The House.

Today work lead me into a home of a boy with Autism. The house was filthy. I threw up in my mouth, literally. I don't know if I have ever in my life felt so sick because of a smell. When I got in the car Miranda Lambert's "The House That Built Me" came on the radio. I cried.

The house that built me was clean. It fed me good fresh food. It tucked me in at night so tightly that not the fiercest bed bug or monster from the closet could get to me. The house that built me made sure that I hugged my parents and told them that I love them. It saw me mess up, but no matter what it made sure that there was forgiveness and love. And when it was cold it always made sure that I had a big mug of hot chocolate.

This house doesn't do that. In that house, the bed bugs do bite. The closets shouldn't even be opened, they can't be trusted. There are no hugs, hardly even a "Hello, how was your day?" When hot chocolate is made, it sits on the counter for weeks, stains the mug and gathers unwelcome guests.

I cried in the car. I cried when I got home. I'm crying now (the very last episode of the Oprah Winfrey Show is on). I wondered what Oprah would say if we sat down and talked about it. But that is silly because I know what she would say. "When you know better, you do better." That broken home doesn't know how to build, how to renovate, how to love. I hope that I can put love there, if not me than may that seed be planted by someone else.

I hope that in the heart of every home love can be found. Father, thank you for providing me with a home that built, and still builds even after I am gone. I pray that others would be blessed to know the home that I was raised by.

The Thoughts.

I know that there are thousands of thoughts swirling around about Osama Bin Laden's death yesterday, so I will only say these 2 things.

First: I cannot believe it was nearly a decade ago that my 15 year old mind was discovering the 'post-9.11' world. For months my pen filled my journal with thoughts of the world that I knew collapsing. I knew people who died, my parents were close to people who died. But some how over time that all went away. Those feelings come back on occasion, most often on September 11th. But they are back today on May 2nd, 2011. Others are finding justice in the death of the leader of Al-Qaeda but all I think of is this -

Second: "I mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice the death of one, not even an enemy. Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that." - Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

I cannot be happy, but I cannot be sad either. I think I am content today. Everything is okay.

The Nicest Thing Ever Said.

I started this post, and then I deleted it. And then I realized that writing this is going to make me cry.

If there are 2 people who mean the most to me in this world it is my Pops and Grammy. We celebrated Grammy's 90th birthday last September and Pops just turn 87 a month ago. I have few memories of him when I was young where he wasn't giving me horseyback rides. He assembled all of my dollhouse furniture. He taught me how to pick raspberries. He played Twister with my cousins and I and he won. We were best buddies, he would say that too. On my wedding day he said to me with tears in his own eyes "Ca, this is the best day of my life."

I cried then too...

After that picture was taken I walked away. And since then I have never thanked him for the single most wonderful thing anyone has ever said to me. Of course my wedding day was the best day of my life, but for him to love me enough the to say the same thing is indescribable, something that I will never forget as long as I live. I'm afraid to thank him, that was a year and a half ago and I wonder if he even remembers it. I'm more afraid to not thank him, he can't leave here without knowing how much he really means to me.

The First Memory.

I have this memory from when I was two years and two months old. I was in the hospital visiting my baby brother for the very first time. My Pops and Grammy brought me and they had let me get a balloon from the hospital gift shop for Mikey. I chose purple and it had letters on it I think, but I don't remember what it said. My Mom was lying in the hospital bed with my brother and Pops and Grammy were standing by the door. Grammy was wearing a black skirt, but that doesn't say much because that is what she wears in all my memories of her. Dad was holding me and I was holding the balloon. The thing is that I let the balloon go out the window but I didn't cry. It must have been too happy of a day for crying.

That memory is so vivid in my mind that I call it my first memory, but the thing is I don't even know if I remember it. So many people have told me that story that I think I remember it, but when I really really think about it I don't really know. The truth is that I have another memory, which is really my first memory but it is so vague that I have discounted it. Right before Mikey was born, Dad took me on a bike ride to Island Beach. 21 years later I took my wedding pictures there. It is one of those places where I remember growing up and I am sure that it will make other appearances in future blog posts. Anyway, all I remember is sitting in a bike sit on the back with a helmet on. I remember Mom standing next to me before we left, she was very pregnant and I was wearing sandals. When we got to the beach Dad parked his bike by the water fountain. I don't know if that is still there though. And that is all.

As much as I want to believe in the memory purple balloon and my baby brother I don't know if I can. I wonder what other things I know to be true simply because other people have told me so. I hope I don't discount the things that I know simply because it doesn't seem worth believing in or because the memory seems too far away.

The Merry Christmas 2010!

The Little Things.

I write hundreds (literally) of posts that I never publish. In fact I am hesitating now because I know that I have written about this before, but I fail to remember if I posted it or not. I don't know what it is but I sit down to write about this extravagant, or horrible, or noteworthy event from the day and when I write it all out, the words don't seem to come and so it's importance just seems to dwindle.

We have assigned parking spots at school, I'm number #74. To my left is a jean-blue ginormous Toyota Tacoma. Also, it never pulls in all the way so when I back out of my parking spot at the end of the day, it is nearly impossible to see around it. So last week, while concentrating so hard to see around the back of this truck, I failed to look right and was nearly hit by another vehicle backing out of their spot. My first reaction was OOOOH @#$%#!! My second was "I have to go home and blog about it." So a walked in the door, dropped all my things and immediately picked up my computer to blog about it. So I wrote it all out, and suddenly I had this overwhelming feeling of WHY DOES THIS MATTER! It was my fault after all - you do need to look in BOTH directions when you are backing up a car. And then I deleted my entire post one letter at a time, 2nd grade style by taking my pointer finger to the backspace key. I let the blank page sit there, made myself a soft pretzel for snack, and then turned on Oprah.

Even now I'm forgetting why I wanted to tell that story. But at the end of the day, it just doesn't seem to matter. There are more important things to think about, do, and invest my time in. I want to write the important things, remember the important things, post the things that shape my life. But the words seem to come easier when I have a "near death experience" or when the Gap doesn't have the right size for a Christmas gift I wanted to give. In the end those are the little things though, the things that can get deleted. The important stuff stays closer to my heart, and is harder to pour out on "paper". When I started this blog it was my intent to share those things, I didn't expect it to be so difficult. Even now I want to delete this but I'll make you read it instead...

The Holiday Season.

That's right, I said it. I know you didn't want me too but I did it any way. But it's true it is! And this is how I know how...

Outside my own front door the town of Ipswich (which has connections to Santa Claus himself) hung these beautiful holiday signs. And if I were Martha Stewart you would also see this outside my front door:

It would probably have a red ribbon though... Happy Holidays!