The Soapbox Papers

The Soapbox Papers is my two-cents worth.

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Location: Beloit, Wisconsin, United States

I am a cross between Tinkerbell and Calamity Jane.

Saturday, September 18, 2004

Two out of Three Ain't Bad...

Nope - Two out of three ain't bad (Who sang that? His name eludes me at the moment - I just remember he was not especially pretty to watch, but he could sing! Patience, patience -- the name is somewhere in the cranium, but now and then the cranium fogs up and things are hard to reach. Eventually the fog lifts and -- twenty minutes later into a conversation, almost like magic in slow motion -- the right word emerges. ) Hm. Could have been Joe Cocker.

What two out of which three? My kid people. Two actually commented on the first introductory post. Now, I don't know about you, but I could always say things in the written form much easier than I could muster up the spoken words, so I welcome these two with my whole heart. The third? The third has wandered off in a noble quest - to raise his two little boys (partnered with his wife, who has one of the most beautiful smiles I have ever seen). Circumstances being as they were, he has adopted another family, referring to me as his "birth mother" although, unlike birth mothers of adopted children, I never willingly let him go, even for altruistic reasons. I consider him stolen from me -- and I will always hold one particular man responsible for that.

It has taken a lot of work, two therapists, a psychiatrist or two and a fountain of antidepressants to come to grips with that (and other -- my madness springs from many wells -- though this was among the prime sources) and in the coming to grips with it. The fact that there is nothing I can do today to change it, no way I could have changed it when it happened, means acceptance. He called the play - I get it. Don't have to beat me up over it -- I just get it. So My Son the Military Guy has not checked in. Still, two out of three...

My Son the Professional checked in, bemoaning the fact that to comment here you have to sign in here. He is my youngest, my heartsong. Also my heartbreak. Mothers, you know what I mean. With anything or anyone you love, the old adage says to let it go, and if it comes back it is truly yours. Sort of. He has demanded his space, his independence (go Taran!) and I would wish for him these minor markers of success and then remind him - as I believe all young men must be reminded - that a man is not free or independent until he stop consciously fighting (blindly) for those things. Independence and individuality are evident in a person when he puts down the pistol, sheaths his claws and, trusting he will neither be eaten alive nor lost in the shuffle, he simply takes his place in the family and in the world with a calm dignity that commands the respect he is due.

And Jinger - my bright and funny and beautiful daughter checked in. She is my heart's peace, the keeper of the realm of family, sometimes the keeper of sanity itself. Jinger knows stuff. I don't know how or when she figured it out, but she knows stuff. Jinger knows instinctive stuff, and though I don't always understand why she does what she does, SHE understands why, and that is enough for me. I trust her decisions, and I like the gentle way she carries them out. She has, for qualities, the best from her father and the best from me - although I think her lesser traits come from her father's side except for one major one, from me, which perhaps I will get to writing about one day. The questions she raised in her comment on my first posting were some I have already begun to prepare for airing out here.

So that's about it. Today is Saturday and I have things to do, laundry to launder, and plants to feed, books to dust. I may not write on a daily basis (too much like journaling - which I detest!) but I will do what I can.

Yours for Hi-Test under 2USD per gallon --


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