Hole In My Heart

I cried on the way to work today... cried at least once this morning... and am tearing up now, on my lunch hour.

Keira is going to Iraq. She has a fabulous new job, one that is perfect for her and for which she is perfect. She'll be running an MWR facility, and I guarantee the troops that use that facility, will be the most well-cared-for troops in the entire war. This is a dream for her, and one of those rare instances where you know someone up there really got it right.

But.

Her going-away party is this weekend - and so is my Mommy-and-Me weekend with Red. In Dallas. And that has to take precedence. Keira understands completely. Still, that means that, effectively, last night was the last time I will see Keira before she goes to Iraq. The last time, period, for at least a very long time. And I'm not ready. I'm not ready for her to be gone. It's not like she's going away forever, and not like we're not going to burn up the Internet chatting and e mailing constantly. But it's not the same. And I'm not ready. And that makes me wonder how I will handle other goodbyes I'm expecting in the near future. I'm having to face the fact that what is best, is not always easy-and that even knowing that it is what is best, doesn't make it even a little bit easier.

*sigh*

Being a grown-up sucks.

My Little Mini-Me's

I'll turn them into social workers yet. Or at the very least, people who realize that the world doesn't end at the end of their street.

Today I got to bring the kids along on a school project. Long story short, the whole class was helping with the group project of one part of the class, which involved doing a community survey at a housing project near the school. I've been there before, even done projects there before, but it was the first time for me to bring the girls. I wasn't entirely sure how they'd handle it, since they've never really been in an inner-city-type setting. But we got there a little earlier than our scheduled clean-up time, and the survey and food area was set up outside. As soon as they laid eyes on the playground they were begging to go, and I figured it was for the best - it would keep them happily occupied, and me able to help take tickets and serve barbecue to the survey-taking residents. It's what happened when we were done serving and cleaning up, and everyone was getting ready to go, that my daughters surprised me yet again.

"Mommy do we have to go right now? Can't we stay and play a while?"

We stayed about an hour. I sat down on a concrete bench nearer to the playground, in between one woman who was either the parent or the aunt of some of the kids, and another who I don't think was related to anyone there at all - just one of the unattached adults that lives there and is a de facto grandmother for whoever happens to be around. My girls played with abandon, games of freeze-tag and chase, climbing ropes and sliding down slides, while two little boys took turns playing with my hair, trying like anything to braid the slippery strands. I gave away three of my coveted troop-support rubber bracelets, keeping only the one from the Army Ten-Miler, the one "Sgt. Mark" gave to Miah (too big for her tiny wrists) just before he left for Kosovo, and my metal cuff dedicated to the same Sgt. Mark. And of course, I kept my social work bracelet too. The others made their way around the wrists of several little boys, I think, before they settled on their final owners. Heaven only knows what their mothers will think, when they come home with "Army of One" and "Life, Liberty, Freedom" dangling from their arms. But I was in no position to turn down all those big brown eyes, smiling up at me as they hugged my waist. Me, a total stranger, just one of a group that came to ask some questions and give them lunch for their trouble.

And my girls, who never once thought about differences or neighborhoods or skin color - who just knew that they were having fun, playing with a bunch of new kids, and they just didn't want to go. You know what my favorite part is, of having these kids? These particular kids? All the things they have to teach me, and to teach the rest of the world. Keep an eye open in years to come. I think I birthed some movers and shakers.

Another Legend Lost

http://entertainment.tv.yahoo.com/entnews/ap/20060325/114331686000.html

If you've read my "Papa posts" then you already know that my grandfather used to play with Buck Owens. Well, we lost Papa several years ago - '99 or 2000, I can never remember exactly. For the most part I've adjusted, but every now and then it hits me again. When Chet Atkins died. When Johnny Cash died. And now, Buck Owens has passed on as well. All I can think is, as sad as it is, I bet he and Papa are already getting reacquainted and they're up there with a couple of guitars, jamming and laughing and irritating the living hell out of my grandmother. Tex Ritter is probably with them, too, and maybe even Johnny and Chet.

There's some might fine pickin' and grinnin' goin' on in Heaven today. Close your eyes and listen, you might even hear it. I sure do.

"Mama goes where Papa goes, or Papa don't go out tonight..."

Ain't No High-Class Broad

My apologies to my mother, who is probably having convulsions over both the grammar and the vocabulary in that statement. Country music fans, however, will recognize the line from Gretchen Wilson's "Redneck Woman," and this post is about the last night of the Rodeo, and the Gretchen Wilson concert.

Before the concert,they have the actual Rodeo events. Calf-roping, team roping, bullriding, bronc riding, etc. Now, these are a bunch of down-home good ol' country boys, right? So you expect a bunch of Joes and Bobbys and maybe a Bo orLuke... a Mike and a Matt and such... But we also had cowboys like Timber, Clay, Sterling, Kolby, Ryle, Rowdy, and Bonner. There were probably other odd names too, but those were the ones I caught once I noticed the pattern and started writing them down. I'm sure my mother in law wondered what the hell I was doing with my pen and notebook, jotting stuff down as the cowboys were introduced, but whatever.

Yep, my mother in law. Because, as has been our custom for several years now, it was a family affair. Me, all three of my girls, mom in law, sister in law, and niece. Quite a crowd, and some of them people I wouldn't normally be around if given a choice. But we had a good time. The concert was fabulous, as it was last year. In addition to her own songs, Gretchen did Heart's "Barracuda" and a Led Zeppelin song,the name of which escapes me (I sang just a bit of it to Cole that night, and it was on the tip of his tongue but neither of us quite remembered.) But as I was dancing in my seat and singing along, wearing my jeans and my purchased-there "Here 4 the Party" sleeveless ribbed tank top, I realized... yeah... sometimes I really am just a redneck woman, no high-class broad. I mean, I do clean up good. I know how to look and sound and even sometimes act quite respectable. But there are times when I do feel more comfortable just being down-home and casual... and yes, sometimes even a little trashy.

Live with it. ;)

My Amazing Papa

Sorry for the whole dropped-off-the-face-of-the-earth thing... Two major homework assignments last week kept me pretty busy. It was pretty interesting, too, because one of them involved a lot of self-analysis, which is a little hard to do sometimes. Analyzing areas of my life that need changing and improving. Making me face up to things about myself I would rather not face up to.

But the OTHER assignment was the real treat. It was a genogram, basically a family tree, with a paper to go along. In the course of writing the paper, I got clarification on a few old family stories that I had apparently gotten wrong before. It seems that Nana never gave Papa an ultimatum about being a musician or a father - he made the choice to stay home more after my mother was born, since he finally had his little girl (something about daddies and their daughters)... I also knew that he had played with Buck owens, but I never knew that the Roy Clark role on Hee-Haw, was actually written with my Papa in mind. He turned it down, saying he didn't want to commute that far for the taping; if they would have moved the taping up to where Nana and Papa were living at the time, it would have been a different story. He was on show that broadcast more locally, and my mom remembers on Saturday afternoons, the kids would help dad get ready, and then an hour later be watching him on TV.

I always loved, admired, and respected my Papa... but the more I learn about him, the more I wish I'd had even more years, and even more chances to talk to the wonderful man that was my grandfather. I miss you, Papa. Rest in Peace, Roy Chandler Wilson.

Bragging Rights

I am so very, very, very endlessly proud of my daughters. Okay, so I'm always proud of them. But yesterday morning makes me even more proud, and I'll tell you why.

Yesterday was AIDS Walk Houston. When I was first making plans to walk as part of the GCSW team, I let the older girls know that I would probably ask their grandmother to watch them for the morning, and take Little Bit with me in the wagon. I was pretty surprised when they piped up, "We want to go!" I told them it was a long walk. They still wanted to go. I told them it was just over three miles. The Clone reasoned that three miles was only 12 laps around the track at school, and after verifying that we were walking, not jogging or running, (has she seen her mother's thighs lately?), and that it was not a race of any kind, she affirmed that she could in fact manage the walk. Not to be outdone, Red declared her intention to come along as well.

It was a beautiful day. It was a beautiful event. Somewhere early on, we realized that we couldn't keep up with the rest of the team, so we relaxed a little... made it the AIDS Stroll, or the AIDS Amble, or perhaps even the AIDS Mosey. Little Bit had a tiny meltdown toward the end, when she decided she was tired of the wagon but didn't want to walk either - she wanted to be carried. I refused, and refused to let The Clone, a.k.a. Little Mama, step in. But eventually the Walk was over, with very little complaining of heat or sore legs from the big girls. Now, this morning, they're probably aching almost as bad as their mother is... but still... my daughters, at ages 10, 9, and 4, just completed their very first charity walk. How much you wanna bet it won't be their last?

Mea Culpa

A public apology is in order.

Cole is my Unboyfriend. Unboyfriend, or UB, is a designation which tends to objectify him and/or create an artificial distance. That’s not my intention at all. The fact is, I adore the heck out of Cole. He’s a great practically-my-boyfriend. He’s a phenomenal friend. He’s been my rock lately, a source of strength, encouragement, and support. So he deserves better than to be reduced to “UB” in my posts. He really probably deserves to be referred to as “Cole the Absolutely Magnificent Man and My Own Personal Hero,” but since that’s quite a mouthful (eyeful? typing-handful?) I will instead go back to telling y’all stories about Cole, as opposed to UB.

Okay, Cole. Better? ;) (Man, this guy has really got me under his thumb, doesn’t he?)

Thank you, sweetheart.

Centerfield

Sometimes it feels like most of my major revelations come through music.

Tuesday night UB and I got to see John Fogerty in concert at the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo. He put on a fabulous show. He’s one of those artists that sounds just as good live as he does out of the studio. UB and I have talked about this several times in the past – how there are some “artists” who can’t carry a tune in a bucket without a lot of studio engineering to back them up. But John is the real thing, and there was no doubt about it the other night. Every time he would play the intro to a song, the audience would be cheering and screaming, knowing immediately what they were about to hear, and singing along with abandon. (“Bob, I can name that tune in three notes…”)

John Cameron Fogerty will turn 61 this May. He’s been a professional musician and songwriter since the mid-1960s or so, which basically means since his late teens or early 20s. Can you imagine, making a living at what you love to do? Making a life out of your passion, instead of relegating it to a weekend or when-I-have-the-time hobby? And boy, is he ever still 110% into it… jumping and running all over the stage doing his little white-boy-playing-guitar dance… So naturally, that gets me to thinking. What do I love to do? What am I truly passionate about? It used to be the theater, and if I were to get back into that I’d have a blast, I’m sure. I love to dance and to sing, but I’m not professional quality – unlike my mother, who has somehow found a way to branch her talent into a side business, though I don’t know if she’s doing that in Colorado as she did in California. But what I really, really love to do is write, and I have to find a way to bring that into my life in a fuller way than just this humble little blog.

But what else am I passionate about? Social work. Helping people with their problems. Connecting them to the resources and services that are available to them, to help them create a better life for themselves and a better future for their families. I’m not officially a social worker yet, still need my MSW. And where I work, though not officially called a social worker, that’s a big chunk of what I do. I’ve been getting disillusioned lately. Caught up in the drama and the garbage, letting the bureaucracy get to me, letting things get me down, or get me angry. John Fogerty reminded me of something. For many years, he went through legal battles with his former bandmates, that kept him from being able to perform their songs in concert (despite the fact that he was the songwriter). So what did he do? Did he give up and let the bull get to him? Nope. He wrote and recorded new material for a long time. I imagine he played his old CCR stuff to himself, for his family, for friends. And he kept forging ahead, fighting his battle until he won. And now here he is, almost 61 years old, but when you watch him sing, the years fade away. The energy is palpable.

So now, what do I need to do? Ignore the garbage. Vent about the things that are bothering me and then let them go. Do the best I can with what I have and with what I am allowed to do. Search for ways to empower myself and to work within the limitations that have been set on me. Put me in, Coach, I’m ready to play… today… look at me… I can be… centerfield.

Stress

My stepdad came through Houston yesterday, on the way back from a mission trip to New Orleans with the pastor and his wife. All told, there had been about 30 people on the trip, but only Spike, Cool Pastor, and Mrs. Cool Pastor - or perhaps more appropriately, Cool Mrs. Pastor - met us for dinner. "Us" being me, the girlies, and UB. We met at Chuy's, a good Mexican restaurant that's the home of the Elvis Presley Memorial Combo Platter (its real name) and my personal favorite, Crack Dip (not its real name - those NOT in the know, including the restaurant itself, call it Creamy Jalapeno Dip).

No, the visit wasn't the least bit stressful, it was fabulous. No, the title of this post refers to something that came up in conversation, though I don't think Spike ever got the story. Early on in the evening, I got the usual haven't-seen-you-in-forever questions, one of which is, "So how's work?" And I answered, quite truthfully, "Oh, fine... well... except for yesterday when I almost put my fist through a brick wall."

So now, here's the backstory to that comment, which Spike didn't get. I spent three days last week in training. Keep in mind that I have worked there for about 9 months, and this is the first formal training I've been given that specifically relates to my job. In fact, it is only the second formal training I've been given at all, the first being about 5 or 6 weeks previously. The training was both wonderful and horrible. Wonderful because I got all sorts of fabulous ideas on how to really help our customers, the way I've been wanting to help them all along. Horrible, because I've realized how far off the mark we are, and how unlikely it is that I will ever be able to implement the ideas. It feels like our performance measures are set up to make it impossible to do what we really need to do. All of this, at a level over which I have no control or influence.

Thursday night, after the last day of training, I spent about three hours (and stayed up way too late) talking to a like-minded and sympathetic co-worker who is also a good friend. We commiserated over the difficulty of knowing what needs to be done, and not being allowed to do it. I finally tumbled into bed, physically and emotionally exhausted, having temporarily forgotten how much of an emotional sponge I am. I absorbed his frustration, retained my own... and woke up the next morning, having had no less than (and probably more than) four separate nightmare sequences involving work. My head and neck were killing me, a carryover from the day before, and I just dreaded walking back into the office.

When I got there, one person made a smart remark that got my blood boiling a little bit, but I held my tongue. The morning started out quiet, smooth, no problems. And then... and then... I had to deal with the customer of a co-worker who was out for the day, and it was a straightforward enough situation. Program requires customer to work or look for work, customer states he can't due to a disability, we give customer the form he needs to have the doctor fill out so that we can excuse him from the requirement. He was bringing the form back to us, so I had him sit down with me so we could look it over and make sure that was all we needed. Except his doctor said that he can work or look for work, within certain limitations - no lifting, no more than 2 hours of standing, etc. I begin to explain to him what he will be required to do. And he blows up at me. Gets mean and nasty and ugly, all but accuses me of discrimination, tells me he wants to speak to anyone but me since I obviously don't know what I am doing. I smile tightly, transfer him to a co-worker, and rush to the back. I storm into the break room, slam the door behind me, and kick the brick wall... slam my fist into it sideways (note to self: do not slam fist into brick wall while wearing metal cuff bracelet)... slap my open palm against the stucco wall (were it a fist, it would have gone through the wall).. and collapse against the wall in tears. This, of course, brings in a gaggle of co-workers, who in different degrees understand that there is more going on than just one jackass client.

So yeah. Fine, except for when I almost put my fist through a brick wall.