The Night The Lights Went Out In Georgia

I know it’s not fair to type here and completely blame my ex-husband. The difference in the money is (586 - 188.84 = 397.16) three hundred and ninety seven dollars (with 16 cents) a month.

That’s $4,766 (rounded up!) a year of child support that has been ripped from my hands.

The little stuff I can cut out - I’ve done it before, which is likely one of the reasons this hurts so deeply. I was just in this spot with the pinching of the pennies, skipping on certain meals,  and worrying about the overage charges on the gas bill.

I climbed out of that hole, the one that almost consumed me, and started shoveling the dirt from the high pile back into the crevice. Month by month, paycheck by paycheck, savings by savings, I put back the tiny rocks and pebbles and debri into my former grave.

It’s not me I sweat for though - it’s my boys. My two growing, hungry, rough, wasteful, beautifully dirty males. The ones that burn through jeans and shoes, eat turkey by the pound, drink milk by the gallons and orange juice by the same. These offspring of mine, and his, require zoo money, bookfair money, ice cream money, and playdate money. There are birthday parties to gift at, toys that MUST be purchased, and museums they wish to explore. My two children, ages 4 and 7, can fly through multiple bathtub loads of gas-warmed water per day, an unknown amount of laundry per week, and about 2 haircuts each month. I don’t dare turn off the fan at night.

They need tylenol when they are fever-ing, benadryl when they are coughing, and neosporin on a regular basis.

Children, growing and healthy ones, desire exploration and entertainment - often times the likes of which don’t come free.

It’s much of that I worry about, but then, it’s also somethings all too selfish of me that bothers me just the same.

This idea that my children will only be children once is commonly repeated to me by the elders of our society. You wise (and some non) remind me on elevators, in line at the grocery store, and over the internet that I can’t keep these tiny humans young. I should enjoy them, you yack.

I haven’t seen Conner boogie board, but I know he can. I’ve taken him and Chase to swimming lessons, and seen Conner bury his face into the water for what seems like an eternity to his mother, but never in salt water or without the confines of our local YMCA.

I know Chase loves the warmth of the sun, he’s fearless when it comes to building with sediment, and enjoys the surprise of the waves. His hair bleaches by day one, and I recall when he was very young, how the Florida sun made his tiny olive-toned nose turn a little freckled. The trick was… it’d only last a day or so.

I, however, will get to see none of this. No matter how many hours I dedicate to my children and their upkeeping, and as hard as I work - this summer will pass as the last did. My children will continue through their life’s fleeting moments and play in the sun and the water and the sand. They will laugh, make memories, and one day look back at this time as a golden moment in their younger years.

And as their mom, I won’t see it. I won’t see any of it.

What I get with them is what I can make for them within my budget. My tiny budget that was already strained by the weight of divorce, student loans, a mortgage and two children. The one that I’ve fought so hard to keep balanced.

I must make memories from what I have, and must be grateful for what I’ve been blessed with.

But…

It’s hard to know I’m missing out on the only chance I’ll have at this - my children’s youth.

Next Summer, Conner turns 8. Then 9. Then 10.

My baby - my youngest - Chase will be 5… and a half.

It hurts and I hope one day they understand that I didn’t miss out because I didn’t want it. I missed out because I couldn’t. I hope they know I tried. And I pray they know how badly I wanted to see them be young, just this once.

Your Neighbor Is Gone

Pleasant Grove, Alabama after April 27th, 2011

This is your neighborhood. The one you grew up in. The same cracked sidewalk, the same annoyingly long redlight, and the overpriced gas station on the corner.

This is your community - the place your mother and father planted your roots. Where you started school, got the mail, and bought your groceries.

This small town - big city - tiny community - was yours. 

Until the skies darkened one April afternoon. And the wind twisted and turned through the trees. Until a storm whipped through your life…. your house… your home. Until that happened - this city was home.

The difference from one day to another can often times blur.  It’s images like the one above that remind me, and should all, that this life is fleeting. The few things in your world that seem constant - like the last mile to your house that you could drive eyes closed - can be stripped away.

It takes about an hour (often less) to drive from my home in Birmingham, AL to Tuscaloosa which I once called my college home. In other words, it’s close. Very close.

On this day, a year ago, 253 lives were lost.

Two hundred and fifty three.

People.

It could have been you. Me. The lady down the road. The basketball coach at your child’s school. The sweet old man that helps you with your groceries. The single nurse you see at Starbucks. Human lives were lost. Swept away from homes they built and the family they shared.

I don’t want this to be about Tuscaloosa. Or Pleasant Grove. Or just this storm. I want this to be about remembering the human element in this. The part that could have easily been you. It’s in that way we can honor those who sufferd, remember those who need us, and extend our hearts and souls and wallets and time the next time our skies darken. 

Unhappy Hipsters

Yes, please.

At the harried week’s end, few things top a thorough retina-cleanse in isolation. Photo: John Clark; Dwell

Source: “Valentina ignored her father’s attempts to recreate Where’s Waldo? by comfort eating and practicing the lotus position.” (Photo: Todd Selby)

Source: As with most everything in her life, it was choice that she found crippling, not the actual action. (Photo: Dave Lauridsen; Dwell)

Source: “From this single piece of furniture he had everything needed to achieve world domination—he would have to speak to father about the height setting on the chair though.” (Photo: Jason Schmidt, Dwell)

Some day I'll return...

Joshua Radin- You’ve Got Growin’ Up To Do

Braingasm.