happy father's day

She made it tough to find him. She went as far as to give me her high school class ring - from a school she didn't attend. She buried the trail deep. False facts scattered brilliantly. A multi-dimensional set of little islands of lies she might need in a future fabrication. Deep.

I found him anyway. Serendipitous bit. Another story. A story that confirms that bit about all it takes for evil to triumph is for good people to do nothing. One of those good people had enough one day, and gave me his phone number the next.

I met my father when I was 30. And my adored little sister when she was 10. The weight of a non-existent past is surprisingly heavy.

We learned about each other in bits and pieces. He never tried to step into a false role. He referred to himself as my' Pops', but I preferred 'Dad.' We always discussed things as equals. He told me the stories about how he had tried and tried. How he always thought about us; me and my brother. How he always knew we'd find each other somehow. Some way. Some day.

We made our way over the last years. I often disagreed with his positions on issues, but he always made me giggle with the almost maniacal fever of his assertions. He was all about some very odd theories of the end of the world. I didn't realize the end of ours would come about so soon.

I was in CVS picking out cards. Cards for Bear's father and step-father. Cards for Rio's grandfathers. Cards for Bear from Rio. She opened a musical card that played 'Freebird.' It was a jokey card about a dad not being too old to rock and roll. And I'm surprised I was surprised by the tears. They pricked my eyes and I had to struggle to keep them contained. The thick, gray sadness that has gradually gotten easier to bear, came back almost unbearably hard. I miss my father still. Always. Deep.

If I could send him a card today, I'd pick that one that played 'Freebird' and I would sign it with love. I'd tell him he was not too old to rock and roll. I would promise to keep his stories, and the memory of him alive for Rio. I would promise to watch over Valencia, although she needs it less and less. I would include pictures of my happy little family, including the dog, because he loved animals AND cautioned me to always kiss my husband before kissing the dog. I might include a picture of me kissing the dog. I would tell him I love him and I miss him. I would tell him he's a great dad. Maybe the greatest. Certainly the most missed.

new and interesting ways to make my head explode

She's reading. A lot. Big and involved words. Thinking all.the.time. She's constantly asking me what words mean. It's been great for me to try to get concepts like satisfied across. My brain is creaky but enjoying this new level of interaction.


She recently made up a word. I believe it's spelled O-Z-U-L-E-E-N-E-R-S. She would NO DOUBT correct me. The only challenge is that it's now on the list of "What does that mean?" and how in the hell am I supposed to answer that?

I made up a definition after being asked 4,117 times since breakfast "What does 'ozuleeners' mean?".

me: It means to scrub.

rio: Actually,that's not even close.

me: Well then, what does it mean?

rio: How should I know? That's why I asked you!

sedate ... or boring?

I'm sure you missed it but, this blog was hott pink for a minute. Oh, with little funny scrawly drawings.

So. Yeah. Tomorrow is the Tea Party at Rio's school. I'd better get to bed so I'm not the scary looking mom.


huh. too much pink, methinks

Playing around with a lot of things.



Returning to blogging.


Before I had a kid, I had no way to mark time. She firmly believes she's the center of the known Universe and that everything that happens involves her *somehow*. Every thing that I tell her about triggers the question, "How old was I?" and it is at once endearing, and maddening.

But I look at her now. She has a huge vocabulary. She has her own style of dress and I happen to believe she's channeling the lost spirit of Liberace most of the time. She's better in heels than I. She's better at math than I. She's says 'Go-ed' for 'went' and it's the only time of the day I get to feel smug.

She's 4 years, 10 months, and 9 days old. That's when my life really began.