Four AM Two Hours Ago

Letters to My Daughter: My Prayer

This was my mother’s prayer for me and now my prayer for you.

Wherefore I also, after I heard of your faith in the Lord Jesus, and love unto all the saints, cease not to give thanks for you, making mention of you in my prayers; that the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of glory, may give unto you the spirit of wisdom and revelation in the knowledge of him: the eyes of your understanding being enlightened; that ye may know what is the hope of his calling, and what the riches of the glory of his inheritance in the saints, and what is the exceeding greatness of his power to us-ward who believe, according to the working of his mighty power, which he wrought in Christ, when he raised him from the dead, and set him at his own right hand in the heavenly places, far above all principality, and power, and might, and dominion, and every name that is named, not only in this world, but also in that which is to come: and hath put all things under his feet, and gave him to be the head over all things to the church, Which is his body, the fulness of him that filleth all in all.

Ephesians 1:15-23

 

Journal Entry 2: Tradition

If you are reading for the first time, I am creating a journal of life lessons to pass on to my daughter.  Please leave your inputyour holiday traditions and your hopes for your own children.

Journaling

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Your Grandma Kelly used to steal Christmas trees on Christmas Eve.  She wasn’t alone in this, it was a family event.

For obvious reasons, this tradition was not passed on.

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She did, however, establish many traditions that fill my heart with warm memories.

Decorating the tree was a family event and at your Grandpa Kurt’s house we always had a fresh tree that we cut down with our very own hands.

Christmas lighting was accompanied with hot chocolate and Christmas carols.

Your Uncles and I would beg and plead your Grandma Kelly to let us open one gift on Christmas Eve.  She always caved. 

Stockings and gifts were opened early on Christmas morning.  The earlier the better.

Finding the Christmas pickle was an honor, and re-gifting the turd bird was a creative task.

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Traditions connect us to our past.  They create a place of comfort and familiarity. 

My hope for you is that you embrace these traditions and call them your own.  I hope that you celebrate the old traditions and create new traditions unique to you.

Use your traditions to discover and define yourself.  Use them to create stability and when you are lost and searching you will have a rock of memories to cling to. 

Journal Entry 1: I’m Not Perfect

I am journaling life lessons for my daughter.  She’s only four months old, so by the time she’s 18 I should have mounds of advice written to pass on when she ventures off into the world. 

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I let you fall off the couch a few days ago.  You cried.  I cried. 

Sadly, this wasn’t my first mistake with you and it very well won’t be the last.  I’m going to screw up.  I’m going to blow it.  And I’m very sorry. 

Many times I have found myself in situations where I just don’t know.  I don’t know what to say, what to do, where to go.  In those times, I just have to wing it.  Go with my gut and hope for the best. Parenting is one of those things I just don’t know.  It’s a constant learning process of trial and error.  I think the worst part of parenting mistakes is letting you down. 

So, here it is, I’m not perfect and I’m not even going to try to be perfect.  But I will vow you this, I promise to always be there and to always try my best. 

Writing Left to Right

Relatability.  I think that’s all we really want.  By we, I mean writers, but subconsciously I probably mean everyone.

I write mostly for myself; to sort through feelings and define some sort of clarity.  Yet, I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I want to inspire others.  I want someone to say or even just think, “Hey, she gets me.”

I want to give emotions life and I want to evoke emotion.  And that, my friends, is the downfall of writing.  To make others feel, you have to feel that much more. 

You have to see both sides of the story.  You have to have an incredible amount of insight.  Really, it’s a lot of weight to carry and a lot of tears to shed for people you don’t know and situations you’ve never dealt with.  The essence of a good writer is to imagine yourself in these times and places, to imagine all the “what ifs.”

Sometimes these scenarios I play out in my head are masterpieces until it comes time to put them to paper.  Paper is my kryptonite.  My mind is a clean slate, freshly bleached.   

Torture.

All these emotions and feelings, fueled by late nights and coffee cups of caffeine, have no outlet.  They stay nestled inside, bottled up like they would catch fire if touched by light. 

Does This Smile Make Me Look Fat?

My husband started a debate with a simple statement: Jay Cutler never smiles.

Now our Facebook feed is filled with pictures of a smiling Jay.

Here is just one of my responses.

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The Slow Process of Growing Up

I used to write on Tumblr.  Long ago when I was too unsophisticated for places like WordPress.

Going through my old posts I found this.  It still pulls at my heart strings, and with much gratefulness, it no longer sends me into a self-tortured depressed wormhole – I guess that’s part of growing up.

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She pours another drink. Tonight it’s whiskey because it’s all she has left. The air around her is thick with smoke. It’s so much easier to feel loved when the liquid burns her throat and warms her belly. She knows it’s selfish so she hides it best she can. She knows its cowardice but it’s the only way she knows how to deal.

This is her long, drawn-out suicide.

It hurts to love someone who hurts themselves.

How do you tell someone the truth without destroying the few threads that still hold you together?  We feed ourselves lies to lessen the pain. The truth hurts so we put a smile on our face and believe the lies so we can press on to a new day.

My heart breaks in silence.

Then I see myself in her. I know it’s selfish because I ignore the hurt she masks. I know I’m a coward because I can’t stand up for myself, I can’t stand up for her.

Fear consumes me, but still I’m silent.

The Ability to Rationalize

This is my confession.

I have the uncanny ability to make excuses for just about anything and just about anyone.

I’d like to believe I’m alone in this, but that is rarely ever the case.

The mind is powerful. To be able to create a fictitious lifestyle. To be able to twist and turn the truth into something beautiful and magical.

The mind is also dangerous. Because the lies and untruths that we cloak in sunshine and rainbows are still distortions.  The belief in faulty humans and imperfect theories leaves us…

Well, simply put, it leaves us screwed.

It Wasn’t Me

Gunner the Boxer: I like to eat babies and  diapers while the family is asleep.

Packer the Pit: And I like to watch.

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Because guys, it’s all about safety.

There is nothing more annoying than hearing the “buck-up-or-die” chime because the weight of 35 water bottles is equivalent to the weight of a human body.

Also, I did just try to spell water with two t’s.

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This Title is Optional

I had this grand idea to blog.  To create a space where I can share my big, brilliant ideas.  To let the stage frightened comedian out from behind her mask.  To vent my frustrations without the fear of offending a close friend. Maybe even share a recipe or give fair warning of that awful movie that just hit the Red Box stand.

So, here is my blog, sitting here for days blank and bored.  I don’t have anything clever to say.  I even tried tapping into my creative literary side and coming up with a fictional story that I could pass off as reality.

I’m sure alcohol would help.

I’ll have to add that to the grocery list.

For now, I will toast this writer’s block with my stale Dr. Pepper and get back to my laundry list of chores.

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