There's a reason I haven't been here lately. Someone gave the link to someone who gave the link to someone who really shouldn't have had it at all. And since the day I found out, I've been dodging this blog. I don't really think I can be here anymore because of it. But, if you want the new link, please email me at suzyarichardson@gmail.com. I'd be more than happy to pass it on. You understand.

The Big House

So this year, my son started a new school, a private school that I love. Seems that during the first week of school, he and a kid, C, in his class hit it off. He invited my son to his birthday party, which was a deep-sea fishing trip. His dad is the founder and CEO of a successful business. And his mom is a stay-at-home-mom who dabbles in fashion and interior designing.

After the fishing trip, hubby came home to tell me that C's parents had actually split a few months earlier. Nothing shocking these days. They do the every-other-weekend thing and everything that goes along with it.

So, today, I dropped off my son at C's mom's house for the first time. We drove into the neighborhood and my daughter squealed at the sizes of the homes. (On a side note, I've been frustrated with my own housing situation. After being a home-owner twice, we are now renting and wanting to build. But the time and the money hasn't been right.)

"Can we live in a big house like this one day?" (I mean, we're talking mansions, okay?)

"I hope so," I said. "We do need the room."

When we got to C's house, his mother greeted me at the door and invited me in. She was perfectly pulled together. Lipstick, outfit, manicure. I was in tank top, jeans and flip flops. She's older than I am by about 20 years. She has a thick Russian accent and when she speaks, I have to lean in and watch her speak or else I get lost in the words. It's almost work to have a conversation with her, but not in a bad way.

She's actually refreshingly different. Her home is filled with huge colorful paintings and big vases stuffed with freshly picked flowers. Seems she's dabbled in gardening as well. She planted every plant in her vast, colorful garden, she said, pointing out of a window that ran the entire length of the living room.

"Have a seat," she said and pulled out a chair. From where I sat, I could see the sparkling clean pool. So serene. "Your house is beautiful," I said.

She had designed it, and lived there for 15 years along with her husband and child, who I had been told was adopted. My daughter and 3-year-old had come along for the ride, but they had run off into a play room in the back.

She gave me the short of it. She and her (soon-to-be-ex) husband had married overseas, adopted a child and moved to the states to start their business. (He is American.) And then she stopped in mid-sentence and looked down at her hands as if studying her perfectly polished fingernails.

"You know, C has been having a very hard time and I am so glad he and your son are friends," she said.

I smiled and nodded. She paused. I saw her eyes well up with tears and finally, she said "My husband left me for other woman. I got the papers on my 50th birthday you know."

Our eyes were already locked, and I just said to her "I'm so sorry."

She told me about the month, the day, her world fell apart. Sometime back in May. "C did not know he was adopted until Mr. B (she calls him refers to her ex as 'Mr.', almost as if out of spite) told him last month. That was right after I got the papers."

So what she had just told me was that C found out his parents were divorcing and that he was adopted all in the same month. All in May. Poor baby.

She left the table briefly and returned with five multi-colored photo albums. She showed me the happy days of her life--the day she and her husband opened their business (there she was, about 10 years younger, at the ribbon-cutting ceremony) and the day they brought C home from overseas. His first birthday (the theme was balloons and bears) and his first Christmas; he was almost lost beneath the pile of colorfully wrapped gifts.

Such happy memories, but here she was, falling apart.

The kids ran back into the room and anounced that "E peed on the floor."

Oh, what timing. Leave it to Mr. E. He had wet his pants and it ended up all over the marble floor. C's mother quickly dried her eyes and closed the final album I had in front of me. "It's OK," she said. "Your children so beautiful. All same ages. All growing up with mom and dad together."

Before I left, I told her that I hoped we could sit and chat again. She looked hopeful. "I have no family here," she told me. "That would be so nice."

As we drove out of that neighborhood, the mansions looked a little smaller, and a little less inviting. I wanted my blue-collar husband and our blue-collar house more than ever. (One day, we'll get the big house and I know it's right around the corner."

But like I told hubby "I don't want a big house without you."

Anyway, I hope to see C's mom again. Maybe for coffee one day.

The fruit cup that saved my butt (and my $1,000)

Tuesday morning was rough.

It began with a fairly innocent phone call. "Don't forget to pay Ricky the rent," hubby said. "The money's in your purse."

I was sitting at my desk around 8 when I called Ricky, our landlord, who is a trip. When we hung up, the plan was that he would swing by the job and get the cash. Yes, there was this envelope that had many, many hundred-dollar bills rolled up in it. And it had his name on it.

After I hung up the phone, I searched my purse for the envelope. It wasn't there. So I called hubby, who insisted that the money was in my purse; our pleasant conversation quickly turned into panic.

And then, we both recalled the previous night--ugh.

"You threw it away," he said, as if the revelation hit him like a bag of bricks, his voice trembling. "Whaaaaaa?" I said. I wasn't even standing, but my knees were weak. And in my mind, I could see the previous night.

It was a simple, stupid argument over the stranger with the rash. (I know, it's crazy.)

So, this guy leaves me this voice mail that goes like this: "Hey, I'm not coming into work until, you know, I get this, uh, rash checked out. I got to go see the doctor. So, uh, I'll let you know how it turns out."

I thought it was hilarious. But, I was offended when hubby didn't see the humor, feel the humor with me. And so I rolled my eyes and then he rolled his eyes. And then I snapped at him because he reacted to me and I reacted to him reacting to me. You get it, right?

I wanted to find my lip gloss in my purse at just that moment, but he had crammed all of this mail into my purse earlier in the day. So, I took out all of the clutter and threw it into his lap. "Get your crap out of my purse," I said.

"Oh really? I don't think so," he said. "You can pick it up, too. 'Cause I'm not going to."

"Oh really?" I replied. "Well, you can pick it up out of the trash can if you really want it!"

Yup, it was one of those really stupid fights. And I remembered the moment I put that wad of papers in the trash can. And I also remembered how, later that night, he had taken all of the trash to the dumpster.

Gulp. It was gone.

It was only 8:30 and I was on my way to that dumpster. When I got there, I opened the stinky, dirty top and it was completely empty. There was not one bag of trash in it.

I sat right by the curb and, in defeat, realized that my emotions had just cost me more than a $1,000. I got into my car, and the tears streamed down. I was so mad at myself. No, I was mad at hubby. No, I was mad at Rash Guy for leaving me that message.

I was just mad. And then I was mad that this could bring our family to our knees. You know, hubby is not on salary until next month. I am holding things together. Family of six on one income, and it made me mad. (I want so much more.)

I just couldn't go back to work. I needed to cry this one out and maybe wash my hands with really, really hot water. When I walked in the door, I prayed for a miracle, but I kind of knew it was too late. It was trash day all over Gainesville.

I looked in one last place, though. The garbage can in the kitchen. It was empty. Except for ... a sloppy fruit cup. (Oh, the dreaded fruit cup that Mr. E, the 3-year-old, begged me for that dreaded night.) The sticky juice had seeped out of the cup and it sort of stuck to the bottom.

And you know what else stuck? Beneath the sticky juice cup? A wad of papers. And beneath that wad of papers, a sticky envelope filled with crisp hundred-dollar bills, covered in fruit-cup juice.

Did the dreaded fruit cup just save me more than $1,000? "I love this fruit cup! I love it. Oh, thank you, God!"

I guess hubby dumped out the trash bag instead of just taking it out entirely. Oh, I love hubby! And I even love Rash Guy! On the way back to work, not even 9:30 am, my feelings of anger had transformed, and I had love for everyone. Love for hubby, love for the trash men, love for even Rash Guy. But, especially love for the fruit cup.

I will never look at another fruit cup quite the same. Ever.

Rainy days are for romance -- and car problems

So, I worked from home today. It was a blur. I checked in every few minutes to check my email and respond to clients. My head hurt. My body hurt. And, at the last minute, I got lucky. Hubby stayed home with me.

Everything is so much better with him by my side. Everything. Even feeling like crap is better when he is there to help me through it. I got plenty of rest and worked lightly. My job is filled with stress, but I was thanking God for it today as I sat in a quiet home, tapping away lightly on my keyboard. (I was so glad I have the option to be sick and still work.)

I started feeling better later in the day when hubby and I headed to pick up dinner from Publix. I was feeling the need to get out into some open air and a quick trip to Publix in the mom van always does a mom's soul some good.

But, the rain had other plans for me.

I was driving in the pouring-down rain when they stopped. They just stopped. The wipers no longer felt the need to clear my windshield for me. "Oh, oh ... they ... stopped. I can't see. Anything!"

"Just watch the white lines, slow down and pull over."

I pulled over, and hubby quickly figured out that the wipers had probably died somewhere along Newberry Road. After a quick and wet inspection, he hopped back in the van, soaking wet.

We creeped along slowly until we pulled up to a little automotive shop that was rather impressive. Its yellow walls were filled with little reminders of the little wonderful town we live in--Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers were the first to catch my eye.

"I really love the place," I told the guy standing behind the front counter. He was the owner and he kind of glowed when I recognized all of the detail that had been poured into the place. (I bet not too many guys have said that to him before.)

So, we were stuck while they inspected the windshield wipers. But, it was so perfect. After being sick for the entire weekend that was filled with noisy children, we were forced to have a quiet moment, a quiet meal.

We walked the few feet over to a restaurant next door. We couldn't have planned it better--you know, besides the windshield wipers dying and all. But, it was rather romantic. He, sitting there soaking wet. And me just coming out of a foggy haze laced with tylenol-pm. Outside, the rain was pouring down.

Yes. It was so romantic.

Until we walked back over to that cute little shop and got a cute little (oh, but not so little) bill.

Back from New Orleans

What can I say? I am inspired.

My work trip to New Orleans ended up being a trip of inspiration. But, that didn't come until the flight home.

So, I went as an assistant editor of the magazine we print for this association. I was really there to cover events and to write about them every night. It was draining. And I was there by myself. You know, without my hubby, who is my rock. I love doing things with him by my side.

But, he was in Gainesville with the kids, which meant I would have to be a big girl and get to work. My very last event to cover was about finding your passion in life and using your gifts. I was ready to go to that one, since it is a topic that's been heavily on my heart lately.

But I found out that I'd be leaving the hotel at 11, which gave me no time to cover and write about the event. So, someone else did it and I was on my way to the airport.

I got to the Louis Armstrong airport and had a few hours before my flight to Atlanta. And so I asked if I could get on the early flight. As it turned out, I could. And I did. Once in Atlanta (where they lost! my luggage), I barely made it to the connecting flight. It was also an early flight.

I had a stand-by seat, which meant that they would put me there--only if there was room. I literally ran through the entire airport to make it to the flight. And when I got there they were just beginning to check people in. "Whew, I made it on time." Not really even knowing if I'd get a seat.

"Cirulli," I hear the attendant say.

(Hey, I know that name. That is the guy who owns the gym where I work out.)

Rewind about three weeks and said gym owner was having a speech about how he basically became a multi-millionaire. When I finally called to get in on the speech, it was full. And so I missed it.

But, here we were, in the same airport. And so I figured I'd at least get to meet him. "Is your name Joe?" I asked.

"Yes."

"I am a member of your gym," I said.

We began chatting and ended up being checked in at the same time. Meanwhile, I was telling him about the speech that I had missed and how his story really inspired me.

(When he was 23, he lived in a car. At one point, he didn't have enough change in his pocket to buy a Coke from McDonald's. But, he changes all of it. How? Well, that's what I wanted to know.)

As we boarded out little flight back to Gainesville, I knew we were about to part ways. He'd go to one seat, and I'd go to another. And so, I told him I was glad to have met him and that I'd be at the next speech, if he had one.

At that point, I looked at my ticket. "7D" I said. And he looked at his. "Well, what do you know? I'm 7C"

We were sitting right beside each other. How. How could that be a simple coincidence? And so, for the next hour, I got something so much better than his original session. I got the one-on-one. I asked him question after question.

In my life, I want so much more. So much more. Which is the result of a lot of frustration. He told me how to alleviate the frustration with a list of books he said had changes his life.

I scrawled the list on a few receipts I had in my purse and by the time we walked away from the flight, about 1 1/2 hour later, I was inspired. Turns out, he had taken an early flight back to Gainesville at the last minute as well. I knew it had to be God orchestrating this meeting.

I knew that God needed to get this list of books to me. I just knew it. I just know it. God works like that and I refuse to doubt. Within a few days, my husband bought me the first book. And so, now I'm off to begin the fourth chapter of "The Power of a Positive Mind."

God is cool like that.

My flowy pants

(Stage: Gainesville Airport)

So, when the guy on the other end of the line told me I could check in 30 minutes before the flight left, I thought that is when they OPENED check in.

Wrong.

That is when they CLOSE it. What he should have told me was "You HAVE to check in at least 30 minutes before departure -- or you will miss your flight."

Are you kidding me?

No. He was not. And he being rather stoic about it. Which annoyed me. (As my 3-year-old tied me to this pole thing.) He also, at the time, told me he'd be charging me a $50 fee for something.

OK. So, let me explain that. I am wearing my favorite pants in the world. These are the pants I wear around the house, when I travel and when I make a random weekend trip to Publix. Ahhh, I love them. They have this tie that cinches around the waist. It kind of hangs down from the waist. I call them my flowy pants.

So, my 3-year-old takes the tie and ties me to this pole thing. Yes, I think that is the technical term. Pole thing.

So, you know, I turn to him and say "Why. Why must you tie me to the pole?" (You know, as I am glaring at the check-in guy who is talking about me owing him $50.)

Um, and then I realized how that sounded. But whatever. Dude was telling me that I mis-understood other dude on the end of the 800 line. So, I wasn't happy.

Look, do what you gotta do. Tie me to the airplane if you have to. I'm wearing my flowy pants. We can make it work. That last thing I wanted to hear is that I would miss my flight.

((I'll check back in from ATL))

Painting the tree

The only problem with that last move (the decluttering of the swamp) is that people want to know where all my stuff is. It's kind of funny that I can't just be nice and neat.

In my younger years, I wasn't nice or neat. Creative minds tend to be all over the place and that is one my biggest hurdles; and also one of my biggest gifts. But, that also means that sometimes your surroundings are all over the place. (My bedroom isn't in perfect order today--a reflection of what's in my mind; and it's sort of driving me mad.)

The only problem with that is that I cannot focus in the midst of clutter. So, there you have it: a peak into my mind. A peek into how I drive myself crazy on many days.

Like today. Yeah, today is one of those days. You know, I can write and write and write on the blog and anything to do with feelings. But, this manuscript I am working on; it's driving me insane. There is such specific order to this thing that I feel like my creative brain is going to short circuit for not being able to freely flow. Instead, I have to sit inside of this neat little box.

I don't work like that, though. I work in that mode, if you could imagine me as an artist, there are splashes of paint of all different colors here and there. And the mess is just glorious. But, this thing ... this is me needing to paint a tree in a specific spot; and a lake in a specific spot. My brain doesn't work well that way.

So, we'll see if I can pull the chaos together. My brain isn't loving this season of life. I am all over the place when I need to be in one. Which is why I am on the blog instead of in the manuscript. Over here, I am allowed to be messy and splashy. But, when I leave here for the day, I have to paint that tree right in its proper place.

I'm not feeling it.

Hot and heavy

Today, sitting in the middle of my desk (my swamp), I looked around and felt a bit suffocated. Too many papers, too many pictures, too many needless memos. Just too much.

And so, I found a box and filled it. I had so much needless stuff cluttering the swamp. I filled it to the brim with all kinds of goodies--family pictures, a box of Grape Nuts (lol), dishes. Yes, all of that ... just, stuff that I have compiled over the months.

I chose to keep a few of my favorite family pictures up and with heavy box in hand (and in heels), I lugged the box down three flights of stairs. Carefully. And out to the back of the mom van.

By the time I got back inside, I was sweating and breathing heavily. That was hard. And it is so hot, I thought as I climbed back up those three flights of stairs.

My co-worker saw me, or heard me, walk by her. I sighed. You know, one of those "that was exhausting" sighs.

"You OK?" she asked.

"Hot," I said. "and heavy." "Hot and heavy."

"Huh?"

I walked away and moments later thought twice about what I just said to her. And you know, how I said it. Oh, that's nice. Really nice. There I am panting the words to her "Hot and heavy."

You know what I meant: Hot sun. Heavy box. But, I thought it was funny enough to leave it alone. My little laugh for the day.

Cherry on my milkshake. And, the insanity of it all.

Um, okay. (Is what I thought to myself when I woke up this morning.)

That was in response to the dream I had: I'm in the middle of a swamp, floating on a mattress. My mattress is my desk and the swamp is my office.

That was it. That's what I remember.

I thought about it on the way to work, kind of laughing over the irony of it. Yes, irony. And as I stepped through the front door, one of the senior editors was about two feet in front of me. She looked back to see me and stopped.

"Oh, seeing you reminds me of the dream I had lastnight. You were in it."

"Um, okay. What's this dream about?"

"So, we were getting ready for prom--a bunch of us from work. And we stepped into this huge walk-in closet to choose our prom dresses; to get all pretty. And there were two dead animals in the closet."

I must have given her the craziest look. "So, um, ok. What kind of animals were they?"

"I don't remember. But, they were definitely dead."

I see. Two weird dreams. My co-worker, C, told me that the last dream was awesome in a creepy way. I laughed. Still, I wonder if it means anything. I have my own ideas.

So, today was hectic. I didn't go to lunch until about 3. I had to proof my big magazine. The huge one that is going to the conference in New Orleans. I had to pry myself away for lunch so that I could get in something else--not related to my day job.

There I was in the mall, scarfing down a Chic-Fil-A sandwich and furiously wiping the grease off my fingers so that I could get to the keys on my laptop. I sat for about five seconds and thought: "If I could just stop. Stop working. Stop writing. Stop thinking."

But guess what? I don't know if I could survive without working and writing and thinking. It drives me crazy, but it seems to be what pushes me. I love the insanity of it all.

Oh, one more thing: So, C knew I was having the craziest day. I turned down lunch with her because of the deadlines. She knew what I had on my plate. And guess what she brought me after her lunch break? She brought me an Estee Lauder bag with two lipsticks, an eyeshadow and some puffy eye cream. A nice little cherry to top of my bland, messy, sticky milkshake of a day.

Nice.

Motherhood's off-button?

So, Eli is OK. He's recovering from the flu, but I still can't believe how that fever kicked his body into a colvusion. I hate that. And I'm glad I didn't have to witness it.

You know, I have to be honest when I say that something shifted within me that day. That feeling of being torn has been swirling around in my head and heart. And it's not going anywhere. I went to lunch with my co-worker, C, Friday and we talked about it. She doesn't have kids, so she doesn't fully understand, but still, she listened.

It's hard. It's really hard.

But, I have a great job--one that is sending me to New Orleans this month. I'll be in the heart of the French Quarter; I've never been and I'm excited. But, the excitement is sort of a temporary band aid. I still feel ... torn.

Can't get into that too much. You understand.

So, I'm sitting here in the Oaks Mall in the food court staring at the tiny laptop. Our internet is out at home right now. (Now, that's some real pain, lol.) And that's why I haven't been around too much. But, my house is complete chaos.

I swear I can't walk across the livingroom without being tackled by my (recovering) 3-year-old. Oh, he's perked right on up. With all the screaming and the tackling and the whining, I knew I had to leave so that I could work on the manuscript.

(Which, by the way, I am down to the wire on!)

And as I was packing my briefcase, my daughter asked if she could come.

"You don't understand," I said. "I will be working. Strictly working. No fun. No play. No Build-A-Bear. No shopping ..."

She wasn't discouraged. And so, I caved. She packed a little pink bag filled with crayons, paper, her DS, and well, here we are in a mad sea of orange and blue. It's kind of ironic to be in the middle of the gator-crazed crowd when I'm sitting here writing about Tebow.

But, I thought to myself a few moments ago (before I hopped on the blog), people probably think I'm the worst mom in the world. I'm staring at my laptop and barely speaking to my daughter, who happens to be staring off into space right now. Great.

I knew this wasn't going to quite work out. OK, good, she's drawing now.

And now, I have to get to work. But, I wanted to stop by for a few minutes while I had the chance. I think Naomi and I will have to hit up Chic-Fil-A for an ice-cream cone. Motherhood's off-button? Doesn't exist. (Even when you're on deadline.)

Torn

I was relieved when my co-worker bailed on me for lunch today. I really needed to sit and feel and think and write. Today, there is a dull ache in my heart.

Yesterday, that dull ache was a sharp pain. I was sitting at my desk (at work) when the phone rang. I was headed into a meeting that had been planned for weeks. I picked up, though, just seconds before I walked into the board room.

Hubby was on the other line telling me to relax before he even said anything. Don't ever do that to me. Tell me first. Tell me. And so, he did:

"Eli had a seizure and we're at the hospital." Eli is my 3-year-old.

I was quiet at first. The one thing I probably can not deal with is a seizure. You know, that just brought back memories of my sister, right before she died. She was in my livingroom when she had the first seizure--three weeks before she died. I witnessed her have many more in the following weeks--once in my car and again in my mother's house.

There is something that happens when you are a mom. You go into panic mode and you want to run to your child. Run! But, I could not. I had to, instead, sit through a meeting. Now, most moms will say: I would have left. Who cares about the meeting.

But, that is where the wisdom of having four children comes into play. I had to look at the cold, hard facts and I had to ignore my bleeding heart. Wisdom is hard because it halts panic mode and it doesn't allow you to simply move off of emotion.

Hubby was by his side. He was sleeping, and doctors were checking him out. Hubby promised me those three things. And, I had to trust him. "Please. Just stay at work; don't miss your meeting," he urged me. "I'm here. He's fine."

And so, I did. Until, you know, the meeting was over and then I hopped in the mom van and sped to Shands, where ... Eli was sleeping, hubby was by his side and doctors were checking him out. It was as hubby said it would be.

But, now, mommy was there. I rubbed his little back and whispered in his ear. He was knocked out--sleeping through a high fever. He laid there silently, engulfed in a set of white hospital sheets.

Not longer after, his fever had been reduced and hubby and I were walking out of the hospital to see his primary physician. I looked back and saw my hubby carrying little Eli, who was sleeping, draped in those white sheets that were almost touching the ground. That moment is probably seered in my memory forever--the precious act of fatherhood that I never witnessed, felt or heard as a child.

In that one moment, my heart was softened toward my husband.

Later that night, after the dust had settled, I found my husband sitting alone in a chair in the livingroom--his head down. "Are you OK?" I asked.

He was quiet for a moment and then, his voice cracking, he said "I thought he was dying in my arms. I thought he was going to die." (After watching him fall to the ground, he called an ambulance and drove behind them as Eli was transported to the hospital.)

I was quiet. Rubbing his back. "I don't ever want to see that again."

(Turns out that Eli has the flu. Oh, and the baby, he has an ear infection. Two-for-one, I guess. But, all is well. We're just feeling a little heavy today; that's all. I want to play mommy today; but I have my editor hat on. I'm torn.)

Not giving up yet ... ever.

You know, a few weeks ago, I had to remove one of my posts because I stepped on a few toes. And that annoyed me and made me want to rebel against my own blog.

How silly.

But, the truth is, I'm not going anywhere. I don't care who reads; who doesn't. I told myself that this blog was for me. And one day, maybe for my kids. I feel the need to get my journey down on paper, somewhere, somehow.

So, here I am. I'm actually at the gym. Just finished letting the gym kick my butt and here I am, relaxing at one of those little round tables outside of the smoothie stand. Yes, my four kids are in the day care ... for two hours (down to the minute!)

Hubby (the firefighter) is on a 24-hour shift tonight and, since I'm paying for this expensive gym membership (and kind of need to keep my sanity), I decided I'd use the last hour to blog and get on facebook. This post is really all-over-the-place random, which is just a reflection of the thoughts in my head at the moment.

Nothing too specific. Just feels good to be here.

Forgiveness. It hurts. For a minute.

My entire body aches today. I was convinced that I had somehow caught the flu--and then hubby reminded me how I spent three days last week in spin class. And the pain made sense.

So, remember I was writing about that book I was reading (am reading ... almost finished)? It's called Beauty for Ashes, by Joyce Meyer, and it is about finding emotional healing.

Well, I have been emotionally broken for so long that one day not too long ago, I knew it was time to pick up this book and let the healing begin. I quickly learned that the heaviest weight I have been shouldering is the weight of unforgiveness.

Where I thought I was shouldering the pain of my past, I was actually carrying the cumbersome weight of not allowing myself to forgive those who have hurt me. And the pain goes years and years back. And it has many, many layers.

So, when I began reading the book, I just prayed. I prayed that God would do whatever he wanted to do with me--with my pain, my hurt, my heaviness. Well, he did that. But, he (being His usual wise self) worked on me while I was asleep. You know, because I figure it was too much while I was awake.

Imagine a child who needs a shot. You know how they scream in horror? Well, that needle was my forgiveness. And I was that child. I needed the shot to make me better. But, I was too afriad of the pain that the shot would bring. Funny thing is, you know a shot only hurts for a brief moment. But, it is the fear of what is to come that actually causes the most torment.

Well, I have been tormented for a very long time. I'd have nightmares with such clarity that it was like I was reliving these horroible moments from my past. I'd wake up soaked with sweat and sometimes, I'd be crying; even sobbing.

I'd have these recurring dreams--about running from a man in the woods who was trying to rape me and hiding in a patch of poison ivy until day break, until I knew it was safe to come out (true story) and about living in a tent as a teen (true story) and about being abused. All true stories.

But, the thing about these dreams were that they were so hauntingly clear that it was like I was reliving the moments over again.

But, when I started reading this book, where there were these nightmares, I instead began to have these very clear dreams. And it was in the dreams where the healing began.

In one dream, I was trying desperately to get back to my high school. I had the chance to re-do my senior year. (In many dreams, I go back to a point in time where things went terribly wrong and I try to make them right; I try to re-do them).

I was waiting for this bus when, finally, it arrived. It was 10 a.m., and I knew I was already late. I got on the bus and I saw my old bus driver from middle school. She said "You are on the wrong bus."

And so I stepped off and began walking and then running towards the school. I needed to get there on time. Yet, I was running in the wrong direction. I was running towards that little "hood" where my family and I once lived.

I passed through the home of a single mother who was pregnant. "Help me," she said. "I cannot." I replied. "I have to get back there."

"Where?" I did not answer. I had to go.

The next apartment I walked through was ridden with squalor. There was a crack addict sitting on an old couch. "Help me," he said. "I can't," I replied. "I have to get back."

"Where? Where are you going?" I did not answer. Instead, I ran.

I was then standing in front of this bus stop, hoping that the bus would soon arrive, when I heard this voice. "Where are you going?"

"I am going to school. I have to get back there. I have to finish."

"The bus is not coming," He said.

I was so sad and I began to cry and sob and wail. "Child," He said. "You are not trying to get back to school. You are trying to get back to your past. You do not need to take this bus. You have somewhere else you need to be."

And at that moment, I was sitting in a church. It was a beautiful building filled with huge, open windows and there was breeze flowing through my hair. There was a woman sitting to the left of me. She was embracing me. Sitting so close.

I heard the voice again. I couldn't see Him, but He was there. He handed me a porcelain dove figurine and placed both of my hands around it so that I was embracing it. "Together, you two are going to do great things," He said about the woman sitting beside me.

"Who is she?"

"She is wisdom."

"The dove is Holy Spirit. He will guide you to forgiveness and wisdom--she will protect you on the journey."

And then, I woke up.

The Beautiful (Bandaged) People

So, lastnight, around 3 a.m., I felt someone watching me. I looked up and was startled and relieved at the same time. It was my 3-year-old.

"What ... do you want?" I was rather annoyed because, yeah, don't stand over me at 3 a.m while I am sleeping. I don't care who you are.

"I want mommy," he said and watched to see if he was getting the green light. At 3 years old, he knows how to manipulate the situation. "Awwww," I thought. And with that, he jumped in bed and curled up beside me beneath my huge down comforter.

With my 3-year-old., Mr. E, on one side and hubby on the other, I drifted back to sleep, feeling very safe and very loved. About an hour later, Mr. E is tossing and turning. There are toes in my face and at one point, he turned around and ... scraaaaaaaape.

Right across my face. He got me good. And I mean, he drew blood.

The next morning, I swore I'd never let Mr. E back in bed with me again as I stood before the mirror in horror. There was a bright red gash on my left cheek. It looked pretty bad but it felt worse. I could feel the pounding and pulsing of the small, dime-sized wound.

"Oh, perfect!" I yelled to hubby. "Look! Look at my face. What am I supposed to do? I can't put makeup over this. It will get all ... icky."

And so, I put my makeup on--around the small child-inflicted wound. And then I put some neosporin on it and thought "Ewww. I wouldn't want to look at me."

Feeling a little bad for my co-workers, I pulled out a pair of scissors and a regular-sized band-aid and I cut out an ever-so-out tiny band-aid that fit right over the spot. (Nursing school was good for something, afterall).

I got to work and emailed my fave co-worker, C. "OMG. I am not coming out for the entire day. I have a band-aid on my face!" She tried to make me feel better, via email, and when she saw me, she laughed hysterically.

"You are insaaaaaane," she blurted out. "I can barely see that!"

Whatever. I could feel people looking at me, just wondering: "Hmmmm ... why does she have a smurf-sized band-aid on her face?" And it was you know, a different color than my skin and all. It was just ... awful. I felt like I was that awkward girl in high school.

I kept my head (purposefully) buried in my work all day--only coming out for lunch. And when I did, C and I headed to the mall where we sat with our packed lunches at a little table for two. We always sit at the same spot. It is away from the crowd of people at the food court and just outside of Starbucks.

We don't spend money on mall food, and we get to get away from work for a good hour. It works.

So, about five minutes into lunch, we noticed this one chic. She was working at a certain shoe store in the mall. It is actually one of my favorite spots. She looked bored as the first woman wandered in and looked at a few pairs of shoes.

"That seems mean," I said to C. "She didn't even look at her."

Ms. Shoe Girl She was staring at a computer, apparently. "She's probably on Facebook" I said, laughing.

But, then we sat and watched and noticed ... a trend.

A cute college girl walks in and she is all about her. "Hi, how are you?" The next shopper is an older woman, not very fashionable ... and she gets the snub. The girl says nothing and doesn't even acknowledge her.

Again and again and again ... it happened. And it was so blatant. We could look at the person walking in the store and if they seemed fashionable (or beautiful), she'd make small talk. And if they didn't quite fit the "beautiful people" profile, they'd be totally ignored. Totally snubbed.

It was so ... bizarre. I mean, I guess I expect it in South Beach or something. But, in Gainesville? Where did this "mean girl" come from and why is she in my mall? That's how I was feeling.

"Well, we've been talking about my ugly band-aid all.day.long. And now, here's the test," I said to C.

"What? What are you going to do?"

"I am going to find out if I make her list or not. Will the hideous band-aid keep me off the list? Will she say hello? Or will she snub ... us?"

"No, no, no," she said. "You are crazy. She's going to ... I don't know what she's going to do."

"Are you scared of her?" I replied. "Are you scared that she is going to make or break our confidence?" At this point, I was being over-the-top silly.

And so, as I finished the last bite of my homely little sandwich--definitely not a glamourous lunch, I picked up my purse and strutted right into the store ... with C reluctantly right by my side.

And you know what Ms. Shoe Girl did?

Well, I can't give it away. I'll let you choose the ending.

(Okay, maybe I'll tell you how the story ends ...next post.)

Did someone just say 'Prince?'

I am sitting here, right now, in the middle of the gym with my tiny laptop at my finger tips. I am starting to feel sticky now after a 26-mile cycle class. Those 26 miles were a total accident. I had no idea I'd be hitting it that hard. My goals was do do three miles today--on the treadmill.

Instead, I walked by a small crowd of eager women--waiting for the next cycle class; and I thought, "Hmm ... that's got to be at least three miles. I'm in."

(I have exactly 11m inutes left until I have to get my four kids for childcare, so I'm making this rather quick.)

So, about five minutes into class, I was (admittedly) a little annoyed with Ms. Instructor. Why is the music so low? I kept thinking. I mean, cycle class usually means a hard-and fast-workout with hard-and loud-music.

Instead, we had a hard-and-fast workout with hard-and-low music. (Who does that? And why?) But, I thought, I can't be the obnoxious new girl with a list of demands. (Okay, just one.) So, I said nothing. Until, I just needed the music. I needed it.

It's a part of the experience. And so, I turned to my sweaty neigbhor and asked her, "Do you think the music needs to be a little louder?" "Yes!" she quickly replied.

I realized that everyone was probably thinking the same thing, so I said what was on my mind. "Can we crank the music up a notch?"

"Oh, you want it louder?"

Ummm ... yeah.

And she cranked it up, by exactly one notch. Yes, just one.

I figured out that I'd probably need to plan my classes around instructors. I want the loud-music lady--whoever that happens to be.

Sometime towards the end of class, we had one last 'round' to go; and Ms. Instructor said "Who wants what? Prince? bleh-bleh-bleh?"

Okay, I couldn't really understand what she had just said. And so, I quickly blurted out--in much excitement: "Prince!"

When what she had actually just asked the class was: "Who wants what? Sprints? Jumps?"

"What? Sprints? Is that what you what?"

"Yes. Um, Sprints." (Yes, that is exactly what I just said. Prince who?)

And so we ended the class with some low-volume Ozzy instead of some hot, loud Prince.

Oh well, I did 26 miles--without Prince; and with Sprints. Yeah, something like that.

Oh, look, I have three minutes left to pick up the kiddos. See you in about three days, unless something fascinating happens in my life.

Old, dirt road

So, yesterday was wild at work. I mean, as an editor, I have times when things are pretty cool and laid back, when the deadlines are rather forgiving. And then, I have months like July--when I have four deadlines in four days. (In a normal month, we have a total of four deadlines on average.)

I had so much work in front of me that I barely had time to get up to make the seven-second walk to the bathroom. And finally, when it was all over with for the day, I quietly packed up my things and headed for the door.

There was this heaviness. I sighed. Sometimes, when I get really busy, I forget that I ever had a sister. Is that mean? And then reality snaps me right back into place. You know, like on the drive home, when I think about how nice it would be to call her ... just to tell her about my day.

(I love words on paper, because I never have to apologize for my tears in mid-sentence.)

At the first redlight, I texted hubby. "I really need a date tonight."

I just needed him to save me for a moment. I needed him to take care of me. I needed him to tell me that, you know, I'm pretty and all that stuff we love to hear. It was only Monday, but I needed our Friday date.

When he made it home from his 12-hour shift at the hospital, he simply asked me to get ready. And to choose any place. But, I was too drained to even do that. "Your choice tonight. Take the lead. I'm too tired to lead anything. Even food."

And so, (since we now live in Jonesville--a tiny little town sandwiched between Gainesville, a college town; and Newberry, the little country town where I grew up) he decided to venture into Newberry. On any normal date night, we'd have taken a right into Gainesville.

But, it was Monday and we were both tired. So, we decided we'd take the left into Newberry. Funny, I rarely venture into the little town, that is rich with my childhood memories. I think that is the reason why I usually ignore what is to the left of me.

It reminds me too much of my sister; of our childhoods.

"Turn here," I said to hubby before we made it to the main road. "This is a short cut. It will take you right into Newberry."

I hadn't even thought much about it, but as soon as he turned, I realized what I had just done. This little road leads right to my old neighborhood and further down, I knew the little, old dirt road would be coming up.

Only, it had been paved sometime since my childhood.

"We used to walk down this road when we were kids," I said to hubby. "And we used to make that left and we would just walk and play. We had nothing better to do."

I remember the days distinctly--almost as if I could reach out and touch the blue sky that we peered up at, together, about 20 years ago. And the old little shack, it was still there, looking as if it would fall if the wind even hinted at blowing. Everything looked the same--except for the paved road.

We were almost to the end of the once-dirt road when I recognized an old landmark from my childhood.

"A girl from highschool died right there," I said, as we passed a huge Oak tree whose body leaned just a little into the road. Sometime while I was in highschool, a girl had run smack into that tree while she was driving. And she died instantly. Or so it was told to me.

The memories were bitter.

About 10 minutes later, hubby and I were sitting down at one of my favorite places to eat. (Although, I don't frequent it, you know, because it's in Newberry.) I pulled out the laptop and we began working on something when I stopped.

My hands were frozen at the keyboard. I was sitting in the middle of this little country diner, where, you know, Garth Brooks should be playing overhead. Instead, the song came on. I call it our song. We played it at her funeral and I always, always think of her (and usually cry) when I hear it. It was Celine instead of Garth on this Monday night.

"For all those times you stood by me.
For all the truth you made me see.
For all the joy you brought to my life.
For all the wrongs that you made right.
For every dream you made come true.
For all the love I found in you.
I'll be forever thankful baby."

I was gone for a moment--imagining those summers in Newberry, when we'd explore that old dirt road. And it really stung. I just wished with everything in me that it had turned out differently ... that we'd be eating at the little barbecue joint in Newberry with our children; listening to this song together, humming the words while looking over the little paper menus.

But, I can never get those summers back. Things have changed; and I have no control over any of it. The old dirt road that we used to walk and ride bikes and skip down, it's gone too.

Our cute little waitress was ready to take our order just as the song was winding down. My face was hot and my eyes, a bit teary. But, I wasn't crying. And so I ordered the chicken tenders with a side of mac and cheese.

And I realized that one day, I'll be begging to have these very moments--in a quiet little diner with hubby--back. And so, just as I savored the mac-and-cheese, I savored the moment. Even though it hurt to realize that she was gone.

On the way home, I decided to take the long way back. I don't think I want to travel down the once-dirt road ever again. Goodbye, old friend. You were good to me--for a time.

"We can go there and draw our initials in a heart on the table" ...

"We can go there and draw our initials in a heart on the table, lol"

... was the text message I sent to hubby just before lunch. He and I had been going back and forth about where we could meet up for a lunch date.

Just outside, the sky looked heavy and dark and solemn. But, I felt light and happy and joyous. I was feeling almost giddy. The thought of my hubby picking me up in the front of the building--as if he were my chauffeur, ready to sweep me off of my feet and away for an all-too brief lunch hour--swirled around in my mind.

The hour would be ours. We had, at the last minute, decided to go to Macaroni Grille. I guess the initials-and-heart thing did it for him. He laughed--via text--and told me he would be there in 10 minutes.

We barely escaped the rain and walked in hand-in-hand into the chilly restaurant--whose tables are all draped with paper table clothes and sitting on them--crayons for those who care to doodle during dinner.

I eyed the four crayons on the table as we were seated. And as the waitress babbled on about menu selections, I picked up a red crayon and scribbled ... MR + SR. I encircled the four letters with a giant heart and sipped on my cold water. I was really happy; truly savoring the moment--when something happened. I said something about somethng and he gave me a look. I had spoken without thinking much about exactly what he had been dealing with since we almost parted ways not too long ago.

And, in a split second, the mood shifted. He was angry and hurt; I could read his expression. And I was ... annoyed. My whirlwhind lunch date had just taken a turn for the worse. Things were quiet for the next few minutes and part of me--the tantrum-throwing baby part of me--wanted to pick up the black crayon and scribble the heart away.

(Well, if he wants to pout, I can do the same.)

Instead, the conversation moved on to the dull and practical--the bills and the kids and the day care ... and the hair in the complimentary bread ... and the waitress who was MIA.

Ugh. When did this happen? What happened to my chauffeur and my romance and "the hour that belonged to us"? It had been whisked away just as the bread with the strand of hair had been.

After lunch, I decided that it wasn't a total loss. "Wanna walk around the mall?" I asked, half pleading. "I guess," he replied. I wanted to show him--without really showing him--the ring that I want to get him for the vow-renewal ceremony. We stepped into a jewelry store when ... wouldn't you know it?

There she was.

It was the girl; my former friend who had taken the idea that I shared with her confidentially and used it for her own gain. A smack in the face of friendship. Man, that still hurts to write it. Hubby said hello; and I said nothing. I just wanted to walk by her and pull her hair. Just one good tug. That's all.

On our way out the mall, I had to ask hubby: "So, if I wanted to pull her hair, does that mean that I haven't forgiven her?" ("I'm afraid not.")

Forgiveness is such a funky thing. I've said it with my mouth that I have forgiven her for betraying me. But, my heart is a bit behind my mouth. I must have a slow heart that simply doesn't want to let go.

I kept thinking about it and I was asking God: How do I forgive her? I've said I have forgiven her; but I feel like I really hate her for what she did to me. He had an answer for me, but I'd have to wait about five hours for it. And it came in the most simple, most innocent, most precious form: It came in the form of my toddler and baby.

You know, they had been tugging at me since I had picked them up from day care. I was giving, giving, giving, giving ... and finally, I crashed. Right there on the living room floor. They had eaten, they had baths and since we haven't gotten our couch yet, I took one look at the empty living room floor and accepted the invitation to lay down.

I put on a movie for the kids and as soon as my head hit the ground, the toddler asked "You cold mommy?" (Yes.) He waddled into my bedroom and grabbed my pillow and blanket and brought them to me. And, following his lead, the 1-year-old grabbed--in spurts--the following:

My favorite silk Victoria's Secret shorts; a pen; a pair of jeans; a sock; a stuffed animal and laid each one of them on top of me. Oh, the mess! The mess! He was pulling everything he could find out of my room and placing them on top of me.

But, you know what I did? I let go. I didn't care about the mess. It was rather adorable. When I felt like I had nothing left to give, they gave to me--in their own way. And God showed it to me clearly: this is how you forgive. You let go, even in the midst of the mess.

(So, you mean, I don't wait until things are cleaned up and looking nice to let go; to forgive? I don't wait to heal and to feel better before I forgive?)

No. You let go in the midst of the mess. And there, you will find forgiveness. (God, can I still pull her hair? Just once?) Um. No. It's time to let go. In the midst of the mess.

McDonald's blue, boring french fries

So, on Saturday, my hubby and four children ended up at--of all places--at McDonald's in Lake City. The irony of this is that:

1) I sort of dread McDonald's, and I (on a normal day) cringe at the thought of being the stereotypical American whose kids are chomping on french fries in the back of the soccer-mom minivan; and
2) Lake City is not my favorite place. I'm more of a breezy, by-the beach, St. Augustine girl.

So, you know what happened, right? The baby and toddler were screaming and my first thought: Pull this minivan over so that we can stuff some french fries in their mouths. (Did someone just say stereotype?)

I dragged the two little ones inside with me. I kind of hung my head in shame. "Ugh," I muttered to myself. "I hate this place. One thing. We are just getting one thing: greasy, nasty french fries."

Just moments later and with hot, salty, golden, yummy, waist-expanding fries in hand, we were headed out of the door, when ...

I noticed this couple. And the reason I really noticed was because the young woman was looking dead at me. I had seen this look before, especially in South Carolina. You get to the point where you know the look. You don't even have to read their lips. You can read their minds.

The plump, bleach-blond, twenty-something girl with a little too much eyeliner whispered something to her man, who was sitting right across from her. And he turned around to look at me; and then my children and he smirked. And then he laughed. An audible laugh. All while looking in our direction.

OMG.

I looked around the place and I quickly realized that perhaps my colorful family was a little less common (or a little less accepted) in these parts. My thought: This idiot just laughed at me and my babies. I walked by him, pulled my shades off of my face and took a good look:

He was wearing his huge belt buckle and the boots and oh, and the shirt with the rebel flag on it. Yada yada yada. I guess this was the day for stereotypes. I wanted so badly to say to him: "You stupid, ignorant idiot. Don't you know that your president is bi-racial?"

I marched out to the mom-van and with a disgusted look on my face, said "Okay, everyone out of the van. You too, hubby." (Hubby's expression: Oh no, what is she talking about now? She was only in there for five minutes. Probably less than that.)

"Um, are you kidding me?!" I said to hubby. "Did I just get a "look" because my children are bi-racial? Come on, honey, I want to really give him something to talk about. Not only does that white woman have two brown babies. She has four! Oh, and she is married to a black man. Come on, let's blow his mind today!"

But, I laughed it off. "You know, I am just messing with you," I told hubby, who was now giving me the deer-in-headlights look. "I just think it would be great to march back in there with four kids--and you--on my arm."

You know, it's a good thing that I am not God. Because I wouldn't hurt the poor guy. I'd give him just what he wanted: a world filled with one color. His sky, his dirt, his toothpaste, his car, his jeans, his skin ... would all be blue.

And his fireworks ... they'd all be blue. Just like his hamburgers and hotdogs would be. And guess what, his McDonald's french fries ... they'd be the same boring blue, too! And then, maybe he'd realize how stupid the whole thing really is. He wouldn't be laughing at my world. No, he'd be begging to get a glimpse of my beautiful, colorful sky filled with amazingly, colorful fireworks.

By the way, here's a few snapshots from my, um, rather colorful weekend.

Sparklers and S'mores around the bonfire. It couldn't have been better.

We had baby E's third birthday party on the Fourth of July. I wonder when he'll figure out that the fireworks are not all for him?

Don't tell my hubby!

This post is secretly dedicated to my hubby. (Ooh la la!)

Since he doesn't get on facebook (and since I have banned him from the blog for six weeks), this will be safe with you, right?

So, many of you know that the past few years (since my hubby and I uprooted our family and moved to South Carolina and smack-dab in the middle of turmoil), we've had a really rough time.
We were hanging on, you know. But, you can only do that for so long. And you can only layer so many things before there is no more room to push them down.

That was me. I had so many layers: my sister's untimely death; bad relationships with men; pain from the past. I mean, I could go on and on and on--just as the layers did. I got to a point where I couldn't quite figure out how to remove the layers and so, instead, I numbed myself. I didn't want to feel them. They were too heavy and I was too fragile.

If I couldn't remove them, I certainly did not want to feel them. And so, I reached out for whatever was around me ... and those things, while a good temporary anesthetic, actually created additional layers.

Today, I find myself finally chipping away at the layers. God is revealing something so beautiful beneath the build-up of the many different layers. But, this time it's different, because I am feeling it. And it hurts and I hate it at times and I've cried more than I have in a long time. Just because I feel it.

I feel her gone, but with a clarity I didn't really have before. I feel the pain that I have caused in my own marriage. And I feel the bitterness and anger that I have allowed to build up in my life during the past few years. But, that pain is also somewhat peaceful. Because I know it is a cleansing, healing, powerful pain.

Pain can be powerful.

So, I said all of that to say this: I have decided to renew my vows with my husband. But, here is the crazy part: he knows nothing about it. It's going to be a surprise. Yes, as in he is going to walk in and bam: let the renewal of the vows begin.

I honestly have no idea how he's going to react. He might run, lol. He might cry; He might blush. Okay, he won't do that because you know, he's a little too dark for that, heh.

But, I am determined to start over; and to do it right. I am determined to fight for what is mine; for this amazing gift that God has laid before me. But, you know, I am also determined to make it really complicated, because that is what I do.

So, can you help?

I don't know what the heck I am doing. I'll actually incorporate any ideas I get into this ceremony, which is going to turn into a dream date. After the ceremony, I am going to whisk him away. I don't have the details ironed out in my head yet. But, I have about six weeks to make it all happen.

Again: Me=complicated.

But, what is a dream date for a man? How can I make this special for him? Any suggestions? At all? Any suggestions for the renewal of the vows ceremony? Come on, give me something to work with.

I know there are, like, 11 people who read this blog. Heh. I like to amuse myself with that number. For those of you who don't know, I once had about 500 followers on my old blog. Yeah, those were good times.

Cinderella's little black dress

Forget the glass slipper that fits just right. This past weekend, I got the little black dress that fit just right. Okay, it wasn't black. I had to write that just for affect. But, it fit just right; and just in time for me to go to "the ball," as my daughter and I called it.

If you read the last post, you know that I had signed myself up to help clean my church on Saturdays. I mean, I'm just a crazy woman who hates to clean. So, I decided that it would probably really mean a lot to God if I did the one thing that I absolutely despise. Yeah, me and God are cool like that.

My cleaning day, however, just happened to fall on the day of the married couples' black-tie event (the ball.) And since I had to give my ticket away in the name of being dressless, I decided to embrace the Cinderella theme.

Although in my mind, it meant that I would be on my knees scrubbing floors. And even though it was a catchy blog title, it kind of ended there. There really was no way to romanticize it.

I was kind of heartbroken over the whole thing. My life is not a cartoon, where Fairy Godmother shows up and waves a wand. If I had one of those, I'd ask her to wave a toilet-scrubbing wand.

Speaking of toilets, on Saturday morning, I found out that I would be cleaning two things and there would be no Fairy Godmother to wave a toilet wand. I would be cleaning bathrooms--as in the mens and womens bathrooms. That's not two things; that's like a whole bunch of things in two different rooms.

And the men's bathroom--Yuck. Ick. Men are, you know, stinky and stuff. And they pee in those icky stalls.

I promised myself I would not pout about cleaning or about missing the ball. I honestly couldn't believe how it had worked itself out. I'd be cleaning bathrooms instead of getting ready for the ball.

Or, would I?

Well, sometime around noon, hubby handed me a ticket and some cash. "This is for you," he said. "And this is for your dress."

"Is it enough?" he asked as he handed me three crisp twenty-dollar bills.

"Oh, are you serious?! This is more than enough!"

I was beyond thrilled. I'd be going to the ball, afterall, and I had money for a new dress. And oh yeah, I still had that little chore on my to-do list. I still had the cleaning of the bathrooms to do. So, at 2 sharp, my daughter and I headed to the church, where we bumped into a little friend of hers.

His father was apparently setting up for the big ball, and he wanted to help. "Oh, I have something that you guys can do!" I said, just before handing the toilet brushes over. "You have to make sure they are crystal clean."

It took us 30 minutes to clean everything. And to think, I had my own version of the Fairy Godmother toilet-cleaning wands. Nice.

A few hours later and I had stepped out of a super-hot shower and into a beautiful dress that fit just right. And a few hours after that, hubby was feeding me chocolate-covered strawberries under the stars. (The entire room was decked out for our theme, "A Night Under the Stars.")

With rose in hand, he walked me out to the car that night, and I truly felt like Cinderella with her Prince Charming.

Sidenote: I just want some props for calling it in my last post. I said that by story's end, Cinderella gets her little black dress. Although, I figured that would come a few weeks down the road. I really had no idea.

Cinderella's cool with me.

Lastnight, hubby and I did something really bad.

We made a budget. Now, he delighted in it. But I was in pain during the entire process. We put our bills on paper, and even though I make a decent living, there was a defecit. Ever since he went away for fire school and I started doing the finances, we got off track in a huge way. It was time to get on track ... but for me, what awful timing.

I kept crossing things off of our mean dry-erase board--things that I could go without so that we weren't in the red. But, what really hurt me, was when I got to the line that read: Gala (Little Black Dress.)

So, our church is throwing this black-tie event for married couples and this would have been the first real date for hubby and I in ages. I had the plan for weeks and in my plan, the dress would be my first purchase on pay day. And then I would get the nails done. And then the eyebrows. And maybe even the hair.

However, in hubby's more-balanced world, the little black dress was last on the list. And it quickly became a victim of the budget. I finally scratched it off the board--with almost-tears in my eyes. However, we had already purchased our ticket for $75 and so in hubby's mind: "You have a million things in that closet to wear. Pick one."

Um, no. All of my clothes are a few sizes too small since I lost the baby weight. I have a few pairs of slamming jeans that fit just right. But, nothing worthy of a black-tie affair. It came down to: If I couldn't buy the little black dress, I wouldn't be going.

He was feeling my pain, I think. At work, I needed a pair of those slamming jeans so that I could change after work. And he stopped studying to wash and bring them me. I was tickled pink when I saw that he didn't know which pair was my favorite, so he brought two pairs.

Tonight I was at church when I saw my favorite usher. I love him because he is all grilled up and so on fire for God. (Interpretation: he has a gold grill in his mouth and guess what? He still loves God, lol.) I call his wife Janet, because she looks just like Janet Jackson--but she is about 9 months pregnant. So, we'll call them Usher and Janet.

Hubby had bumped into Usher one night and asked if he and Janet would be going to the gala. He shrugged it off, explaining that, you know, the timing wasn't right for them. (Interpretation: funds were low.)

So, tonight, I kept seeing him at church and thinking, he should really have this ticket for Janet. But, you know, there was that selfish part of me that wanted to be spoiled. I wanted that night of dancing and dinner--even if I had to make it happen. I wanted that little black dress--even if it meant being irresponsible with the money.

I just ... wanted it so bad ... that when I handed my ticket over to Usher, I didn't want to let go.

He had the hugest grilled-up smile and that just made my heart leap. The irony of the whole thing is that I signed up to help clean the church on Saturdays. You know, because I am a crazy woman who hates cleaning in the first place and I love to make myself crazy. So, I'll be cleaning for this event that I won't even get to go to.

On the quiet drive home (two babies asleep in their car seats), I thought you know, who cares if I don't get to go to the ball. I have my prince charming who will stop what he's doing to bring me my favorite pair of jeans. And Janet will get her one last night of fun before giving birth to her first child.

And I will be doing what I hate: I will be cleaning. But, I promise I'll be doing it with a smile on myself. Afterall, Cinderella's always been cool with me. Yeah, I'm embracing the Cinderella theme on Friday night.

And you know what that means? I'll get my little black dress by story's end.

Part 2: The Web spite

I don't even like being here--in this place--where I am writing about "the Web spite", as one of my friends and I have come to know it. I just want it to go away. It is the scummy boyfriend who pops up after a few years ... the one that you are really, really over with. You know, the one you just need to go away. Forever.

You could never, ever see him again ... and you'd be fine with it.

That is the feeling I get when I think about what this girl has done to me--like I just want to hop in a hot shower and just scrub myself clean. Betrayal is dirty, which is why I need to comletely wash myself clean of this person, this Web spite, this situation.

After this, I'm done. I don't want to think about it, write about it, scream about it. I'm done feeling dirty over something dirty that was done to me.

So, regarding the story I hired M to write. (And if you are lost, read my previous post.) Her lead (her first paragraph of the story she wrote for me) was pretty much copy-and-pasted off of a Web site. I told her this was, um, something we like to call plagiarism in the journalism field. She emailed me back--demanding payment.

I got the first email on a Friday. I was at work, on my lunch break, with my co-worker, C. I looked down at my phone and saw the first line of the first email. "I am not surprised that you ..."

"Oh no!" I said over a hot chic-fil-a sandwich. "I can't read this. It's going to be bad. She plays dirty." I handed C the phone. She read the email and kind of shrugged at it. "Well, she wants to be paid for a plagiarized piece, but other than that, not too bad."

I had just finished my delightful little sandwich when my phone vibrated. I had another email. It was from her. "Also" was the subject line.

"Oh man. C, read this and please, just tell me if I can read it."

She held the phone in front of her and within seconds, her eyes said it all. She looked worried, frustrated ... appauled. And she had one thing to say:

"Suzy, this girl is NOT ... and NEVER WAS your friend." And she sat silently for a moment. "I want you to erase this right now."

"You better give me bullet points at least," I begged. "I have to at least know what it is about. Come on, dish."

After having tossed my phone to the side--as if it had been tainted by the message glaring upon its screen--she held it in her hands and began to read. But, then she stopped.

"All I can tell you is that think about every dark secret you have ever told this girl. And I mean, everything. She basically spells it all out in detail. She says you are living a lie and that she has been holding her tongue for years. She uses all of the stuff you confided in her about ... to attack you. To rip you to pieces"

And then she gave me the bullet points--that felt like bullets piercing my heart. "She went there?! What? But, how could I be living a lie? She knows what I went through after my sister died and how that messed me up. And how I acted out after that. And how much it hurt me that I cried until I could cry no more."

"She says it was all an excuse so you could do the things you did."

"An excuse!?" I was so angry--because you know, she was one of the only people who knew about "the stuff." "An excuse?! Oh, just let me run into this girl and I will show her excuse!"

I went through all of the emotions in a span of a few minutes and then I pulled it together. That night, I let hubby read the email. She attacks me. She attacks him. She attacks our marriage. She attacks everything that I stand for. She calls me a hypocrite and says that I am living a lie. She holds some really deep stuff over my head. She wanted me to be scared of the secrets that she knew about.

Little did she know, hubby knew everything.

"Everything she said that you are, she just did to you in this email," he said with his head down. "It's just ... really bad, Suzy. Really bad."

And at that point, I decided to block her from my email account. I felt so tainted, so betrayed and I refused to let this girl do this to me--ever again. That night, I sent her an email telling her, basically, that she had nothing on me.

And that I was more proud than ever about the colorful story I have. "I choose to be naked and not ashamed because of who my father God is," I told her. In short, I messed up bad, but God is going to use my mistakes one day--so that I can help other women.

You know, I simply refuse to be ashamed of anything. This girl has nothing on me--except for a duplicated idea for a Web site. There are no secrets. And you know what? I am embracing every ounce of my story. I have nothing to hide. One day, I'll proudly tell it all--when the timing is right.

For now, I love to think about the last line of her email that says "I really hope you seek help."

Honey, let me tell you about help. It is what I like to call "the block." You have been blocked. And I say that with a smug smile on my face.

(And since I know you are just dying to see the Web spite that I speak of, have fun: it's at momshare dot org. I am personally banned from ever looking at it again--you know, for my sanity.)

Part 1: The Betrayal

I was prepared to do my birthday post, but something else was weighing heavily on my heart. And I knew I had to blog it. I blog what comes to mind, and this has not left me.

So, it all started for me about two years ago, when God placed a clear vision on my heart for moms. I knew that I knew that I knew that I was supposed to start this Web site. I knew what I was going to name it (momgive.com) and to my surprise, the domain was available.

But, I prayed. I did not buy the domain until I knew that I was supposed to. If it was there six months down the road, I'd buy it. And so, I sat and I prayed and I hoped that this was meant to be.

Six months later, the domain was still for sale. And for $9.99, I bought it. That was in early 2008. So, I had the domain for a few months when I got a call from a very, very dear friend of mine. I had been in her wedding--that is how dear. "God told me to start a Web site with you, Suzy," she told me.

"What kind of Web site?" I asked her.

And her vision had something to do with "mom to mom." So, moms connecting to other moms and she wanted to include a husband's perspective. But, this had been done a million times over. And so, this is where I made my biggest mistake.

Instead of praying about it and seeking hubby's advice, I got so excited that I told her all about momgive. She was clearly excited about the vision and at that point, I told her that she could be a part of what I was doing.

A few months down the road, and my vision was being turned into something else. Our ideas for design clashed. She wanted angel wings and hearts on the Web site. I wanted professional, modern. It was at this point, that I had to remind her that I was the visionary and that I would have the final say about the final product.

That didn't sit well, and as a result, she opted to walk away. If she couldn't be my 50:50 partner, then she didn't want to do it. My bad for not setting really clear boundaries from the beginning. She felt like I had abandoned her. I apologized to her, saying that "If I hurt you, those were never my intentions, but God has given me this vision and I have to protect it."

Fastforward six months and I am on the phone with her discussing a possible freelance assignment that I had offered her. "I don't want you being mad and finding out from someone else," she said. "But, I started a Web site."

Me: "That's awesome! I always knew you would start your own site. What's it called?"

Her: "momshare"

Silence and um, I wasn't really sure what to say. I didn't really say much and hurriedly hung up with her so that I could check out said Web site. And when I pulled it up, I was dumbfounded.

Had she just taken everything I told her about and ... gulp ... duplicated it? What? Are you serious? Who does that?! I tried. I tried so hard. I even sent her an email saying that the Web site was behind me and that I wouldn't let it affect our friendship.

But, a few days later, I realized the depth of the betrayal that was right in front of my face. And so I emailed her and told her that it wasn't sitting well with me. "How is this any different than the idea I shared with you?" I wanted, I needed an explanation.

Her response stung. "As you recall," she wrote. "This was my idea."

At that point, I needed her to tell me in person. I needed to hear this from her mouth and so I called. "This was my idea, Suzy, and you are going to have to deal with it," she said.

"What?!" I felt like I could barely breathe. "Don't you remember that hour-long conversation when I told you in detail about my vision? Don't you remember when I had you over for dinner and -- in front of my husband -- we talked about how you could come on board with me. And he asked you why you wanted to be a part of this?"

"And I bought the domain in 2008. You bought yours, apparently, in 2009. What? How? I mean, I have the proof. I am not crazy!"

But, she was making me feel like I was. I felt like I was in the midst of a really bad 90s lifetime movie. Are you going to steal my kids next?

"Suzy, if you can't deal with this being my idea, then I don't have time for this phone call."

Me: "You. little." CLICK.

Yep. I hung up before I let anything slip out of my more-than-angry mouth. I mean,had she really done this? I pored over the words on her Web site and it made me even more angry. She talked about God giving her this vision and she talked about people jumping in (and out) of the project.

Hubby caught me one day staring at her Web site and with tears streaming down my face, I shouted--between sobs--to him. "That's me! She's talking about me. I am the parenthesis in this sentence! How. could. she?! TELL ME RIGHT NOW. TELL ME HOW!"

I was beyond angry. I was seeing red. I remember picking up this cup that held all of my pens and just throwing it against the wall. He tried to hold me and I screamed for him to get away. "JUST WHY. WHY WOULD SHE DO THIS TO ME?"

Well, a few days later, I received an email from her. She had just turned in her freelance assignment that I had hired her to do. And it was like ...

It never happened.

"Please let me know what you think and if I need to edit this piece in any way. And, by the way, when do you need my headshot?"

--TO BE CONTINUED.

(In my standard three days. There's too much to put it in one blog. It only got worse before I had to block her email address from my email account. Oh, the drama. Thank God, it's over now. But, I still shutter when I think of "the email." Yes, as I have come to call it "the email." Please, prepare yourself for it. It was, to date, the worst email I have ever received from anyone. Ever.)

The Sound of Defeat: Who's Laughing Now?

I'm smiling today.

It feels so good to have an authentic, from-deep-down-inside smile on my face. It's like my heart is smiling, and my face can't conceal it.

Two months ago, my husband and I had walked out of a marriage counselor's office. The decision had been made to get a divorce. She advised us that it didn't seem like either one of us really wanted the marriage. And so, she thought we should get the divorce.

We--both exhausted from the fights, confusion and anger--agreed.

I really didn't want to agree. But, I was too tired to fight. The pain of the past had consumed my heart. So, in my mind, it was time to throw in the towel. Why fight a losing battle?

We had never been at a point this low in our marriage. One day, I'll be able to write about it, but right now, it's still too fresh and because I am thinking of hubby, I must hold back.(But, when I do write it, it's going to be so good!)

So, the decision had been made. And on a muggy Saturday afternoon, we walked out of that counselor's office and drove home together. I remember feeling disgusting. I was sweating and crying. The tears and the sweat had mixed together and there I was--a sloppy, filthy mess. The stains of mascara said what I couldn't, between the silent sobs.

It was over.

My shirt was stained. My eyes were swollen. And while I was silently sobbing, he was simply silent. He was as still as a statue. Not crying. Not talking. Not moving. (But, ofcourse, even though I could barely see out of my sunglasses, I refused to let him drive my car.)

That was the sound of defeat--my sobs and his silence. I was so mad. I felt like it was mocking me. Laughing at me. Defeat: "See what you did? You messed everything up. How does it feel? He doesn't want you anymore."

Those were words from my childhood. They had been buried under all of the layers and there were so many layers, that I could no longer quiet the pain. They were coming up. No matter what.

That night, I received an email with a list of divorce lawyers and I knew that this was it.

"Good. Do what my father did to me. Do it! Leave me!" I refused to be a quiet bystander. He was agreeing to leave me--like so many others had. And that meant that he was my enemy.

However.

Hubby wandered into this church one day--hoping to get some information about their day care. We lived within walking distance of this church but had never paid much attention. I'd like to say that hubby had an over-the-top spiritual experience. But, he did not.

Instead, someone simply reached out a hand--an outstretcheed hand reaching out to a weary hand. It was the pastor--a young guy, about my hubby's age. They seemed to really connect, and he was reaching out.

Hubby went to church for the next month. Meanwhile, I was lashing out. We were basically destroying each other and I am really good at being really angry. I stood my ground. I refused to go to that church. "Oh, please, they are all going to judge me" I screamed at him one day. "Have fun at your little church!"

But one day, God spoke to me. (Oh, man, I wish I had time to write all of this.) He used someone who I was interviewing for the book I am writing and He spoke so clearly. At that point, I began to break.

I realized that I was so angry and bitter and hurt that I had walked away from God a long time ago--sometime after my sister died and sometime before we moved back to Florida from South Carolina.

I was completely numb. And I preferred it that way.

But, God was speaking to me. And so I decided that if He could speak to this sloppy mess of a woman, that I could go to church just once. I snuck into church one Sunday morning in April, and I sat in the very last row.

With my head down, I simply said to God: "Okay, you know what I need and if this pastor talks about healing, I'll stay. Because, God, I hurt too much to go on like this."

I think that the fifth word that came out of his mouth was "healing." And at that very moment, I knew that I would never turn back. I felt like I was a little girl lost in a shopping mall. When she finally sees daddy, she doesn't stroll over to him. She runs.

And that is what I did. I ran to Him like never before and it was like, He knew what I needed. He knew how to respond. And, through a series of people and prayers, He was embracing me.

So today, there is this smile on my face. The tears that I have cried during the last month have been tears of utter disbelief at how amazing God is.

Today, it feels good to have an authentic smile on my face. And it feels so good to hear the sound of laughter replacing the sound of defeat.

So, to defeat, I say: Who's laughing now?

Publix balloons for my sis

I took my girls to Publix today for a few groceries. We're settling in the new place and the refrigerator was empty, so we took the scenic drive to our new Publix, and I felt like I was in another world.

I was so comfortable in my old Publix. You know, it was my Publix. But, the new Publix is growing on me. After we loaded the cart with some groceries, the bagger asked the girls if they wanted balloons.

I admit it: I sort of rolled my eyes. The 2-year-old is going to scream and want his own balloon when we get home. And then the balloons are going to sit in their bedroom until they deflate ... and if you're a mom, you feel me.

As we pulled out of the parking lot, I decided to make a right turn instead of a left. The left turn takes us home; and the right turn takes us to my sister's grave. "You want to give your mom a balloon?" I asked my niece.

She smiled and nodded her head. She never said a word, but the smile told me what I needed to know.

And so, we took my sister the Publix balloons. I stood back at the van and let the girls just go. I took a few shots. I thought it was such a beautiful moment. And it was peaceful--the first peaceful moment I've had at her grave.

I remember how she and I used to split Publix subs--always turkey with muenster cheese. Aww, I miss those moments with her.

Tiny food, tiny laptop, tiny (um) makeup

When I'm stressed, I don't eat. Which can be good ... and bad. Stress in my life can mean that my skinny jeans will fit just right, but it also means that I am not taking care of myself.

About a month ago, my husband made me tell him what I had eaten in "the last three days." And as I really thought about it, I kind of cringed and said: "Well, I remember having a bowl of cereal today, and that day we went to the Mexican place, I ate those, um, two bites of rice and then I think I ate a bite of a sandwich the other day."

I mean, that is how bad I get. When I stress, I shut down. "You can't do that," he said sternly. "But, it's not like I'm doing it on purpose, so what's the big deal? I mean, if I was purposely, like, starving myself, then we could have this discussion."

I was really annoyed, because, honestly, I don't have time to even have a discussion like this.

He wasn't quite buying it. But, this is how my husband works. This past week, he has just happened to take me out to eat about five times. As if I don't know what he's trying to do.

So, when we went to Olive Garden on Monday, I was excited because I knew a secret that most of you probably do not. Do you know that Olive Garden has, as I like to call it, "tiny food?"

LOL.

The waitress, Stephanie, remembered me because I had been in the week before with a girlfriend. And for lack of a better term (and because I had been crying the entire way there, which meant that I--and my brain--was shutting down), I asked her this:

"Do you guys have any ... tiny food?"

To my delight, they indeed had tiny food.

For just $3, you too can order tiny food from Olive Garden. And they'll even put it in a regualr-sized dish if you so desire. Woo-hoo!

For just about $3, my tiny food came in a tiny dish and I even took some home in a leftover box.

... which is why she rememberd me so vividly. "I remember you. You ordered the 'tiny food' and took a to-go box for your leftovers." We laughed ... and then talked about earrings while hubby's eyes glazed over.

So, "tiny" has been a theme that I have been quite enjoying this past week. I have totally embraced my "tiny" laptop. In fact, I can never go back to regular size. "Tiny" fits in my purse and what girl doesn't love that?

My tiny laptop!

You know, "tiny" really is the way to go and this morning, I learned that "tiny" lesson in the biggest way.

When I get ready for work, I'm usually half awake. This morning, I had to get to work early for our monthly branch meeting. I threw my hair back and began my morning ritual--which is not much of one. I always start with a moisturizer followed by a little bit of Bare Minerals bronzing powder.

I took my brush and swept the side of my right cheek, when, OMG. What? What?! WHAT!!!

My cheek was reddish-brownish-bronzish. It was caked on. What I didn't know at that very moment was that, just about 10 minutes earlier, my beautifully brown daughter decided she'd give the bronzer a shot--all at her pale mother's expense.

But, here's the thing about Bare Minerals: they stick. There's something about the minerals that stick to your pores, unlike standard make-up. I looked at the clock and knew I had to bolt. So, I swiped a box of baby wipes and--while driving the mom van--I feverishly scrubbed my cheek--over and over again.

"Oh man! I look like I am on my way to a Glamour Shots gone wrong!" Ugh.

Sometime in the middle of the branch meeting, I whispered to Christine, my favorite co-worker, "Do I look like I am on my way to a really bad 80s Glamour Shots?!"

"What? You look great." She giggled. (I had actually managed to scrub the Raggedy-Ann look off of the right side of my face, and I had a beautiful glow--or something, lol).

"Well, you know how I've been telling you about the tiny food and the tiny laptop? This would have been the perfect morning for tiny makeup!"

She thinks I'm nuts. I just know it.

In torturous-eyebrow-wax heaven!

Today was a crazy blur of boxes (we're moving this weekend), barbecue (company picnic) and birthday dinner (Yamato Japanese Steakhouse). Oh, and somewhere in-between all of it, I met Jaime (a professional photographer, woo hoo!) for my headshots at Kanapaha Botanical Gardens (a Gainesville gem).

So, I was exhausted and pretty much running on empty when on the way home from the editorial picnic, I told hubby that I had just one lil' stop to make. In less than 30 minutes, I'd be getting my headshots for the book. And I. hate. pictures. And my eyebrows were looking crazy. And I didn't have "the" shirt to wear. And I didn't have any earrings that I liked for the shot.

And, somewhere in the middle of my "little" list, hubby threw in the towel. "Okay" is all he could muster. I couldn't help it. I was being a total girl.

But I was bordering on being a frantic girl. With 8-year-old daughter in hand, I bolted out of the mom van and hit Happy Nail. "Eyebrows, please."

The petite Asian woman, who had been sitting quietly reading a magazine, was more than happy to see me. I laid back in the, um, eyebrow chair (?) and closed my eyes. Now, usually I kind of despise pain. But, on this day, I embraced it.

I had just stepped into Happy-Nail heaven. I listened to the soothing, classical music and I thought a heard the peaceful gushing of water and ... there were no screaming kids; and there was no sticky watermelon juice dripping from my baby's hands into the crevasses of my toes; and my eyes were closed--without the threat of my home being set ablaze.

I was in heaven! I mean, until the ... pull, rip and burn.

Oh, I don't even care if you do it again, woman! Just let me sit here in the cool of the quiet, dimly lit room. After a few pull, rip and burns, she began gently massaging my forehead. I knew it was coming to an end as she rubbed the cool, post-eyebrow lotion just above and around my eyebrows.

But, wait, can't we re-do them? I mean, isn't it possible that "you missed a spot?" Yes, you missed a spot. Please, let me just sit here in this chair with the music and the faux waterfall sounds and the no-screaming kids. Please, can I? I'll be your guinea pig. Just let me sit. And do nothing.

But, my time was up. And then I thought: Wow. I don't even care about the pain. As long as there is peace and quiet. You think she'll remember me if I go back tomorrow? I can pretend to be my twin and …

(Yes, people, this is what having four kids will do to you.)

Indeed, when there are four kids, the torturous eyebrow wax becomes your version of a spa treatment. Scary, wonderful stuff. I look at it this way, though: my eyebrows are going to look amazing until the last kid leaves for college.

Everyone always loves the volcano!

My two favorite girls at the ediorial picnic. My daughter (right) and neice (left).

Me and my boy. He is the one I prayed for--for an entire year. And then God gave him to me; and on many occassions, God reminded me of that! "Well, you wanted him!" LOL. He is my most challenging child and I love every bit of it. Tonight, that is. Because he is sleeping right now.

Wanting to be like his firefighter daddy! See Rock in the background? No, not a rock. My Rock!

Everyone in the place thought these were all my kids. Makes sense because they are all the same (shades of) color, lol.

Me and my hubby. There are three kids missing from this picture. I can't believe I have four children. Yes, I still have days when I have to wrap my mind around that one.