“Where were you going, Daddy?”
“Well, I decided to pick up your Uncle Chuck, grab the key from Phil’s place then head on over to your brother Joe’s house.”
October 1998, Daddy and I heading down the "aisle" to meet my Beloved, Mike. Daddy built the house in the background.
Seems simple enough on its face until you realize that I don’t have an Uncle Chuck, my brother’s name is not Joe, and I have no idea who “Phil” is. We’re in the emergency room two days before Christmas, and my father is, to put it euphemistically, not himself. He can’t tell me what year it is nor can he name the president. He knows me and my cousin, who’s standing with me, but gets the name of his associate pastor, who’d stopped in after hearing the news, wrong. When he speaks it’s in vague generalities, without detail; no specifics regarding who, what, when, or where. What’s worse is he seems to know he’s getting it all screwed up and he can’t quite figure out why.
On December 23, 2009, Daddy had some type of neurological event.
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Forty-three years ago today my parent’s life changed once again with formal introduction of yours truly into the family. What a wordy way of saying “it’s my birthday.” I also happen to be in the midst of MS without the P so I’m in a bit of a wonky mood. It’s also freakin’ overcast and has been for days. So on this, my special day, a few thoughts that are playing through my mind:
My Birthday Decor!
Yep. December 14th; two weeks before Christmas, three before the end of the year. I’m kinda conflicted about the timing. On the one hand, what a beautiful time of year! I just decked my halls for the holiday, singing Christmas tunes at the top of my lungs, had another combo X-Mas/B-Day partay; I get to bake, to snuggle with my Beloved (of course we do that all year), and to enjoy it all in 75 degree Florida weather! Rock on for me.
On the other hand, there’s a noticable dearth of “specialness” as any celebration is generally an add-on after thought to the REAL festivities of the season. I realize a what-about-me whine is annoying in a kid and downright dumb-ass in a am-I-really-a-middle-aged adult woman, but damn it all, when does the “We’ll/I’ll get you something really nice for Christmas” thing fuckin’ stop? My outer child has mostly learned to shut the hell up about it but my inner child still feels a twinge of heartbreak because I learned a long time ago that the bigger better deal doesn’t exist and that well-intentioned loved ones were simply attaching a permanent little white lie to what ultimately is just another day.
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