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Finding a poem – and him loving another

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I found a poem today … from my love.  To someone else.

And I adored it.

We both have yesterdays.

Those yesterdays make up who we are today.

Those yesterdays made the timing just right for what we have now.

Who would we be if we didn’t experience heartache, longing, change?

Who would we be if we were stagnant?  Not growing, not hurting – figuring out what worked in our lives and what didn’t?

I cherish his memories.  Because not only did he care for people, but he shared with me that he cared for them.  I couldn’t love someone that discounted their past.  Who wrote if off like it never happened.

Then it would mean I never happened.

I’m not jealous.  I have such confidence in our love it’s bonkers.

I cherish every step he took – every painful step he took and kept walking!!

He has a girl – that he adores.  Her name is Amy.  And for a while, I had a fleeting problem with him sharing a house with her.  Silly.  But, you know how I am.  Honest. This feeling cropped up knowing he had a past, and hopes, and dreams with her – and I was on the heels of falling in love.

Silly, because, she’s pretty freaking amazing.   And she was there for him.  When he needed her most.

I adore her too.  And she reached out to me the other day – and while we only exchanged two IM’s, the mutual respect was there.

Things happen for a reason.

And I know that amazing woman will always be part of our lives.  And she must be.  Because she seees in him what I see in him.  She loves him.

And he loves her.

And he has never made that a secret.  And I love that about my  future husband.

He adores who he adores – endlessly.

That makes me feel safe.

The honesty.  The dedication.  The loyalty.

What he gives to those he loves.

I love.

 

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Writers Remorse

I’ve been pretty careful about skirting around some issues for the purpose of respecting people in my life – or protecting people in my life.  This has been a little frustrating, but par for the course of ‘going public’ with my blog.

Originally I wanted a spot I could write anonymously (other than my journal). A venue where I didn’t have to edit myself.  I had hoped to share and help others with some issues I haven’t addressed yet.  It is what it is though, and I do have to edit myself. 

Yesterday, after my post about my son I felt pretty rotten.  I shared my concerns with a writer friend who told me not to edit it – to stick with what my gut told me to write.

And he was right.  I wrote from my heart and from the place I was in right that second.

So consider this an amendment of sorts.

My son is kind-hearted, funny, loving, intelligent, and good.

My frustrations yesterday had to be looked at.  Examined.  Because the fact that I was having a physical reaction to something that wasn’t even intended to piss me off, definitely deserves to be contemplated.

If I have learned anything in the past few years, it’s that most emotions stem from fear.

I am scared. 

I am fearful that I haven’t done enough, taught enough, instilled enough and the clock is ticking on my sons childhood.

He will be 18 in March of next year. 

I want him to say ‘thank you’ when people do kind things for him.  I want him to see someone obviously up to their elbows in work and offer a helping hand.  I want him to be aware of his surroundings and make sensible choices.  I want my son to know and show gratitude.

I can want these things for him until I’m blue in the face – but I can’t make them so.

I have tried to teach by example.  When I missed his first step, his first laugh, a school assembly, I hoped at least he would grow up knowing the importance of hard work. Knowing that providing for your family is important. 

I’m demonstrative with my gratitude, my love, my compassion.  I want him to see those things in action and have them become a part of who he is.

I’ve never beat him, never told him he was less than and never has he gone without a meal or an article of clothing that he required. 

My son has had the best of me and my time is almost up.

He’s going to be in the worlds kitchen while it’s population is carving, cleaning, juggling tasks.  And I don’t want him behaving the way he did in mine.

I tell myself ‘God doesn’t have grandchildren’.  I also remind myself that it took me a long time before I knew half of what I know today. 

I guess it all boils down to that age-old wish.  I don’t want him to make my mistakes.

But this isn’t about me. 

I could have handled yesterday a lot better. So obviously, at 43 I still have a great deal to learn.  Why be so hard on a 17-year-old?