The United Nations of Goodsons

Rozelle

            My grandmother was born in 1920. The day after Rozelle was born, her mother died. Her father was a traveling salesman, and an alcoholic. He took her with him as he traveled from town to town. This is how she grew up, traveling on trains and staying wherever her father found a place for them to spend the night. No childhood home. When she was a little older her father got married to a woman who had two sons herself. This was the first experience Rozelle had with a family. Her mother was Catholic, and her stepmother was Episcopalian. While growing up her stepmother made sure Rozelle went to Catholic school and crossed herself at dinner – the only one required to do so. Although this was her step mother’s way of making sure Rozelle held on to her heritage, Rozelle began to resent this. Later she would joke about being raised a Catholic by an Episcopalian who later became a Southern Baptist.

            Eventually her stepmother left her father and they divorced. Again, Rozelle found herself without a family. Her father would step out of her life. She would hear nothing about him until over twenty years later, when he passed away. At thirteen Rozelle made a way for herself, going from family to family as a nanny or housekeeper. It was a high school teacher who told her she was good writer. He encouraged her to extend her education. She worked and she saved, and finally had enough to go to college. At twenty-three Rozelle met Carl. They fell in love, got married and began their family.

The United Nations

“Every time our family gets together, it looks like a meeting of the United Nations,” joked my Aunt Char at the last family gathering, “all we’re missing is an Asian.”  Looking around the room one might not realize the three Hispanics, one Native American, one Irish/Scotch/Native American, one bi-racial African-American, and cousin Lauren (we don’t know what she is) scattered among the other eight grandchildren come from my Irish-British grandparents.

Rozelle and Carl Goodson had five children. Those five children went on to have a collective fifteen children. Of those fifteen grandchildren eight are biological. The remaining seven are adopted, or as my mom likes to say – the chosen ones. My sister and I are two of the chosen ones. Each of us seven has a different story. Each has a different reason for being part of this family and becoming a Goodson: teenage pregnancy, being taken away by the state, drugs and alcohol, poverty, infidelity. These are the things that distinguish us from another; these are the things that tie us together.

Us chosen ones have only vague, superficial tidbits about our biological pasts given to us through lawyers, adoption agencies, and foster homes. These tidbits have become our inside jokes to each other. When I broke my leg snow skiing, the response of half the family was, “you should have known better.  Mexicans are not snow skiers.” We use these to accept our unknown past, but not dismiss the known present. My sister, who is Native American, comes to visit and comments on my unkempt room, “I would think you’d be better at housekeeping.” I respond, “Go make it rain somewhere.” No matter our knowledge about our biological parents or ethnic heritage, we never lose sight of the family we are actually a part of. All of us have become experts of balancing this.

Cousin Jennifer is a product of teenage pregnancy. Both her biological parents were athletes. As a kid, Jennifer played every sport imaginable. To this day she does 5ks, marathons, triathlons, and other such things that just make me want to nap. Her competitive nature is fierce and evident. This is something, someway for her to connect to the parents she never knew. Jennifer also has four kids of her own and is in the process of adopting a fifth. My twelve year old daughter, Karmyn, has plans to attend Brown University; become a pediatrician; marry a neurosurgeon; have five children – two of which she plans to adopt. The legacy lives on. Adoption is our norm.

You Look Just Like Your Dad

Of course adoption is nothing unusual. In our family it is a household word, a completely open subject. Never talked about with shame or sadness. I remember going to my dad’s work when I was a kid. A lady in his office exclaimed, “Oh I could tell you were one of Lynn’s the moment I saw you. You look just like your dad.” My dad and I gave each other knowing smiles. He then said, “She doesn’t have my balding hair and belly yet, but she’s working on it.” It was our inside joke. It was a rare occurrence when I remembered, oh yeah. I share no DNA with this man I call dad.

Maybe that’s what is unusual – how much we don’t think about it. Sometimes I’ll ask if any of the other adopted ones want to try to find their parents. The answers are always the same, “if they wanted to meet me, but otherwise not really.” Only one of us has attempted or actually got in contact with their biological family. It was my sister, Heather. Admittedly, she only did so to get a Native American scholarship for college.

Her biological father still lived with his tribe, Otoe-Missouria, in Oklahoma. Heather met him and his sister, her aunt. Her biological parents were engaged when Heather was conceived. But they broke up when his parents didn’t approve of the marriage, because she wasn’t part of the tribe. He enlisted in the Navy and was stationed away. Heather’s mother never told him about the baby. She gave Heather up for adoption and three months later, our parents adopted her. When her father came back to Oklahoma, the couple went on and got married and had another daughter. Only after their divorce did she tell him about Heather. When he asked Heather if she wanted to meet her mother and sister, she replied, “No. I have a mom and sis. I don’t need to meet them.” The father and daughter correspondence was brief, with only a few letters and phone calls after meeting. He died a few years ago. My sister didn’t go to the funeral. What Heather does hold onto is her heritage and her tribe; her tidbit.

Three Days

What I know about my biological parents reads like an incomplete fact sheet:

·        Mother: aged 25 at time of my birth. Married, but not to my father.

·        Father: Mexican, all other facts unknown.

·        Siblings: one, a brother who is seven years older than me.

·        Socioeconomic Class: really poor.

I was born in a Houston hospital on a Monday in January. My mother told the nurses she needed to put me up for adoption. This was the same hospital my dad worked. Someone on the nursing staff heard about my mother and knew my parents were looking to adopt another baby. Three days later I became Lynn and Mary’s second daughter. This is all I know.

            When I was in elementary school and through middle school, I would go visit my dad in Houston after my parent’s divorce. My mom, sister, and I moved to Arkansas. But, Heather and I still flew to Houston every other weekend to see my dad. On Sundays we had a routine before our flight back to Arkansas. We would wake up early, go to a restaurant and have brunch, and then stop in the Hispanic district of Houston. This was on the way to the airport. They had outside floral shops on the corners of multiple blocks. My dad would let me and Heather pick out a bouquet of roses to take back home with us. I remember walking through the rows of flowers and looking at the Mexican men working there. My mind wondered, looking for any physical similarities I may have with one of them. I liked the thought of being connected to them. I liked feeling a part of this culture.

            I had to take an upper division foreign language course for my major requirement. I decided to take Spanish Composition. I’m not sure why I took the course. I think a part of me thought I’m half Mexican. There’s got to be some natural ability to speak the language. There was no natural ability whatsoever. After the first day, I had no idea what was going on because it was all in Spanish. I just smiled and nodded my head all semester. In fact, I did so bad the professor actually emailed me after my final to congratulate me on making a ‘C’ on the exam, which brought my final grade to a ‘D’, which was good enough to pass.

            Every once in while, when I glance in the mirror I’ll wonder: who gave me this mass of ridiculous curly hair? Whose eyes are mine shaped after? Who gave me this mole above my lip? Whose nose is this? Who is responsible for the fact my bra size at age 32 is the same as it was at age 12?  I wonder about my father. It is doubtful he knows of my existence. It’s a surreal feeling knowing there’s someone out there with my genes, with my face, and my mannerisms. There’s someone out there who’s a part of me and doesn’t know my name, or that I have started my own family. I thought of this a lot with my kids. They will make a face or lift their eyebrows a certain way that reminds me of myself or their dad. It used to freak me out. It was my first experience with something like that, with an inherited physicality. My kids have knowledge of their background I never had.

But that’s the extent of it. My wonderings are mostly of the physical, nothing more. My day goes on. Other things occupy my mind. I used to feel guilty about this. I used to think what I felt was indifference. How heartless is that? Isn’t it heartless to feel nothing for the woman who gave life to me? But, later I began to realize ‘indifference’ is the wrong word. It is peace. I am at peace with who I am and the decision she made.

Although, as I’m writing this I remember once when I was thirteen a boy in my class and I were talking. Somehow my adoption came up. He looked at me sympathetically and asked softly, “You know what being put up for adoption means don’t you?” I looked at him like he was an idiot and replied, “Well, yeah. Since me and half my family are.” The idiot looked at me surprised and said, “It means your mother didn’t want you. It means she didn’t love you.” This angered me. Never had I thought of my circumstance in that way. “That’s not true. She did love me. She stayed with me for three days. I was in there for three days, and even though she was discharged the day after I was born, she stayed. She stayed all three days until she knew I had a home to go to.” I have more to hold on to than I thought. She had a son to take care of, and husband who knew I wasn’t his, another life to live; but she stayed with me all three days.

Grandmom

            I visit my grandmother in the nursing home. At 90 years old and 10 years of battling dementia our conversations begin the same.

She’ll say, “Oh, it’s so good to see you. I never get to see you. How are you?”

My reply, “I’m good. I’m graduating college soon.”

“Good, good. I’m so proud of you.”

“Thank you, I hope so. How are you doing?”

“Oh, I’m fine. I’m old, but I do okay.”

Then we pause and she looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. The conversation is repeated, sometimes two or three times.

            But, then she looks over at her wall to her left. It is filled with family pictures of all the children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. The family she started. At the top of the other pictures is a black and white photo of her and my grandfather, Carl.

     She smiles, “I do miss that man. We had a lot of good years. Sixty years I think.”

     I smile back, “It would have been sixty-five years last April, grandmom.”

     “That’s right. My goodness, that’s a long time. You know he didn’t like me at first. But, it didn’t take long until he came around.” 

     She goes on and tells me how they met, how it was snowing the night he proposed, she tells about their quiet ceremony and where they lived after. Rozelle tells me this with perfect clarity. It is a story I have heard a hundred times. I look at her face which bears no physical similarity with my own. Her eyes are a faded blue, her skin is pale, and her nose and chin are different shapes than mine are.

            I sit and listen to her and drink in every word. Her story is my story. Her past is my past. This is where I came from, this is who I am.

Just to start...

I'm in my last semester. In December I'll graduate and then the most horrible thing ever will occur - I will be expected to do something. Not that loved ones never expected anything from me, it's just that until now I've made do. Never really moving ahead, not really hanging behind. I just make do with what I have. It's not a good way to live, although it is the most comfortable. Now is the time for me to become uncomfortable. Time to do something.

And you ask "what will that be, Angela?"
To which I answer "Uhh...I was kinda hoping you'd tell me."

This semester is all writing classes. Creative non-fiction and Dramatic Writing will be the toughies. Not because of studying or even work load. They will be tough because these will require me using any talent I may have. All insecurities and doubt creeps back in. I sit in front of the computer screen and think "yes. I can just write. No APA format, no abstracts, no constraints. Hell, I ain't even gots to use proper grammar if I don't wanna! Life is sweet." And then I just sit. I can't think of a thing to write about.

I am an over thinker with little conclusions made. Take this post. It doesn't really say anything, but I just wanted to write. Because for years when people would ask what I liked to do or what my hobbies were, I had nothing. Now, I have something. And I want that something to actually become something.

One fun thing: I have to write a script for a play, 20-35 pages. So, just a warning- be nice. I am a creative non-fiction writer at heart. I will write about you. Just ask the manfriend.

Love and a 5K (the remix)

Went to the doctor yesterday and it turns out the pain in my ankle has an actual name. I forget what it is, but it ends in "itis". So, I'm taking an anti-inflammatory and will need to lay off the running for a bit.

And you know...it's okay. He said I could still swim or use the elliptical. I thought, "let's not get carried away with this whole fitness thing doc", but smiled and nodded instead.

I really wanted that 5K in 30 minutes. But, it's okay. I'll work my way back to it. I got really close, and that felt really good. Plus, it's kind of cool having a running injury. I mean, who would have thought? Certainly not me or anyone who knows me.

I think I've let go. Or at least am really close. And that feels good as well. Trying so hard to make something work, or holding on to something that doesn't want to be held,  is so tiresome. And hurtful.

There's something else out there. I haven't found it, but knowing it's out there is comforting beyond words.

As for you, 5K....I'll get you yet.
Not tomorrow. But one day...

Love and a 5K

I'm the girl who faked cramps to get out of volleyball. I don't have good luck when it comes to balls and my face...yeah, that made me giggle too. But, seriously sports and I don't get along very well. My son is good at all sports. He's one of those annoying naturals. My one hope was my daughter. She was my sarcastic partner in crime about athletics. But, she betrayed me this past Spring and got herself on the cheer leading team. I didn't even make flag line in Jr. High band...I don't want to talk about it.

This past Spring I was enrolled in Positive Psychology and then this last Summer session in Health Psychology. Both with the same professor and both with a physical goal to be worked on during the semester. So, I decided to work out. I actually impressed myself. I started at putting in the workout DVD, doing 10 minutes of the workout, and then going to the fridge to get cold pizza and watching the last 30 minutes of the DVD on my couch. Now I've worked up to running 3.1 miles in 33 minutes.

My goal is to make it under 30 minutes. This is huge for me. I hate running. I usually mock those hard core, running at 3pm in the hot ass afternoon, runners while driving by them sipping on my White Chocolate Mocha. But, this is different. I've got something to prove now. The before mentioned 'manfriend' is unsure of this. His concern is for my leg. Ah...the damn leg. I dismiss his concern. I'm not helpless. I'm not an amputee. The "incident" was three years ago. The leg will hold up. The leg is a toughie and we shall prevail. So, cut me some slack and shoot me a "way to go." That's all I'm asking.

Of course, as I type this the leg is killing me and I would love for someone to come by and accidentally stab me with a needle full of Morphine. But, I'll be fine.

Oh the things we do to prove ourselves and our self worth to people who may/may not care. Honestly, if they really cared there would be nothing to prove. The evidence is already there. But, that's not enough for us, is it? If I was really truthful, I'd realize I have all the love I need; my family, my friends, God. What more is there to need? Although, I think we all know once I truly accept this, then that means I have let go.

I have to let him go.

Don't misunderstand. This isn't all about before mentioned 'manfriend'. I've got a lot to prove to myself. If I can do 3.1 miles under 30 minutes, that means I took something I never thought I could do; made it a goal; worked towards that goal; and then, holy crap!, what if I achieve this goal? I mean, I want some fireworks and maybe someone there throwing confetti in my face. All that said, will this make my other troubles disappear? Will I be a different person? Will it get me into grad school? Will it help me let go of all those regrets? Will it make someone love me?

No. Of course not. It is just running. Not even towards anything...just round and round in circles. The running will answer none of those questions. At the end of the day it's still up to the girl running in circles.

But, it will feel damn good. And maybe, the next time that jerk that disguises itself as self-doubt creeps back in, I will be able to say: "No problem. If me and 'the leg' can do a 5k in 30 minutes, we can handle this."

Dear Carl,

It's been awhile since you left us. I'm sorry it has taken so long to write you. Words don't come as easily to me as I would like. There seems to be so much I should say, but little time or ability to say them. Although, I think we both know that's just an excuse. I know where you are. I know there is peace, no disappointment, no cares, no pain.  You've always been patient.

I think of you often. There was distance between me and my dad while I was growing up. You filled that void. You filled the void beautifully. You and Rozelle are the reason magnolia trees make me smile, the reason I hear the different songs of birds, and the reason that even on the darkest of days I am still amazed by the smallest blooms.

You also taught me that shining your own shoes is an art; gardens are a refuge; one of the best ways to say 'I love you' is through homemade pies and  heart shaped pancakes; when family visits, every night should be popcorn and game night; love the Cardinals; and being a Christian means no matter how many times someone falls, you stand there and hold your hand out to help them back up. Thank you for helping me back up.

Rozelle still feels you with her. Since you left, her memory as worsened. She's never quite sure where she is or who is around her. But, even in the middle of her confusion, she'll mention that she still feels you with her.You should know that...you probably already do. She remembers you perfectly. And it is the most beautiful thing  when I see her face as she talks about you. She remembers everything.

As I write this, I know one day soon she'll go to where you are. I guess it is possible to have hurt and joy at the same time. She belongs with you, you belong to her. You married my hero. Which makes you my hero as well. And you two are the perfect example of what love should be. And you raised my mother, who is the strongest woman I have ever known.  I'm not sure why God let me be a part of this family, but I am sure of how grateful I am and that it is a gift.

Thank you. I wish I had more poetic words to say. I wish I could think of some extraordinary phrase that ties up all I feel about you perfectly. But, all there is is just gratefulness. So, thank you. Thank you for being the kind of man I want my son to grow up to be, and my daughter to have love her. Thank you for hearing God's voice and following through. Thank you for teaching us so much.

I'm glad you finally made it home. I know you held on for us. All you taught is still with us. It always will be.
We'll see you soon...

Love,
Angela

The Red Cup Story (aka the best story ever told)

A long time ago, while still living in Houston, until my mom got off work I would stay with a neighbor after school. Her name was Kay, and she had a daughter my age named Natalie.  Natalie and I were good friends.  From what I can remember we played pretty well together .  Of course, we had some bumps in the road that was our friendship.  One example would be when we made the suicide "you cut your hair first then I'll cut mine" pact.  I said "okay!" and took the scissors with excitement.  I grabbed a hand full of hair right at the forehead and cut it within an inch of my scalp.  Yeah.  I wasn't the brightest crayon in the box as a kid.  As soon as the cut was made Natalie ran off exclaming "look what Angela did!".  My mom's remedy was to cut the rest of my hair to match the new bangs I made for myself.  It was awful. Needless to say, Natalie didn't keep her end of the bargain.  She got to keep her pretty long locks of hair and I ended up looking like the son my dad never had.

Another bump in our friendship road was snack time.  Every afternoon at the same time, Kay would lay out snacks on the counter for our enjoyment.  Along with the various assortment of apple slices and animal crackers we would get juice.  She would put out these solid colored plastic cups for us to choose from.  There was the yellow cup, the blue cup, the green cup, and the highly coveted red cup.  I loved red.  It was my most favorite color ever...and pink.  The problem was it was also Natalie's favorite color.  As a result she always got to use the red cup.  And I got stuck with the yucky dark blue plastic cup.  Such horrible conditions I grew up in.  It's a wonder I'm as successful as I am.

I don't how she would always beat me to the cups at snack time.  One theory is I probably got distracted by the layout of food.  To this day if there's an assortment of food laying out, and it's "all you can eat" I go directly to a happy place and all else in the world vanishes.  So, as a note don't take me to a buffet if you need to have a serious conversation with me.  I won't hear a word you're saying.  Anyway, back to cup gate.  I tried asking politely for a chance to use the red cup to no avail.  I argued for the red cup, again to no avail. I begged for the red cup...she would have none of it. She was a stubborn little 6 year old punk.  I tried to appeal to her mom, to which I got the crappy diplomatic answer, "She got here first, Angela.  Whoever gets here first can have the cup they want.  Next time maybe you can get it."     

That's when I decided:  if I had to lie, cheat, or steal...I would get to that red cup next snack time.  And God help whoever got in my way.  That night all I could think about was how to get to the kitchen before Natalie and get my hands on that cup.  It would mean sacrificing getting the best animal crackers, but it was a sacrifice I was willing to make.  I decided to scout out when Kay was laying out the snacks, and then I would tell Natalie I was going to the bathroom but instead I would hang out near the kitchen entrance.  That way Natalie wouldn't be suspicious of me not being there at play time and I'd be right there for when her mom called out "time to eat!"  It was the perfect plan.  Almost too perfect.

The next day my stomach churned with anticipation.  I couldn't concentrate at playdoe or Operation.  Snack time could not come soon enough.  I waited in agony.  Finally, I saw Kay get up to head for the kitchen.  This was it.  This was what I had been planning for.  Today was the day I would drink apple juice from the beautiful red cup I was born to drink apple juice from, and nothing was going to stop me.

I excused myself from Operation to go to the "restroom".  Natalie didn't suspect a thing.  I slowly walked towards the kitchen entrance.  Right as I got there the snack call went out.  The timing was perfect.  I hurried into the kitchen and went straight for the red cup.  I grasped it and I let out a great sigh of relief and joy.  This was the moment I longed for for so long.  Nothing could ruin it.  Kay asked if I wanted apple juice.  I gleefully shook my head yes and held out the red cup with excitement.  I'm pretty sure the feeling I felt was like that of the underdog winning the gold at the Olympics.  That's why I don't compete in sports...I already know what it's like to win the gold medal, therefore there's no need.  It was the best feeling I had ever experienced in my lengthy six years of life.  At that moment Natalie walked in and looked over the scene taking place in front of her.  Her eyes locked onto the red cup and then they locked onto my eyes.  She glared at me as I started sipping from the cup with a grin on my face.

"Mom, that's my cup!  I always drink from that cup!" she yelled out.  "Natalie, Angela got here first, so she gets to drink from whatever cup she wants."  I looked at her and smiled my biggest "ha, in your face sucka" smile I had.  She stomped over to the counter and filled her plate with the goodies provided.  She then stomped over to where the cups were and glared even more harshly at the colors provided.  The yellow cup was what she reluctantly chose.  As she had her juice poured into the less desirable yellow cup she looked up at me with an evil grin.  It was then that she said the words that would shake me to my core.

"Fine.  You can have the red cup.  Everyone knows that red is the color of the devil.  You're drinking from a devil cup."  I gasped in horror.  I was devasted.  This was before we became Southern Baptist.  In fact, we were Unitarians at that time, where all you have to do to get into Heaven is be able to spell GOD.  But, even then I knew the devil was bad news bears.  I knew I wanted nothing to do with him and all the images he conjured up: flames, a pitch fork, pointy tail, a red jump suit with horns.  I was shaken.  This ruined everything.  I couldn't even finish my juice.  I had stayed up all night planning on this just to find out I was drinking from a devil cup!  First the boy hair cut and now this.  Devastation would be a understatement of what I was feeling.  Snack time nor my friendship with Natalie would ever be the same.

So, fast forward a few years later when we moved to Arkansas.  My mom and I were unloading Christmas decorations to get ready for the holiday season.  As we were unpacking all the wreaths, ornaments, Avon decor, and such,  I noticed the color red (and green) were the predominant colors.  I asked my mom why there was so much red.  She explained the symbolism of red and Jesus.  At that moment I felt a huge weight lifted.  Red, as a color of Jesus!?!  Could it be true?  Everyone knows that the exact opposite of the devil is Jesus.  Everyone knows Jesus totally trumps Satan!!  This brought true vindication to me drinking from the "devil cup".  I hadn't drank from the devil cup...I had drank from the Jesus cup!!!

That's when a new plan came to mind.  The next time I saw Natalie, the first words out of my mouth would be "Oh yeah? Well, red is a Christmas color!"  That was it.  That was my great comeback.  Not even lying when I tell you I could not wait for the chance to say that to her.  I had imagined saying it to her in front of a bunch of her friends and her looking defeated and no one hanging out with her anymore because of my well deserved victory over Red Cup Gate.

Well, I never got the chance.  I never saw Natalie again.

There are three moral to be taken from this story.  Yes.  I realize it's a horrible story.  But, that's why I tell it; to illustrate the following:

1.  When telling a story that has a build up to a climax...it helps to have an actual climax.

2.  If you're going to hold a grudge, make it a good one.  "What? Your boyfriend cheated on you with your sister and then ran over one of your pets?"  That is a good grudge to hold.  A devil cup...not so much.  I'm 32 years old and to this day when I hear the name 'Natalie' I make a fist with my hands in a James Cagney "why I oughta" kind of way.  That can't be healthy.

3.  I have horrible come backs.  I mean there was like a five year period of time after the red cup incident that I came up with the "Christmas color" come back.  That was the best I had.  And the worst thing about it: I thought it was the wittiest thing ever.  Wow.  Horrible.
These days I resort to "yo momma" as come backs and chose to be done with it.  

Um...yeah.  That's the end. 

I guess I should add a 4th: make sure to have a conclusion to a story.

Uhh...again...

The End.

Observations of a Broken Leg

I broke my leg three years ago.  I was skiing with my 'manfriend' in Crested Butte, Colorado.  Beautiful town.  It was one of those "oh my gosh, I can't believe I'm here" trips.  On the second day (which was our first day skiing) I fell and broke my femur.  Ended up getting a free snowmobile ride down the mountain and three days in the hospital complete with a blood transfusion and a steel rod placed in my leg.

The really horrible thing is this happened in the first year of my relationship with above stated 'manfriend'.  I've never been athletic.  This trait gets confused with being lazy.  That's not what I am.  I've always been willing to try new things, I've just never had an abundance of the opportunity.  So, this was truly exciting for me.

Although the thought of skiing scared the hell out of me, somewhere deep down I really thought I'd be able to do it.  There's absolutely no reason why I should naturally be good at snow skiing.  I mean, you should have seen me at t'ball.  I couldn't hit a ball resting on a tube, why the hell did I expect to be able to strap on long plastic thingys to my feet and hold onto two poles while I'm flying down a freaking a mountain and not have any problems whatsoever?  But, reality tends to hit you in the face pretty hard.  In my case, reality came in the form of a snow bank.

My leg still hurts to this day.  That's why I'm up at 11:55 this Tuesday.  The leg is killing me.  As I type this, it seems really lame that a broken bone has had such an effect on my life.  But, it has.  I have this stigma now of not being able to follow through.  He gave me instructions on how to ski, how to stop, and other such pointers.  And although I tried, somehow it wasn't enough.  I didn't listen well enough.  I didn't follow through.  Quite frankly, it pisses me off.  I wanted to impress him so much (by the by, this was the second bone I've broken trying to impress a guy...be warned female tweens; it's not worth it).  I wanted to impress myself.  And, damned if I didn't fall.  Every ache or discomfort I have with this leg is like a reminder of my clumsiness.  It's a reminder that I took the fall for what was to be the perfect vacation....and two years later he would have that perfect vacation with someone else.

But, this is who I am.  I fall.  I fall alot.  I run into things.  I drop things.  I tend to say stupid things.  And I get to tell the funny stories about my clumsiness.  For instance, I started working at Cold Water Creek two months after my "incident".  I had quite the pimp limp at that time.  Actually, to this day I still have a bit of a pimp limp...which I do love.  I believe it gives me much street cred.  My limp was very noticeable at the time I started working there.  A year later I learned that all the ladies thought I was born with some kind of leg/muscle deformity and that's why they never asked about my limp.  I think that's kind of funny. 

There's a running joke that I'm half bionic on account of the steel rod.  It's pretty fun making the "nanananananana" sound effects when moving it.   I also was deemed the super hero name "The Compass".  Because of the extra weight of the rod in my leg, if I tried to run fast I'd probably just go round and round in circles....hence "the Compass".  So, I try.  I try to make the constant ache of my leg remind me of the humor that is my life.  I've been accused of overdoing the self-deprecating humor.  But, again, this is who I am.  I fall, I get hurt, I get really pissed and embarrassed, and then immediately I see how funny it all is.

While I was in the hospital, my 'manfriend' gave me a red notebook to keep as a travel journal.  It has become a travel journal, a memo pad, a prayer journal, my dearest confidant.  I'll be sure to burn it one day before I die.  About two weeks after I got back I jotted down some thoughts about that trip and observations I made.  I forgot I wrote these.  They're three years old, but reading them made me feel a little better about my sleepless night and this dammed leg of mine:

Observations of a Broken Leg

12.  Probably would have been wise to take a skiing lesson.  No half Mexican raised in the South should believe they can ski on their own.

11.  If I ever have any illness or accident that requires a hospital stay, I want it to be here.  Home made blueberry pancakes are the best things ever.

10.  I like Morphine.

9.   Stairs and hill are the enemy, elevators are my heroes.

8.   I can fall on show hard enough to break my femur at my hip and I won't get one single bruise; but heaven forbid someone lightly taps me on my arm and I'll have a bruise the size of Montana.

7.   I have no upper body strength.

6.  I'm too prideful.  I'd rather go through a lot of trouble on my own than ask for help. 

5.  I have determination.  I've pushed my self more in the two weeks after "the fall" than I have my whole life.

4.  I'm nicer to complete strangers while in immense pain than I am to those closest to me on an ordinary day.

3.  God's timing may seem incredibly inconvenient, and yet it still manages to be perfect.

2.  If breaking my leg gets the one I love to pray...it was more than worth it.

1.  More than him loving me back, I want him to love God. That's how I know...I'm in love. 

Today

You can lie to me today.
The truth about yesterday can be told tomorrow. 
But for today, tell all I've wanted to hear for so long. 
Make the promises you wouldn't for fear of not keeping them. 
I'll only hold you to them until the days end.
Today make me believe what I've been skeptical of. 
Let's not discuss or dig deeper.  Let's not analyze or rationalize.  

Truth calls us to action. And I have no strength for action.
I'll wait for tomorrow for truth to be known.
We'll just lie together, and lie to each other and hope the truth does not disturb us.
I will wrap myself in each tale you tell me as if each will protect me.
And I will cherish every moment of sweet ignorance.
So, lie.  Lie to me today. 
The truth about yesterday can be told tomorrow.


Then I will decide what lies to tell myself.

Walking a Tight Rope While Wearing Clown Shoes

Okay, here we go....

I've decided to take twelve hours this semester.  Everyone thinks I should go back to only nine, but I'm ready to get out of dodge.  So many women work, go to school and are fantastic mothers.  Why can't I?  I'm ready to become _________ (I'll let God fill in the blank).  Whatever it is I am to be, I'm ready.

In my Positive Psychology course I have to make 3 goals and am graded by the effort given to achieve the goals. The categories are as follows:
*Physical Goal
*Relational Goal
*Whatever Goal
Today we presented them in class.  I thought about mine and here they are:

*Physical Goal:  I want a bikini body.  By end of April I want to not only be able to wear a bikini, I want to rock that mofo!  So...I got myself a workout buddy for twice a week and the other days it's Pilates at the house and walking the "hill of doom" in my neighborhood.  God help me...God help my workout buddy...

*Relational Goal:  I have kick ass kids.  I should be more of a kick ass mom.  So, dinner at the table with no TV once a week; 10 hours of volunteering at their school this semester; and the days that I have school then work I will call them each and have a 5 min conversation about their day.  I'm going to be a better mom.

*Whatever Goal:  This one is a doozy....all A's this semester.  I'm doing it.  That's right folks.  All assignments on time, studying ahead for test, basic working my ass off.  I'm a Senior...A SENIOR!  Graduate school around the corner.  I'm doing this.  And I'm worried, but so excited.

You will also be glad to know (you three that read this thing...thanks mom) that I'm taking Writing for New Technologies.  Which means I'll learn how to bedazzle this blog up.  I'm a little over the white with red trim, I'm sure you are too (you loyal three).

And yes, I realize a blog or two down I said I wasn't making any plans.  But, that's a load of crap and I'm a girl so I get to change my mind a lot.  I've been so hurt this past year.  What I've done is wrap myself up in that hurt like it was a blanket.  Nothing else mattered except for that, and that's such a selfish way to live.  I want to do better.  I want to be better. 
I have spark.  I should use it. 

Oh...I repotted the plant. So far, so good.

the great giveaway.

Tuesday was my adoption day.  32 years and 2 days ago the woman who carried me for nine months gave me to a couple who would pretty much carry me for the next 32 years.  Me being adopted is really nothing unique or extra special in my family.  Of the fourteen grandchildren on my mom's side, seven of us are adopted.  It is our norm.

I don't think much about my adoption.  Not even on my adoption day.  It's a day that we celebrate me becoming a part of this family...and my mom usually takes me out for a free lunch.  We had done this since I was a little girl.  But, yesterday it hit me that I don't really think of my biological parents much at all.  There is no anger or resentment, there's just nothing. 

When I was a kid I would fantasize about being in class when all of a sudden two men dressed in expensive Italian suits, sunglasses and ear pierces (much like the secret service) would walk into the classroom and request that I leave with them.  They would lead me to a kick ass limo and inside there would be an older, sophisticated, handsome gentlemen...dressed also in a very nice suit.  He would introduce himself as my father and say he had been looking for me for years.  He was a reformed member of some criminal family in Columbia.  That's right, as a kid I fantasized that my biological father was a hit man with a heart.  This hit man would then tell me that he had millions of dollars he wanted me to have and he would take care of all my expenses and I end up being fabulously dressed throughout my school days and fast become the most popular girl ever in the world and Donnie Wahlberg would take me to prom.  But, that's the extent of how much I wondered or thought of my biological parents.  And I only had this fantasy when my mom or dad wouldn't let me have that pony I always wanted.

I'm not sure if this lack of interest should bother me.  The fact is, I know who I am.  I have no void to fill when it comes to having parents.  We weren't the Cleavers by any means.  There was divorce, remarriage, moving, rebellion, kids out of wedlock...blah, blah, blah the whole sha bang.  Through it all I never thought of myself as anything other than a Clark/Goodson.  Their history is my history. I wouldn't want it any other way.

I will admit that on the rare occasions I do think of my biological parents it's for superficial reasons.  Who do I get my curly hair from? Or is it just that spiral perm that wouldn't die?  Who do I get my machine gun laughter from?  Who gave me this nose?  Who gave me the straight teeth? (thanks for that by the way) What am I going to look like when I'm 40, 50, 60?  This information is important because every day the chances that I'm either going to have to become a cougar or an old maid are increasing drastically.  It'd be nice to be ready for either scenerio.

Please don't misunderstand my feelings for them.  I am grateful and I am proud.  From what I know I was a bit of a surprise for my biological mother.  She wasn't in a good situation in her life and it is not lost on me that it would have been easier for her not to have me.  But, she did.  She followed through, and she stayed in the hospital for the three days until I had a home to go home to.  I never thought that I was so much 'given away' as I was given a chance.  She decided to give me a chance.  I think that's pretty amazing.  I hope she's never thought she was otherwise.  There's great strength in giving up something that you love.  And I do think she loved me. 

My adoptive parents are amazing.  And I am their child.  I get my independence, loyalty and strength from my mom.  My humor, my desire to please, and my bit of humility from my dad.  They are my family.

But, this week I think of you...my biological parents.

To my mother,
Thank you.  That's what I want you to know.  I am so grateful.  You did the right thing and I pray you have never regretted it.  You shouldn't.  My life is incredible and you gave me all I needed to have that life.  Whatever you have gone through, whatever pain was felt, I hope you are happy now.  I hope you have peace.  Don't ever worry about me.  I'm fine.  Again, with no better words to use....thank you.

To my father,
I don't know if you know about me or not.  I'm also not sure what part you had in my adoption.  But I'm grateful to you also. I hope your good to women, good to any other children you may have, and I hope your good to yourself. 
Anything I have that comes from you, thank you.

Thank you for everything.