Another Mothers Day

And another Mother’s Day comes around.  This year, I don’t celebrate me (because, you know, Ma) , I celebrate the two beautiful girls who made me Ma. 

Stacie Anne, who has, herself, four awesome kids that I adore, for 38 years has been a source of love, angst, heartbreak and pride. Mostly love and pride.

 For all the turmoil and anger between us over the years, it always to comes back to this. She is my blood, my heart, my baybeegirl. No matter what, this remains truth. I’ve finally figured it out somewhat…the anger over the years. She is too much of me, too much like me.

As I was with my mother, rebellious, determined to make her own mistakes but hopefully to learn from them.  History repeats, and that sucks sometimes.  I have snapshot memories, so many good times with her, times when she held me up, times when she was my only reason to go on. 

I love the little girl that she was, I have deeper love and respect for the woman she has become, for the trials and tribulations that she has and is still dealing with.

A lesser woman would have given up, but not my girl, we are not quitters. We are strong, we are stubborn, and we are too determined to ever fail. We will come out on top. It may take time, but we always rise again.  So to Sissy, I say Happy Mother’s day, pumpkin, and thank you for being my first reason to celebrate. My love to you always <3

And then there is  Lianna Caitlin. The girl who was never Lianna to anyone aside from her grandmother and her fourth grade teacher.  And Lauren.

My Katie.  Another determined, stubborn  kid, rebellious to a lesser degree. The kid who has overcome emotional stress and turmoil that I would never have wished on any kid.  The girl  who wants to adopt every puppy, feed every homeless person, save everyone from every slight. And I say that with utmost admiration. She is, admittedly, spoiled. She will tell you that. But she is also so very giving and kind. 

She has had a rather bendy path to get to where she is, but she has learned along the way, and I think she’s happy where she is. She knows me sometimes better than I know myself.  She is a softer version of her sister, more sure of herself.  It’s taken awhile for her to get that way but she’s a strong, confident young lady and my other source of pride and joy. And heartbreak and angst and worry. But I guess that comes with the territory. Have kids, commit to a life of worry.  And love and laughter and tears and comfort.
 My Katie, my love to you too, always <3
These girls, these angels in my life, have supported me, loved me unconditionally even when they hated me, gotten me through times when I wanted to just quit. Somehow, their sentiments every year paint me as a role model,  a hero, the person they want most to be like. I never saw it that way. I see it as what I was meant to do, what it has been my honour to do,  raise these beautiful girls to stand their ground, to be the best they can, to survive and to soar. And to do it with love no matter what. My love for them both is stronger than any anger, any harsh words, any force that tries to break us, and for them, I celebrate this Mother’s Day because without them, I would not be.

"But you are never all alone

Because I will always

Always love you" 

In My Arms ~Plumb

Your baby blues
So full of wonder
Your curly cues
Your contagious smile
And as I watch
You start to grow up
All I can do is hold you tight

Knowing clouds will raise up
Storms will race in
But you will be safe in my arms
Rains will pour down
Waves will crash all around
But you will be safe in my arms

Story books full of fairy tales
Kings and queens and the bluest skies
My heart is torn just in knowing
You'll someday see the truth from lies

Knowing clouds will raise up
Storms will race in
But you will be safe in my arms
Rains will pour down
Waves will crash all around
But you will be safe in my arms

Castles they might crumble
Dreams may not come true
But you are never all alone
Because I will always
Always love you

Clouds will raise up
Storms will race in
But you will be safe in my arms
Rains will pour down
Waves will crash all around
But you will be safe in my arms

That Chicken Thing

So I’ve decided to blog some of these recipes that I see on FB because why not.  My life is not all pandemonium and random thoughts. I also cook. And bake.  I often see recipes on FB and think, well that looks awesome, I wonder if it works. And I’m sure you have too.  So recently I did the Bundt Pan Roast Chicken. I give it a ten. Seriously.  Easy and delicious.  It goes like this:

Bundt Pan Roast Chicken

Ingredients:
3 cloves garlic
2 carrots, chopped
1 onion, quartered
1/2 lb. yukon gold potatoes, quartered
extra-virgin olive oil
kosher salt
Freshly ground black pepper
1 large bunch fresh thyme
1 large bunch fresh rosemary
1 3-4 lb. chicken, gizzards removed
1 lemon, sliced

Preheat oven to 425° and cover the hole of the Bundt pan with foil.
In the bowl of a large Bundt pan, combine garlic, carrots, onion, and potatoes. Toss with olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Scatter sprigs of fresh thyme and rosemary on top of the vegetables.
Pat chicken dry with paper towels. Season the inside of the cavity generously with salt and pepper, then stuff it with the lemon halves, a few sprigs of thyme, and a few sprigs of rosemary. Rub olive oil all over the skin of the chicken, then season generously with salt and pepper.
Place the chicken in the middle of the Bundt pan, breast side up. Bake until the chicken is cooked through and skin is golden, 1 hour to 1 hour 10 minutes. Let chicken rest for at least 15 minutes before slicing. Serve with roasted vegetables and extra pan juices.

How I did it:
I rough chopped the garlic, and used red potatoes. The Fiance likes red potatoes. With the skin on.  Don’t judge.  The rest was just the same, except for the fresh herbs. I used dried. Again, don’t judge. I bake, I don’t cook. Vanilla beans I have on hand always. Fresh herbs, not so much. Also, oddly the recipe says 1 lemon sliced, but refers to stuffing lemon HALVES in the bird. I compromised. Two lemons quartered. Note: Toss the veggies in a separate bowl with the olive oil, salt, and pepper - I stuck the chicken on the pan…in the pan?  BEFORE dumping the veggies in. Trust me on this. Easier to pack the veggies around the chicken then to move them out of the way so it fits.
PS: Don’t forget to take the gizzards, etc. out of the bird. Just sayin’, I may have a kid or two who has forgotten to do this.
It looked like this pre-cooking:

 

 Also I lined a roasting pan with foil and placed the bundt pan in that, to prevent any unexpected spills or leaks. Heavy duty foil is my best friend in the oven. 

So, in the oven at 425. That’s it. Done. Recipe says an hour to an hour and ten. I would say it went a good hour and a half. I blame my chef kid for making me paranoid about underdone poultry. Though I will never admit that to her. Yes, Katie, I checked the temp.

Done, it looked like this:

Fairly close to what it’s supposed to look like, I’d say. So, let it sit 15  minutes and remove from the pan. Carve as desired. I usually yank the legs off first.
OK so what we’ve got here is a chicken that, I swear, is as good as rotisserie chicken. Not in the least dried out, which I would have sworn being in the oven uncovered for over an hour, it would have been, but nope, even the white meat was delicious. Then the veggies, they soaked up some of that chicken juice, gave them the best flavor. With just two of us, there’s a bunch left over. I figure on one of two things: for chicken soup, I just need to dump some chicken stock in, maybe a bit more seasoning, some egg noodles and it’s good to go. Or I can do cream of chicken. Or perhaps chicken croquettes, salad….it’s such a versatile bird.

Bottom line:  This one is definitely a keeper. Kudos to the genius who thought of it!

Home is...

Home is…

I have lived in several places in my time, mostly on the east coast, aside from a brief, insane period in the 70’s, and mostly on Long Island, aside from a brief, insane period in VA.  Of the three homes I’ve lived in on Long Island, two were “home” quickly. The one I was born in, and the one I married into in the 80’s.
I moved back into the house I was born in in 2009. July.  Circumstances demanded it and my mom was getting too old to be wandering around a 5 bedroom house alone.  I think it was after the call I got in VA when she oh so casually mentioned that she hit a boulder, a lawn boulder, with her car. Between that and the third or fourth random fall from tripping over nothing, it was time.  So I went home, to the house I grew up in, the house that my father, quite literally, built.  That house was full again, with me, my girls, and a couple of grandkids.  And Luna.
Living in that house,  I was flooded with memories, both good and bad. It was so different, yet so much the same. The fireplace where we used to run in from the winter cold and stand in front of to warm up, the cold air in the front hall closet from the attic trap door, the cellar stairwell, where we used to write our names in shoe polish, back when shoes were actually polished, the cool of the back hall, due to there being no basement below it, only crawl space. The kitchen window that looked out on the back yard, how I can still see my mother leaning on the sink, watching the birds. Both of my girls spent literally years of their lives there.  Oh if those walls could talk.  I didn’t do a whole lot to the house after my mom passed, minor furniture changes, ripped up some carpet, small things. But it was always home.  Inevitably it became too much for me, too much room, too much taxes, just too much. It was time to put it on the market.   

Suddenly  I became a master procrastinator, I admit it. The thought of going through and packing about 4 generations of….stuff…was beyond daunting. We had three rooms stacked with moving boxes. I had so many mixed feelings about the move. Selling the house I grew up in that my father built, having to get rid of….the past, moving in general, starting somewhere new, at my age. My heart broke just a little bit the day we left that empty house, with its many ghosts of the past. I thought that I would never have a home that would really be “home” again. I didn’t even realize that I felt that way until recently. We found this fabulous little house  by some stroke of luck. It was perfect. 3 bedrooms, two baths, well one and a half. Full basement, the best kitchen ever, a sunroom with skylight, another skylight on the landing upstairs. And the closet. A WALK THRU CLOSET. WITH SHELVES BEHIND THE CLOTHES BAR.  AND A SHOE RACK.  If you know me…you know.  The closet in what would be my office?  THE WIDTH OF THE ROOM WITH SHELVES AT EITHER END.  And the claw foot bathtub!  And then there’s the barn. Katie thought she might get a cow. I strongly discouraged it. It’s not that kind of barn.
However, it does have a loft. But we did fence in the yard for the dogs.  And the deck.  I love this house.  Did I mention that it was built in 1898? And that it’s on the river? Or the fact that…it’s right around the corner from where we used to live?  Which is really odd, but at least we were familiar with the area.

So we moved and found ourselves in a whole new old house. We moved our furniture and our things in. And started living here.  I had my work from home office set up upstairs, Katie had the downstairs bedroom.  And life went on.  It’s funny when you move, especially if it’s into someone else’s house. 

There’s almost sort of a guilt over changing anything.  It takes a minute for it to sink in….this is MY house, MY home.  The moment came for me just recently. We have made a few changes. Le Fiance has his office down stairs, since Josh stole Katie away and the room was empty.

And I say that with the utmost love and affection.  We rearranged the kitchen some and had an empty corner, which Ikea gladly filled with a workspace for le baker (that’s me).  We made some changed in the living room, threw down a rug (which Ikea also provided), and we’re discussing paint colors.  The moment came when Katie said….”I’m glad you’re finally making it your home”

And I realized…yea, I am.  I’m not just living in this house. I’m thriving in this home.  I’m happy. I may never tire of looking out my office window at the river.

I may never get used to looking up from my computer and seeing the deer at the edge of the woods across the street.  I’m moving on from all the skeletons,

I’ve learned to dance with them. I’ve learned that life is short and I don’t want to miss any of it.  I know that I’m moving towards something. I’m not sure what it is yet, but whatever it is, it will be worth the journey. I’ve realized that I’m not in this alone. For the original Miss Independence, that’s big.  But it’s nice, really nice, just to lean every now and then.  In this home that we’re making.  I don’t take any of it for granted. I’ve come a long way from the person I used to be years ago. I’ve learned a whole lot. I’ve loved, I’ve lost, I’ve loved again. I’ve survived raising two children of the female persuasion, as a single mother, and God knows that’s an accomplishment.  I’ve had happy times, and dreadfully almost disabling sad times. But I’m still here.  And if THESE walls could talk….let’s just be grateful they can’t, shall we?

Little Bastard

So my office, where I work from home, is upstairs on the east side of the house. It’s quiet up here, just me and La Luna, during the day. I have Pandora on low (most of the time), because phone calls. So here I am sitting at my desk under the front windows when I hear skittering in front of me. I stand up to see out the window and there’s two beady little rodent eyes staring at me. STARING ME DOWN.  It seems I interrupted him…her…whatever, I’m not about to get that close, in the act of….cleaning out my gutters? Well then, that’s not so bad. Except that now it gets spooked and disappears around the corner. WTH. There’s nowhere to go but down, buddy.  Oh, how wrong am I.  Anyway, assuming he found his way down to the deck, back to work it is. 

Little Bastard

Days pass.  I’m in my office working. La Luna is passed out in her beanbag. I hear some random noise, could be La Luna snoring or snuffling or whatever that dream noise is that she does.  I turn. I look. La Luna is passed out, not dreaming, not snuffling,  not snoring. Crap. The noise is coming from OUTSIDE.  Like some paranoid madwoman, I walk around listening to the outside walls. Then I notice flakes of wood falling from the sky. Oh. Wait. They’re falling from….the soffit. What. The hell. Is going. On. This is a very old house. Cedar shakes. Wood soffits. Who knew squirrels like to eat wood?? Wait. IT’S EATING MY SOFFITS?  Oh, hell no. I start banging on the walls. Really loud. He/she gets spooked finally and leaves. And comes back daily. 

Cleaning out the gutters

For days,  I feel Little Bastard stalking me.  Occasionally I look out the window and he/she is staring at me. I’m being friggin stalked by a rodent. This top floor is dormered, there is no actual attic. The side windows are directly under the peak of the roof. If I look upward out the window, I can see his furry tail hanging off the roof. He has actually hung upside down FROM THE ROOF and STARED at me like I’M the one intruding.  And I want badly to hurt him. I’m not a vicious person , unless you mess with my kids, my fiancé, my dog….or my house.  This is slowly going to drive me over the edge (some may say there’s not far to go…don’t believe them) Picture Agnes Moorehead in the Twilight Zone “Invaders” episode.  

Twilight Zone-Invaders
Uh huh, that’s about where I was headed. With better hair and clothes, but still.  Listening to this Little Bastard chewing on my house.  That became his official name. Little Bastard. Isn’t that adorable?  It became a routine, him chewing and gnawing, me yelling out the window and banging on the walls. Then I heard him/her over my head. Oh no, oh hell no.  The fiancé said, no, there’s no way he could get in the attic. I said, oh, there is SOMETHING making noise over my desk.  Finally went around that side of the house (it’s the far side of the house, we rarely go over there unless it’s summer or at least spring) and, oh lookit that! There’s a vent. In the very small attic space. A wood vent. With a screen behind it. A screen with a damn tear in it. Little Bastard.  Calling the critter ridder place asap.
“Yea, hi, I have a squirrel in my attic.”
“A squirrel? Are you sure it’s in the attic?”
“Oh hell yea, I can hear it even as we speak, over my head. Definitely in the attic. I need him gone. Like, yesterday. Can you do that?”
“Are you sure it’s a squirrel? Could be a raccoon”
*what the hell difference does it make?? It’s a four legged creature who is definitely NOT a member of my family, living in my damn house*
“I’m quite sure. I have seen it. It has been stalking me from my front roof. It’s a squirrel.”
“We’ll send someone out….is tomorrow good?”
“Yesterday would have been better, but I’ll take tomorrow.”
So Melissa came to my house. Melissa from Utah. What she’s doing in NY is beyond me, but hey, she does squirrel removal so I’m good with that. She walked through my entire house to verify there is absolutely no attic access. After I told her there’s about maybe a foot of attic space, and absolutely no attic access. She was kind. She did not comment on the shoes when she checked my under the eaves closet.  Or my boots when she checked the office closet. We went outside. We stared for a bit at the ripped screen. She decided that they would bring a “block and tunnel” to put over the vent. It’s a little metal cage tunnel that Little Bastard can get OUT of but he can’t get back in. Excellent. Let’s do it. She writes me up an estimate, explaining  the fees. I tell her I really don’t care what it costs, just do it, thank you, my sanity is at risk and South Oaks is not my preferred vacation destination, straitjacket is not my preferred fashion statement.
Apparently the block and tunnel worked.  JT (apparently from Idaho) came and took the tunnel down, covered the vent with some heavy duty mesh stuff, smeared some Crisco with red pepper (FYI, he said it’s been known to repel rodents, red pepper flakes or cayenne. I gave him both.)  where L.B. likes to chew, we’re good. HOWEVER. Now I have a worse problem. A pissed off L.B.  He is now back and chewing on the soffit, chewing on the frame around the vent, wreaking havoc  and stress and endangering my sanity again. Still.  For what it’s worth, we tried humane traps. One was on the deck. He was SUPPOSED to go in the END to get the PayDay candy. But NO, not our L.B. HE went in through the sides and tripped it without getting snagged. And you wonder why his name is L.B. Psht. TWICE he did this. Once when it was on the roof. We reset it and the wind blew it off the roof. THIS SQUIRREL IS OUT TO GET ME, I SWEAR. Good thing there’s a guarantee on this pest control thing. I called them yesterday. Jessica, I said, I have a problem.  JT  came and put up a block and tunnel. It worked, but now I have a pissed off squirrel eating my house. I need y’all to do something.  Death is an option.” (sorry, PETA, do not judge me until you have a squirrel eating YOUR house.) JT came back. I venture outside to greet him.

“Welcome back. What are we doing this time,” I say, glancing at the weird metal tube that he’s just filled with dead leaves from my driveway.
“I’ll put this trap up, and it should get him.  It’s a ‘kill only’ trap.”
“Oh good!  Perfect! OK, well then I’ll be in my office if you need me."
There follows some drilling, hammering, and good lord what the hell is he doing out there.
I see him put his stuff in his car and head back to the house, go outside again to greet him.
“OK, the trap is up, c’mon, I’ll show you.”
So….there’s this big ol’ metal pipe-tube thing hanging right under the vent. “When he goes for the vent, he’ll smell the bait and go in there to investigate, and that should trip the trap.”
“Ooooooh-kay.  And then I call you and you come take him away, right?”
“Absolutely.”
“Awesome…..great…soooo….what happens if he goes in there when I’m downstairs and I don’t hear it…or we’re not home…or whatever, how will we know if we got him?”
*brief pause, sly grin* “oh….you’ll see his tail.”
“……………………………………………………Alrighty then.”
It’s snowing today. Hard. L.B. doesn’t venture on the roof when there’s snow.  We’ll see how this goes. Hopefully once the snow stops I will see a tail hanging out of this thing. I will either call JT to come take it away, or perhaps just for good measure I’ll make squirrel stew. Don’t mock. It’s a thing:
Squirrel Stew
More likely, L.B. will ignore the lure of the bait in the trap, and use the trap itself to sit on as he chews his way into my house. My hate for this rodent is unparalleled. And totally justified.

Pain

If I knew then what I know now...
One of the biggest influences in my life was my father.  He taught me so much, without seeming to do so.  My lasting memories of him are tainted with the crippling effects of the arthritis that he lived with for most of his life.

Daddy was never an overly involved parent.  From my early years when he was in construction,  through the deli years, when he ran, and later owned a local deli, it was long hours and not a lot of family time. It was after I had kids that he mellowed.  Where my siblings and I would barely  DARE to enter my parents room (also his office), my oldest, Stacie, was free to use their bed as a trampoline with no fear of repercussions.

 She was guaranteed Boston creme donuts fresh from Swan Bakery every Sunday. When Katie came along,  it was lunch at the house in Blue Point every day.  During which Daddy would take great pleasure in feeding Katie from his own plate. And sneaking her cookies.

The one pleasure my father never had was holding his granddaughters. He declined, because he was afraid he might drop them.  The pain, the arthritis. I still remember him, in the winter,  in damp weather, rainy days, never complaining, but the pain on his face,  it was always there. I cannot erase his shuffling walk from my mind. Two hip replacements and an ankle replacement, and still the pain. There was the one day at lunch, I was sitting next to him,  he put his hand on the table and commented how he couldn't even lay his hand out flat-the arthritis had deformed it that much. My heart broke for him a little bit that day because I think I finally realized how debilitating it was.
If I didn't get it then,  I certainly do now. I have always considered my pain tolerance to be fairly high. I have never been less than fiercely  independent. Ever. Now I find myself in the hated position of having to depend on others. Since getting hit by a truck,  I cannot walk without a crutch. I cannot drive, as my left elbow required surgery to be rebuilt. As a result,  my left arm is severely limited in its mobility. I cannot do simple household tasks. I curse my lefthandedness. I cannot bake the traditional annual Christmas cookies that everyone looks forward to every year. I cannot sit for long periods of time due to a pelvic fracture. I cannot navigate the stairs to sleep in my own bed. Suddenly I fully understand my father's dislike of cold, damp, fog, rain. I got it this morning when I woke up to fog. I got it the last couple of days when the wind chill was 10. This pain is unrelenting. It takes far too long for my liking to get my ass going in the morning, my hip and my arm stiffen up overnight.
I have started physical therapy. the PT guys are awesome even if I do occasionally tell them I hate them. They're very understanding.  With PT and time,  I hopefully will become independent again.  They say I may not get full range of motion back in my arm but I'm still trying to remain positive.  When the pain threatens to overwhelm, I think of my father and the pain he lived with constantly,  without relief, and I think,  I got this,  I can do this.  I am stronger than this pain. This past month has not been easy,  emotionally or physically. I am still dealing with both the best I can.  But I'm seeing progress, I'm feeling progress, and I know that this too shall pass. it will take time,  and my gut tells me that I will never be enthralled with inclement weather again. But this will, indeed, pass. And I keep reminding myself that it could have been worse, so much worse. I'm still here, I'm  breathing,  as long as I can feel the pain,  I know I'm alive. One day at a time,  I can hear my father's words in my head,  one day at a time....keep the faith.  And so I will.
Everybody Hurts~REM

This is dedicated to the one I love...

My daughter once asked me, “How do you know when it’s for real?”
I thought about that briefly before answering, “When you’re with him, it feels like a big, comfy warm chair. It feels like being home.”
I have been fortunate enough to know this two times in my life. I hurt for those who have never known it. The first time, it changed me from an angry, cynical young single mother to someone quite different. So different, in fact, that people noticed. I smiled more. I wasn’t quite so rough around the edges. Because I had found someone who accepted me for who I was…and did not ask me to change. Who accepted my flaws and my faults, my daughter, my scars and my mistakes, without judging. I lost that love to cancer and I’m not gonna lie, it felt like half of me died. I floundered for a year, gliding through the motions, not feeling, trying to keep it together.
Now I find myself in that place again. By the grace of God, I am blessed to have found love and a best friend. We have come a long way in 16 years. Yea, we met 16 years ago, and aside from a brief break when I moved south, we are still together. And he has accepted me, my family, my flaws and scars and mistakes.
And my dog. Psht. Who am I kidding. He has stolen my dog’s heart. And mine. And I trust him with both. He has taken on my daughter as if she were his own. He has dropped the “step” when talking to anyone about her.  Because in his heart, because she is mine, she is also his. 

He has been there through many losses in my life, stood by my side ready to hold me up if I needed it, ready to help me get through anything life throws at me. He grounds me. He is my safety, my strength, my everything.  He doesn’t see himself as better than me, or anyone, really, we are equals, working together toward the future, as it should be. He is the common sense when my world spins out of control, the voice of reason. He would lay down his life for me and mine. I know this without question.  He is one of the few people who know me for who I really am. One of the few people who I can actually have a “comfortable silence” with, without feeling the need to fill the space with words. I know that, when he’s not here with me, he would be if I needed him, in less than a heartbeat. He has encouraged me unfailingly to believe in myself, because he believes in me.
In 16 years, we have had one argument. One. And it was because I got a little schitzy in the midst of divorce and custody battles. He said what I needed to hear. I got pissed. I got over it. (Note: I will not publicly admit he was right. He’d never let me hear the end of it if I did. And I say that with the utmost love and affection)  One argument.  In 16 years. It doesn’t get any better than that.
Everyone should know this love, this comfort, at least once in their lives, and it’s not fair that some never do. This happiness, this contentment, this security and the knowledge that this, this is what matters in the end. I don’t know, and I don’t want to know, where I would be without this.
So here’s to you, my love, here’s to 16 years past and so very many more, God willing, together in happiness, in love, in life. You are….my better half, my hero, my light in the dark, my joy, my love.

Crystal ~ Fleetwood Mac

Do you always trust your first initial feeling
Special knowledge holds true, bear believing
I turned around and the water was closing all around like a gloveLike the love that finally found me.Then I knew in the crystaline knowledge of youDrove me through the mountainsThrough the crystal like and clear water fountainDrove me like a magnetTo the seaTo the sea
How the faces of love have changed turning the pagesAnd I have changed, oh, but you, you remain ageless
I turned around and the water was closing all around like a gloveLike the love that finally found me.Then I knew in the crystaline knowledge of youDrove me though the mountainsThrough the crystal like and clear water fountainDrove me like a magnetTo the seaTo the sea

Mea Culpa

I have found that there is a saturation point when it comes to hurt. When the scars from all the times past have toughened up to the point where the next attacks, more attacks, because there are always more, just don't matter. Comfortably numb indeed.
It's taken me years to let down my walls, built so carefully from my teen years. You grow up, you maybe, with a little luck, by the grace of God, find the right person and you learn to trust, to maybe love yourself just a little bit, to let others in, let the guard slip. And you never ever, with family history in mind, think the attacks might come from within. Over and over again.

Never assume. History does repeat. There was a time when I could strike back. Now, not so much. I have not the desire nor the energy to fuel this fire. My reality is the truth, the facts. I was never one for delusions. I am not sure what alternate universe you lived in, or how your reality got so twisted. It is what it is. I am sorry that life did not turn out as you planned. I am sorry I was not a more perfect parent - and that I was the only constant one you had. I am sorry your life wasn't perfect, but it was the best I could give you. You don't know that for a long time you were my reason to smile every day, my reason to go on. I am sorry that you seem to forget all the good times, all the times I was there for you, all the times you saved me, and the times I thanked God for you. I could list them, but I won't; I know, deep down, that you know. I  am sorry that you hurt so much, and that you feel the need to lash out at me so often. I'm sorry that we always hurt the ones we love. Perhaps that's why we do, because they love us enough. I am sorry there is no reset, if there was I would turn it all back and redo it all for you. I would do that for you. You never wanted for anything. You were always loved, a love that a mother can have only for her firstborn. The reality is, I cannot fix this, cannot fix you. This breaks my heart. It always has. Every. Damn. Time.
However I will not make the same mistake my mother made before me. I will not let twenty years go by without telling you that I love you. I always did. Whether you believe it or not is your choice. I have been through hell and back with you and without you. It counts for nothing clearly. My life will go on, and I will fill it with the love of those who care enough not to try to destroy me, and  I will be strong as I always am. One day you may be a distant , sometimes painful memory, or you may choose to be part of my life again. Your choice. Regardless, I will always hold you close to my heart, I will hold the precious, precocious little girl that you were, the angry teen that you have been, and the broken, scarred, beautiful woman that you have become, so very close to my heart. Because you are me, you are so much of me. I know you are strong, and you will survive. It's what we do. I don't know how this will turn out, where we will end up. The fact remains we are, always will be, bound by blood. You can't change that, can't erase it, can't forget it. I will treasure the early years. And I will continue to pray for you, and wish you, every year as I always do, all the happiness you deserve and more. Because the fact also remains that all I ever wanted was for you to be happy. I only wish that I could make it so.

And you rip it from my hands
And you swear it's all gone
And you rip out all I had
Just to say that you've won

Well now you've won
But I gave you all
I gave you all
I gave you all

I Gave You All