Seventh Grade

If only I could go back to those days with what I know now, with the confidence and filter-less mouth I have grown in 24 years. Oh, heavenly days!

I would call the eighth-grade bully's bluff and meet her after school. (She threatened one of us Every. Single. Day). I would not slam the door and yell at my mom, but open it and tell her I love her. I would learn to do a lay-up before basketball tryouts, so I didn't get cut from that sport, too. Or maybe not. That led to cheerleader Suzanne. :) Go team!

But I really wouldn't go back. (or would I?)

To explain more about my beloved "Twitch" friend, whom I mentioned in the last post, and who told me that my brief mention didn't paint her in the best light, I travel back to seventh grade, dusting off cobwebs to get there. . .

We had just moved to SJ a month earlier, and now it was the first day of school. I was, of course, ultra self-conscious, but that didn't stop me from picking the only purple-chaired desk (it was totally my fav. color!) in the VERY front row of the classroom, so that my new teacher would see his best student up close right away. The bell hadn't yet rung to begin the day, so students milled around and chatted in their cliques. I sat, staring straight ahead, butterflies bumping violently against each other in my stomach. I just wanted school to start, for I knew how to feel comfortable completing mindless worksheets and reading. A boy behind me loudly asked, to everyone within a mile of his voice, "Hey, is that new kid a boy or a girl?" Um, that would be not-even-close-to-developing me (I didn't acquire the ladies until college!), with my boy-short haircut, to whom he was referring. I gulped, fighting back tears. Another voice, female this time, retorted, just as loudly, "She has earrings on, stupid." I turned towards my rescuer, timidly but oh so grateful, who smiled and beckoned, "Come back here with us." I got up from my seat, walked to where she stood with her cool friends, and eagerly joined them.

Fast foward a few months. . .
Changing classes from homeroom to social studies, we discovered a new seating arrangement, with desks placed in groups of four. Because this teacher had no clue, he let us pick our seats. My rescuer and I both wanted to sit by the same girl (she's my BFF, no she's my BFF, are you my BFF? You know - so seventh grade). She sat by her, I called her the word that rhymes with ditch, the tenured teacher was still outside his door, unaware of any happenings in his classroom, and the encouraging words began. Fight! Fight! She slapped me (for which I don't fault her- I had called her that, after all); I slapped her back. The crowd began to gather round. She pushed me. I pushed her back. Teacher finally entered the room and broke it up. Sent us down the hall to "work it out" (really? can you say lawsuit?!). We went, we cried, hugged each other, apologized, and went back to class. So seventh grade! Not only was she the last person to whom I cussed (okay, maybe a couple more times in my life after that), she was my only physical fight (so far). Honored?

Fast forward many years. . .
One of my oldest and dearest friends, this not-even-a-bit-of-a-twitch sis of mine. We have a history, but more importantly, we have a present. She still has my back, and I hers. I cherish each part of who we are to each other. My cup runneth over.

Famdamnily

I don't cuss/swear/express myself in four-letter words. I just don't. I am not judging those who do, (trust me, I have no room to cast any stones with my glass house), but I'm merely pointing out that this isn't me. I did have a brief period of potty mouth in seventh grade, calling one of my now-best friends a word that rhymes with twitch, but I digress (that is a great story for later, though).

But being around a lot of family makes me want to let out a string of words that would make my cussing friends shout, "It's about time!"

I love my family. Truly I do. They are great, supportive, wonderful, loving, tender-hearted, thoughtful, and compassionate. Some of the best people I know. I am blessed to be a part of them, to have them a part of me.

That being said, when you get a bunch of people together and stick them all in one house for awhile and have to make some hard decisions, the nerves can get rattled. Hairs stand on end. All of a sudden you want to have a full flask of something in your purse to drown the annoyances.

Just give me strength to get through this week, I pray, and to remember we're all just doing the best we can.

Death Sucks!

My Grammy passed away at 2:02 P.M. today. It took her a week, well actually 90 years, to die. It was her time. She'd lived a good life. She was in pain and is no longer. She is in a better place. She's reunited with my Grandpa, her parents. I will see her again. We are sealed together for eternity. All this I know, but it still sucks. Big time.

I was fortunate to know this woman - this strong, beautiful, stubborn, intelligent, crossword-doing, and Oatmeal Creme Pie-eating woman. I am blessed to have parts of her in me. Parts I love and treasure and celebrate. Her love of travel. Her vanity. Sense of style. Ice cream passion! Forgetfulness. Loyalty. Jewelry wearing. Sense of humor.

I know there is more; I just can't think of it all now. My mind is a jumble of memories and thoughts at this late hour. My heart is sad, but happy at the same time. I am conflicted.

I had the opportunity to have last precious moments with her, truly as her, on Thursday. She has always lit up when she sees my son, even though her senility prevented her from realizing who he is. She spoke of him being the cutest baby she'd seen in a long time. She said again Thursday, quietly, as I sat before her on her bed, "He's so cute." He "kissed" her nose.

Our last conversations:
As she awoke for a few minutes, Me: Hey, pretty lady!
Taking her hands in mine, Grammy: You're the pretty lady.
Me: No, you're the pretty lady.
Grammy: You're a pretty lady.
Me: Well, people tell me I look like you, so what does that say?

Later, saying goodbye, for the day, and, as it turns out, for this life:
She repeated that my son is cute. I told her, "I love you, Grammy," about five thousand times, and kissed her on her forehead. She looked at me, and I knew she knew who I was (that hadn't happened for awhile). I turned to go, holding my son, and my cousin said, "Suzanne, she's talking to you." I turned back to hear her, but I missed the words. My uncle hadn't, though, and he told me what she had said: "I love you, too."

I know she does.

Filter

I was born with a brain-to-mouth filter. It was genetically implanted from my mom, who is the nicest woman and doesn't (hardly) say anything bad about or to anyone. As I've grown older, I've noticed my filter getting clogged and not quite working anymore. It used to prevent me from saying things to people that might hurt feelings or cause friction.

My mom gasps in horror when I tell her things I say. She gets that oh-no-what-did-you-say-now-to-embarrass-me-and-how-are-you-my-daughter-with-that-mouth look and searches for a blank note to send to the person who most recently was subjected to my venom/sarcasm/questioning.

I, on the other hand, welcome this lack of a filter. I feel liberated. Mischievous. And real. Yes, fake-smile cheerleader Suzanne does still exist, happy and bubbly and all happy happy joy joy I have a great little boy! But there is another Suzanne under there, too - one who doubts and fears and makes fun and watches too many episodes of rerun sitcoms. Mean girl Suzanne. She does exist. Hear her roar!

One lady at a Show Low wrestling tournament last December did hear me, but I blame that on the psycho pregnancy hormones. Without them, and with my filter out of commission, I'm ready to take on the in-laws who ignore my very presence now.

Visor Boy

I decided to have two blogs. My first one was established for the sole purpose of posting pictures and information about my child for those who are nearby and far away and wanted to know. It is private because, yes, I am paranoid. Since I want to share this first blog with my child someday, I haven't put all my innermost thoughts and feelings there. Instead, I've let them bottle up inside me until I am ready to burst. I should just keep a journal, but this seems easier. Thus, this second blog. The title explains it all. I will keep it real. I may not reveal all (about me anyway!), however, as that is too scary and weird. I am thinking more Seinfeld-esque observations about the goings on in my small-town life. We'll see what develops.

Here goes.

Why does one need to wear a visor indoors? I may be missing something here, but I don't get it. At all. Did I not get the fashion memo about them being the new "in" thing? Are there basketball plays taped underneath for quick and easy access? Is there a hairpiece attached for early-pattern baldness? What is it? Maybe visor boy can tell me. I don't even know his real name. That's okay. He doesn't know mine, either.