October 14, 2006

Mommy Wants to Quit

I think I need a new job. I don’t want to work anymore. I miss my baby. Even though he’s not technically a baby anymore, but I’m missing out on his life. He’s only two and every single day that I’m not with him because I’m working, I miss out on things he says and things he does. An outsider to my life may be wondering what is so great about a two-year-old’s day, but I think it’s great and I miss him. I miss Dawson.

I can’t even stand it anymore.

I curse myself for not being smarter financially. I wish I had done things differently so that when Dawson was born, I wouldn’t have had to go to work.

It’s so overwhelming. House payments! Car payments (only 14 left)! Loan payments! Utilities! Groceries! Diapers!! Any other payment that we have to make!

When will it end? When will I be able to be home with my children?

Why am I so angry that I have to work to pay the bills? I don’t hate my job. I don’t love it to pieces, but I don’t hate it, either.

Why am I so eager to be with my son so much that I’m willing to walk out of work, RIGHT NOW, and never come back?

Why, why, why, why, why?

October 13, 2006

Happy Anniversary, Love.

My Dear Sweet Douglas,

Five years ago, today, we were united in marriage. Five years. That’s a long time in the year 2006. So many marriages end in divorce these days. It’s amazing to me that somehow we’ve made it work. It’s amazing how much we love each other after all these years. Every day my love for you grows stronger and clearer than the day before. Every day our bond is strengthened by our continual love for each other.

I remember the first day we met. This story always makes me laugh and smile. I remember the day in 1987. I was eight years old and my father took me to work with him. He let me stock the coolers at his tavern and sit on the bar so I could look into the mirror. You were nineteen; drinking underage and giving my father a hard time about sports or whatever else you could think of. Always the joker, you told my father you wanted to own a tavern someday. My father laughed and said he had one for sale. To which you replied, “I’d never buy one, but I’d inherit one. Someday Frank, I might marry your daughter and run this bar.”

I remember those words and how goofy they were. I was a silly girl and I started to blush and run away. I remember my father laughing at you and the joke you had made. But I can’t help but wonder if God was listening and wrote down what you said. I can’t help but wonder if fate changed that day.

I remember a few days later, after that silly day at my dad’s tavern, my mother took me grocery shopping. We were in the store, walking the aisles and happened to be in an aisle that you were stocking shelves. I believe it was the pet supplies aisle and you were stocking dog food. I saw you and remembered you and hid behind my mother. She was rather annoyed at me for this and asked me, “Dana, what is wrong with you? Why are you hiding?” I whispered to her, “Mom, that’s that scary guy from Dad’s work that wants to marry me.” My mother, true to form, said to me, “Oh Dana, when you’re older I think you should marry someone younger. Men die first. You don’t want to be a widow.” She thought she was being funny. I thought my mother was crazy.

It was several years later that we met again. I became a bartender and you were still a faithful patron and friend to my father. I remember your ex-girlfriends. In fact I was a friend to one of them. I remember your break-up very well. It wasn’t until 1998 that we started our flirtation. At eighteen years old, I was still that silly eight-year-old girl inside. Always laughing and giggling. Always telling jokes. Always walking around with an air of confidence (as if I owned the place). I remember the date of our first kiss. January 20, 1998. While I don’t remember what had happened that warranted our kiss, I do remember it was in the parking lot outside the tavern and I was laughing because it was just a quick lip-kiss.

As the days went by we became good friends. You listened to me. You treated me with respect when other patrons thought of me as a kid and simply “Frank’s daughter.” You respected my father; you respected my values and were always kind to me.

On my nineteenth birthday, we had our first date. I was drunk and you took me to Hardee’s for a chicken sandwich so that I wouldn’t get sick from drinking. It was in that crazy moment, in the drive-thru of a fast food restaurant that I knew you were the man I would marry. I don’t know where the thought came from. It just hit me so suddenly. You were concerned that I was going to be sick. You took care of me. I just knew you were the one.

We continued to date, secretly for many months. I was afraid of my father. Afraid he would be upset that I was dating someone older. Our ten-year age difference was exciting and overwhelming all at once. We didn’t reveal our relationship for nearly a year, but I think people knew. They figured it out. My dad is too smart; I think he knew before we did, that we were a couple.

As the days and weeks and months went by, our relationship grew stronger. You never pressured me into having sex before I was ready. You respected my virginity. You made me feel so important to our relationship. I often wondered if you were too good to be true. Sure, there were things about our relationship that angered me, not being 21 and able to go out to bars with you was one of them, but we got through those days. You let me be who I was and when I did turn 21, you told me to go out and have fun. You wanted to make sure I was happy and that day, I loved you even more.

I knew our love was rock solid when you asked my father for permission to take my hand in marriage. “No,” he said. “You can’t have her hand. Take all of her. And remember, Doug, there’s 5 more people you’ll need to support.” Always a joker, my father – just like you.

I do believe in fate. I do. I think that God joined us together because he knew our love was strong. Our marriage was built to last.

I get teary sometimes, because I remember when I was sixteen years old, I got in trouble for having a party when my parents were out of town. My dad was so angry with me but he felt bad for coming down too hard on me. He came into my room and told me he was sorry. I didn’t say anything. I was being a snotty teenager. My dad always knew how to make me laugh and smile even when I was mad at him. He said to me, “Someday Dana, you’ll understand why I love you so much. I’m your father. It’s my job. And someday, you’re going to marry a man JUST. LIKE. ME.” And I laughed at how silly that idea was. But he was right. You and my father came from the same mold. You can make me laugh and smile even when I’m mad at you. And I understand why you love me so much. You’re my husband. It’s your job. And as your wife, it’s my job to love you more.

I know our marriage isn’t perfect. But it’s close. We’ve had our bad times, like most couples. We’ve had moments of doubt and uncertainty in our roles as husband and wife. We’ve had quarrels. Over finances, sex, politics, parenting, housekeeping, cooking, lawn care and any other thing a married couple fights about. I think what makes us different from others is that we choose our battles to win our war. The war against society – the war to fight for our marriage – we fight to make it work. We realize how important each of us is to the other. We do our best to maintain communication and respect.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have moments of despair, moments where I wonder if I made the right choice, if we made the right choice. And then I realize that our fate was sealed that warm summer day in 1987, because of a silly joke. God was listening. I thank him every single beautiful day of my life for giving me such an amazing husband. The tears that are streaming down my face, as I write this, are tears of joy. Tears of gratitude. Tears of love. Tears that I wouldn’t give up for anything.

I love you Douglas Dale. I will love you every single day that I’m alive. I love you more. And you know.

One Love,
Dana

October 12, 2006

Love Thursday - Temper Tantrums

I know that all mothers go through this. I know that toddler meltdowns are common. I know I’ve complained about how I don’t know how to deal with the screaming and crying sometimes, that I often give my sweet precious Dawson a time out in his crib so that I don’t jump out the window.

But even when he’s unbearable, even when I feel helpless, I love that screaming child so much.

So. Very. Much.

And my love for him was proved on Tuesday night at the grocery store when he had a temper tantrum over those ridiculous quarter candy machines. I gave in and let him turn the knob himself and when he opened the candy door, it went all over the floor. As we were picking it up, the automatic doors in the store foyer opened, knocking my poor child into the candy machine. This caused a huge gash in his cheek, lots of blood, lots of tears and a trip to the emergency room that lasted 3 miserable hours (don’t get me started there).

Stay tuned for the picture of my little scarface. (I haven’t had a chance to take a decent picture of his shiner and scar.) Poor precious child. Next time, I’ll suffer through the tantrum if it will avoid all injuries!

October 10, 2006

Silent No More

My controversial abortion post has given me some amazing comments and some sad comments. You’ll need to read them here and here if you wish to know what this is about.

Ms. Magazine’s article/petition of the 5,000 women who don’t regret their abortions is on newstands today.

But my friend at Generations For Life has a wonderful article you must read here. GO. READ NOW.