What is it like to know where your smile originates from? What is it like to understand why you crave raw cinnamon rolls? What is it like to apply your mascara and envision exactly whose baby blue eyes are staring back at you? I’ll admit, I’m jealous. I’m jealous of the girls whose dads take them hunting. I’m jealous of brides who embrace in their father’s arms during a first dance. I’m extremely jealous of the women who have one issue in their life and know that their mechanic, bodyguard, or carpenter is one phone call away. But in that moment of jealously, I have to remember all those accomplishments that most females haven’t done without them.
Time Flies
Eighteen years ago today (10.13.2003), my sister’s father (not mine) picked me up from second grade. He pulled me out of single file line with my classmates to hop into the back of a purple Camaro. Something that to my knowledge had never happened before. He strapped my sister and I into the car and we headed for home. The entire way my eighth-grade sister pushed sobs and sobs of salty waterfalls from her eyes. I thought, “Wow, our brother, Dustin, has only been away at college for 2 months. Does she really miss him that much?” We drove the short 7 miles to our white two-story home built on a hill by my father and grandfather. As we drove up the gravel driveway, I noticed we had visitors! My brain only remembers seeing my Aunt Barb’s van and I got a little excited. Then, it switches. The memories only show up in black and white. I step into the house surrounded by sorrow and scared, soaking wet faces. Hey, my Grandma Mary Ann is here, too! How fun? Also, why does everyone want to hug me? And that’s it. The flashback stops there. The lights go dark. Sure, I remember sneaking finger fulls of cookie dough from mom’s mixing bowl or sitting on his lap for the Daytona 500 holding a bowl of cauliflower, broccoli and a heavy side of ranch. But as for memories of playing catch with a football, yelling at me to hold the flashlight higher or any typical movie scene where the daddy is always proud of his daughter is non-existent in my brain.
Your secrets safe with me.
I speak of my jealously and write of my trauma as if the readers are all licensed, discreet therapists not possessed by the devil (Any Days of Our Lives fans out there?). It’s a deep, dark feeling that I’ve learned to live with much like a parent who has lost their child. Something that I’ll never be able to understand why but frankly, something that I’m glad happened to me. Yes, glad. Glad because "I'm Still Standing." Maybe not, "better than I've ever been" but most women my age or in general, don’t have 10,000 father-like figures to chose from. Most orphans, yes I was listed as an orphan due to my parents being unmarried, don’t have “an uncle” in each county, blood or not. The support that I’ve received throughout my life and continue to be blessed with trumps all those feelings of sadness. Of course, this week every year cuts a little deep at the heart strings, but wouldn’t it be loveless without a few tears or puddles every now and then. I’m so thankful, so thankful, of the people who tried and continue to try to keep my smile bright. People who teach me how to shoot a gun. People who buy me a shot of Tuaca. People who fill my belly full of popcorn. People who share stories of their fathers, their grandfathers, or of their childhood in general. I turn a bit green when families have an opportunity at linear family pictures or outdoor wooden signs displaying their last name for generations but it’s humbling. I may not have those materialist things, but I have the brightest heaven above me and most caring blessings on the ground around me. This young girl has the warm hugs from her grandmothers, the untold yet touching-the-surface stories from her uncles and the most inspiring purpose to live a contagious, happy life.
I may not live a perfect life to be proud of or eat a healthy bowl of vegetables every Sunday but I look through my gifted lens at other’s perspectives. I see the reason behind the alcoholism or drug addiction. I understand the need to move far, far away. I rationalize the outbursts and Brittney 2007 vibes from strangers. We all have a skeleton or two that needs our forgiveness and understanding, I just happen to write about mine.
Here to you, here's to me.
Cheers to 18 years of encompassing your personality, livening up every party, and adding the risks to each adventure with your protection. I’m lucky. I’m fortunate and I’m proud to turn the lemons into lemonade and spill a little vodka in the cup for your honor. Heres to 18 years.
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