don’t be an asshole.

Quit shaming people over their bodies.

Little Boys, Elderly Parents & Friends with Depression

The Poetry Edition

I recently had a phone call, where I was told that I am a natural “mothering” type of person. I like to take care of everyone, nurture them, all that good stuff. But I also need to learn to let go, to remember that not every battle is mine to fight, and sometimes people need to grow on their own. Mother and Smother are very close.

Last weekend, I broke a glass. I told the Princeling to stay out. Except, he didn’t. He calmly put on his shoes, gave me mine, then went to get the big dust pan. I swept up, and he picked up the larger pieces of glass and placed them carefully in the dust pan. The entire time, I was biting my tongue trying to keep the words behind my teeth.

Don’t do that! You’ll cut yourself! I don’t care if I bleed, but I can’t stand it when you do! What actually came out of my mouth was Be Careful.

He took the dust pan out, emptied it in the garbage can, and we went on. Except, you know… It hit me. My son is growing up. Helping. Taking care of me, even when it’s not all roses and sunshine.

Roses have thorns, and sunshine can burn, so I guess there really is no safe way to allow him to grow and never get hurt.

It was a broken glass. No drama, no life coming to an end. But something happened, and he came and helped his mom. Even if my neck muscles tightened as he helped me.

Then there’s my dad. I love my dad. He’s my hero, and one of my best friends. He’s still regaining what he lost, but he’s home. He’s walking with the help of a walker, and starting out with a cane. He does his exercises regularly, and enjoys going out. Nothing’s going to stop him.

Especially not a paranoid daughter.

He went out to the garage to wait for my son’s bus (which was late). Ok, fine. Except… When he first came home, I was trying to get someone to make a dump run for all the crap in there that has to go. His old recliner (replaced with mine), and old toilet (I know, I KNOW!), some wood and a broken lawn chair.

And dad went out into that mess to wait for my son.

You know, the mess that I’m afraid will kill me, let alone my father?

I can deal with him walking out to the mail box. He’s doing more and more and more every day. But that garage scares me. Now, I know my dad is a tough old war bird. He’s 89 and of sound mind. I need to let go, and let him be. I also called and rescheduled that dump run. I’m done waiting for it.

Done!

So that takes care of the two closest to me. But then, then… there’s my friends. I’ve touched before on the fact that I have had situational depression. It is nothing compared to what they go through, their struggles. I have no idea what they go through every day, one still in the midst of it and one keeping the delicate balance of not sliding back in.

There really is only one way to try and express my feelings about it. As a person who loves someone living with mental illness.

It took three tries.

Three.

A magical number.

Poem 1:

Tell the demons I’m here to stay,
There is no playground
For them to frolic
I locked the gate-
Threw away the key.
I smiled at each
And every
single
one
as my blade
shaped by love
Conviction
Strength
Love
Friendship

Pierced them
One
by
bloody
one

Until all heed
My battle cry
Be gone!

Yah, I loved that poem. Kick ass, it is. It’s also patently false. I cannot see, feel or fight their demons for them. It’s what I’d love to do. But I can’t fight their battles. They have to fight them on their own. No matter how much it kills those of us that love them.

Poem#2

I will hold the sword
as you ready for battle
I will hold the line
as tightly as I can
while you don your
armour piece by piece
Don’t forget the heart
Never forget the heart

I will walk with you by your side,

step
by
bloody
step
through the garden of your demons.
Although~
I feel helpless
and afraid
for this is a battle
you must fight

Why can’t I slay
               them for you?

I will stand beside you offering what I may.

This second one feels truer than the first, but it is also a pretty lie. We can’t walk with them, can’t help in so many ways. I can’t make the fear and depression go away even if I’m right there with them. It feels like there is no way at all to  do anything to help our loved ones. We want the battle to be fought and won, but that’s not how it works.
But there is something we can do. Even though it kills us. We, the nurturers, the mothers, made by God to help…. It feels so often as if we are failing them, failing ourselves.  But we’re not…

Poem #3 Sojourn

I cannot wield the sword
To destroy your demons
I cannot walk this mile
In your shoes…

Nor any other.

The tangled leaves blowing
Through your depression
Are a mystery to me.

So I sit here,
Quietly,
Holding a candle
That it might…

Maybe…

Possibly…

Send a glow of warmth
On your cold sojourn back.

I love you, my friends. I’ll try to keep lighting that candle: whether it’s with notes or phone calls or visits. I will always have a candle going for you.

© 2015 Wynelda Ann Deaver All Rights Reserved

Shifting Sideways: Tree Watching

Shifting sideways is my own little experiment. They are all fairly short— and fairy odd. They capture my quirkiness completely. I hope you enjoy.

Because you’ll have one every Sunday!

Shifting Sideways: Creativity, Life and Love

Tree Watching

Most people have memories of laying on the grass, picking out shapes in clouds. It’s an activity that explores the boundaries of imagination and creativity. My son? He has never done this particular activity. Instead, he will have memories of picking shapes out of trees.

We drive a lot of country roads. A lot. The joke is that it takes 30 minutes to get almost anywhere, and 20 of those minutes are getting out of the country. California doesn’t have a whole lot of clouds right now, thanks to the draught. But trees? Trees we still have.

It started about four years ago. On Highway 88, between Eight Mile Road and Harney Lane, is a lovely tree that overhangs the pavement. Once I saw a dragon head in it, I could never unsee it. Quickly, it began providing entertainment on the drive home. The moment we drove near our new landmark, the Princeling would shout “Dragon!” He fought that dragon, conquered it, rode it across the mountains to visit Auntie in Reno. We drove through its fiery breath (“ewww… stinky!”), engaged it in battle all in an effort to stay out of it’s belly.

None of the other trees are quite as magical as that first one. However, it’s still exciting every time we add a new one to the mix. There’s a chicken on Austin Road, larger than life and ready to cross the road. On Harney Lane, there are two trees that look exactly like a cow, right in front of… a cow farm. On Jack Tone Road, a magical portal awaits us, ready to take us to another land. One filled with dragons, and knights, no doubt.

Cloud watching is dependent on the weather. Tree watching just requires a tree and a small shift sideways. No shapes in your trees? Find all the shades of brown, of green, how the light dapples through the leaves.

Your inner child will squeal in delight.

## End##

Copyright 2015 Wynelda Ann Deaver

Cluttered

So my very good friend and mentor, Rie, has a great blog called Here’s the Clean. In it, she is incredibly honest about what she’s trying to do, and it inspired me.

Sometimes, I need to clean. Either because I have a ton of anger to get out or because I need something mindless to do while my brain declutters itself.

Oh my goodness, was my brain cluttered.

And, maybe not so much inspiration to bite off all at once. Next time, I’m going to dial it back.

My son’s room was first. Always messy. But more than that, his special lego builds were being destroyed which just made him mad. They were first thing when you walked in the door to his room.

IMG_2248 IMG_2247 IMG_2249

The boy’s room before.

Me being me, I clean a bedroom by getting everything up on the bed or near it.

IMG_2250

Then I started moving stuff around. Got it most of the way where I wanted it, then got stuck. Could not move the bed any more at all. I had it mostly in place, but not all the way.SIGH. Onward!

To the garage!

Before

Before

After

After

Again, only so much I could do in there, until I find someone to make a dump run for me… but it’s a great start!

The boyo’s father came over, and he finished moving the bed into place, so now his room looks all nice and shiny and comfy cozy…IMG_2259IMG_2260  Ta Da!

Obviously, I had some stuff to work out. And I did (more on that later this week, I just shook the words out and I’m still trying to find out what they want to say and how they want to say it). Part of it was that Dad is now home (YIPPEE!) and we had to change where the legos are… and I wanted to look beyond what looked good and went into how his room works for him.

We’re not going to the place right now, where everything has changed and not just where the Lego’s are hidden.

Actually, I kind of enjoyed taking the before and after photos. Concrete proof of what was accomplished. As a writer, so much of what’s going on is happening in our own brains… It’s hard to convince someone that you’re working on something.

But as for me? I really enjoyed collapsing into my own bed!

Tonight, I made dinner for my family, and we ate around the table. And life is good.

More soon!

And Daddy Prayed

I wrote this in response to a conversation with my dad on the fourth of July. I intend to submit it to Chicken Soup, whose submission page states that we can submit items published on our personal blogs. It’s very different than my fiction. and most of my other non-fiction. This is the second piece I’ve written regarding spirituality. I seem to be holding to an eclectic voice even in this. Hope you enjoy.!.

And Daddy Prayed

             Even before the stroke on Mother’s Day, my 89 year old father wondered: Why am I still here? What purpose do I still serve in God’s plans?

Then the stroke happened. It was thankfully fairly mild, and he came home after a week. After one or two days at home, he went back to the hospital. Unfortunately, the effects of the overdose of medication has not been mild. We just celebrated the Fourth of July, and hopefully he will be home soon.

Throughout this, there have been times where he didn’t know what was going on. At one point, he gave up. It was in the tired planes of his face, in the droop in his shoulders, his voice that lost its fire. The “rehab” he was in, while modern and nicely furnished, crushed his independence. This old war bird, proud Navy man from World War II, Korea and Vietnam, was reduced to needing the help of churlish and neglectful people. It took its toll in both body and spirit.

When he was transferred from the “rehab” to the hospital, he started coming back. He still had health problems, still tired out so easily, but was starting to be him again. When I was told he’d be going to a different rehab, I was terrified. Indifference and incompetence had almost cost us our father— would this place finish him off?

It’s not as pretty, as shiny new as the other. But it’s the people who count, and they make a difference. I know this to be true, because Dad is starting to come back. The things that make him uniquely him are coming back.

Including his ministry.

We were out on the patio: Dad, my 9 year old son and I. Dad I started a conversation, and it went as most of ours do. Wide ranging and far flung, we can talk about anything and everything. He started telling me of the people he had met in the rehab, and how he feels an embarrassment of riches not only because his family visits, but also his anticipated home coming.

“There’s a woman in the room right next to me,” he began. “Every night, she calls out ‘Oh Lord, oh Lord, please come take me home.’ All night long she cries out. In that other place, there were two who would do it. I need to tell you something, though.”

Tears thickening his voice, he continued on. “So I started praying for them. Not for me, but for them to have comfort, peace, a restful night. Every time I pray for them, keeping them in my heart, He answered. They were comforted. The woman next to me will call out, then find peace for an hour or two, then call again. Every time, He comforts her. Because I prayed.

“Their heads don’t think right any more. They’re broken inside. But deep down, you have to remember that they are human beings too. They need comfort too!” I grabbed hold of his hand as he cried, moved beyond words at the testimony my father had just given me.

Have I had the open heart, the courage, to pray as he does? Not yet. But I’m practicing it. A day before this talk, I would have been stewing in anger over my own lost sleep. I hope that with practice, I’ll be able to love a stranger like that.

To open up your heart like that, then be able to share the story. That’s a powerful ministry. So powerful that I could not keep the words inside myself. When I got home, I called my sister. Then I sat down and began to write.

And as I write, I pray.

Thank you, Lord, for showing Daddy and I how a little prayer can do so much for a person.

##The End##

Copyright 2015 Wynelda Ann Deaver

Poke Battle

I’m sorry, but it’s hillarious. There’s a gang of 8 and 9 year old boys in my house, having a Pokemon battle as I’m trying to write.

Oh good gravy, and my son thinks my stories are over the top?

Wheee!

We had some good news today. Hopefully (Fingers and toes crossed on this one!), Dad will be home on Monday! Yay! We’ve missed him horribly 😦

So far this week I’ve written an essay on Dad, and also a snarky 5 rules to make it through sitting in traffic thingee. Not sure what the heck I’m going to call it, but it was kind of fun. I have a series of things that are kind of strange, I call it my Shifting Sideways Stories.

Things like tree watching and the Thirteen Nekkid Ladies pop up under that tag. Hmmm… should I post here? Not sure yet. But am still writing, writing a lot… but they are fairly short. I admit that

Of course, I have the attention of an adhd squirrel right now, so it fits. I have 2 notebooks that go everywhere with me, and I now have friends (hi regina!) who enjoy getting first dibs on what I write in them (after it’s transferred to a computer file).

So. That’s my day.

Poke Battle.

ROTFLMAO

They are soooo serious about it, too!  I just kicked them out, and I think my son walked some of his friends home. I say this, because he came back in the house holding his water gun as if it were real and would protect them from the bad guys.

OMG, I love being Mom to a boy!

Tiny House Dream

A lot of things are going on for the princeling and I, and one of the things that happened was this: We turned too quickly to get into the rehab facility my dad is at, and ended up in the driveway for senior apartments over looking a pond/lake sort of thing. “Oh, I’d love to live here!” The princeling was all for it. Then we started talking and realized we both would love the same thing: An apartment or condo on the beach.

I am not a house kind of person. I rent a room at my dad’s house, and I love living here…. but. Not so much right now. For one thing, he’s not here. We are definitely missing our Poppa. Hopefully he’ll be home soon. But also because of the actions of another person, who… I don’t know. To me, it seems as if they either didn’t want poppa to come home, or they wanted the princeling and I gone. Personally, I’m starting to think they just throw stuff out there, hoping it will stick to someone and take the spotlight off of their actions.

Four people have a key to the house. I’m ok with that. I’m not okay with people coming in and complaining that the house is torn up, it’s horrible, it’s a mess. Yes, I keep my room a little messy. Yes, Ray’s room can get destroyed. He’s 9. And the doors shut. No one else needs to go into our rooms. However, in all the years I’ve been out on my own… Never has the public spaces in my home been too messy for anyone to visit. Anyone. When my brother came to check it out the first time, there were maybe 4 dishes in the sink. That’s it.

Four freaking dishes.

I enjoy apartment living. I don’t want to have to fix plumbing or air conditioning. There is no way on God’s green earth that you want me taking care of a yard, lawn or otherwise. Thankfully, I didn’t kill off the grass completely, it’s coming back… but in my defense, the sprinkler system stopped working as if someone had unplugged it. Then the freezer went kaput. Thankfully, a neighbor came over and figured it out. Whew! A little reset button for one, and the power breaker for the other.

The fuse box in an apartment is normally either in a closet, or in the kitchen.

Apparently, here, it’s on the side of the house.

There’s the cooking and cleaning, which is fine, I get it. Nothing more than what I’d have on my own in an apartment. However, if I was in my own place, my very home would not be in jeopardy because of someone else’s lies about my housekeeping. Right now, I have a pit in my stomach because there are 4 cups in the sink and a few spoons,  a fork and a knife. That’s not right– the house is not a mess. It looks like someone lives here… but we do! We live here!

But I’m ok. The great thing about smart phones is that you can record stuff with a time and date stamp. So for the past week I’ve been making a video of the house then texting it to my dad and my brother’s wife. Because yah, it got to that point.

And it’s sickening to think that someone would be that low. Especially when anyone around us can tell that one of the reason’s my dad is fighting so hard to come home is because of that little boy. Both of their faces light up when they see each other, and my son is definitely the star of the show.

But the star of the show told Poppa on Saturday that he and I were working on a Tiny Home Dream. I explained to poppa that it would be 5 to 10 years away… but yes.

The goal is my son and I, in a tiny home, where we will not have to live wondering what a certain person has said about us this day.

PS- I’m happy to report that the power bill was less than normal! Part of the reason is that I turn off the air when I leave. Even on the days when it hit 1-5. the house was only 85. Turn it on when I got home… BOOM. At least I won that one!

Later in the week, I plan to catch you all up on what we’re up to. Yes, I said we! I’m part of a writing group now, and I’m actually getting a bit prolific. I know I’ve been gone from here for a while, but I’m writing, it’s good… and you know what? It’s enjoyable! It’s fun!