The more things change, the more they’re different

I went to my mom’s last week to take Moonshine to register for college. Listen, you’re only going to have to hear about this a hundred more times.

My mom and dad bought the house my mom still lives in brand new in about 1968 for like $23,000. And my mom somehow managed to keep that house and pay it off, I wasn’t as fortunate with mine.  And I know some months were really hard for her.

This is her tree they planted in the front yard.  It’s a giant maple and is gorgeous.

I was sleeping in my childhood bedroom with Tenderheart telling her what a bad kid I was and how I was lucky to be alive. I don’t know where it all went wrong. And then I found an autobiography I had to write in the 10th grade. It basically outlined my entire life from birth to 10th grade and some life events that had happened.

Number one, I was born and I talked about coming home with strange people and a sister who was not a fan. Then I went through every grade with my teacher’s name, my friends, and a story about every grade. I can’t imagine I remembered something from every grade but I did and it was hilarious. Some of the stories I’d  already told my kids like in second grade when I started using my middle name but didn’t tell anyone and then they asked who “Lynne” was and I hadn’t remembered  I was doing it. It was short lived.  Then in third grade when I wore my mom’s old glasses to school and really committed to it until the teacher asked if I got glasses and I said no. Let’s just say I wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. And I just wanted attention but then I didn’t like the spotlight on me. I wanted quiet attention.

In the autobiography there was a timeline of life events and it was above the line for something good and below the line for something bad. Everything below the line was something involving my dad. I wonder why some dads don’t realize the impact they make on their children. When I was seven he moved to another state and I didn’t see him for two years. Two years in the life of a seven year old must have seemed like a lifetime.  And I get it, I’m a grown-ass woman, I should be over it and I mostly am, but it’s making me really talk to my girls about the importance of having kids with the right person. Someone who will make a good dad and stay and be present and love them. You’d think that would go without saying, that it would be intuitive, but it wasn’t for me. I married a dead beat.

I also drove by my grandpa’s old house. He lived around the corner from us and he stayed and took care of us. I wonder if my dad tried to get him to move too or if he felt as abandoned.  His front tree we used to climb looked the same but they’d made his garage into a den. And it was just different. His garage had so much junk, before hoarders was a thing, and my sister and I used to climb it to try and get around. He probably had every magazine he’d ever read. I don’t know why he couldn’t throw anything away, but my dad had that too.  Unfortunately for him, my stepmom was not having that so he was a non-practicing hoarder.  He hoarded in different ways, hats, t-shirts, shoes; and my grandpa saved clothes, cologne, magazines.  It makes me want to go through my whole house and sell or throw away everything.  Or keep everything because I might need it.  It’s a fine line.


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