Let's get political

Okay, I hate to do this, but it’s time to get political. I don’t hate this because I’m worried about offending someone. I hate it because I don’t see myself as a political person.

I was raised by “yellow dog” democrats. My mom made it her mission in life to talk politics wherever we went. She loved to spout off comments that she heard on NPR and make the republicans in the room turn into red-faced grumps. I never could blame them for getting mad at her for two reasons: 1. She was incorrect on her facts most of the time, and 2. Insulting someone’s political beliefs is not much different than insulting their religion.

I tried to explain this to mom like this. “Imagine telling someone they are stupid for being Jewish.  This is not much different from telling someone they are stupid for being a republican,” I would say.

She never got my point. “Well, if they are mad at me for that, then they are stupid,” was her retort. I would then look for the nearest brick wall to beat my head against.

I turned 18 years old several months after the 1992 presidential election, so I didn’t get to vote. But I would have voted for Ross Perot over Bill Clinton and George Bush, Sr. Why? Because he was independent and I liked the idea of not having to side with democrat or republican. I liked the idea of having to side with “what was right and fair.” Looking back, I can see that Perot would have been a terrible president, but I liked the idea of not having to bow to republican or democrat.

When I turned 18 and registered to vote, I registered under the Independent party in Texas. Every state is different about this title—some states still refer to it as “undecided.” But perhaps “undecided” is the right definition for the political party I want to align myself with.

I never give a definite decision on who I will vote for until I am standing at the voter’s box casting my ballot. When I was in college in Texas, I voted for democrat Ann Richards for governor over George Bush, but when I lived in Hinesville, GA, I voted for George Bush over John Kerry. One time I voted for Bill Clinton over Bob Dole, but then I voted for Ralph Nader over Al Gore. There is no formula to who I vote for—I just vote with my gut. My ballot usually has a vote for both parties in different races, but independent wins my vote about 99 percent of the time.

So now I have to write the thing that I think some of you will not like, but it has been on my mind for days. I have to let this out of my head. I can’t stand Newt Gingrinch and I am totally stunned by the fact that he is actually gaining in the polls.

It’s not that I can’t understand why anyone would like him. I mean, he’s obviously a very charismatic man and a great debater. What I don’t understand is how he can be successful under the conservative Christian brand? Perhaps my personal feelings are getting in the way of my politics here…

I truly believe that adultery says a lot about your character. I know some people say, “Well, they were just unhappy and then they found love with their real soul mate and moved on and that’s not the same as adultery. I mean, that marriage was over 11 years ago. People need to get over it.” At least this is what a friend of mine said about Newt during lunch last week.

I’m sorry, but I just don’t buy it and I don’t like Newt. And I get to say that because I was in an unhappy marriage. I found out my spouse had been unfaithful to me throughout our marriage. I would have been justified by some to have a little payback sex with someone else. But I chose not to. Why? Because it’s WRONG!

Despite my nightmare divorce, I still believe in the sanctity of marriage. I still believe that when you say those vows, you should stand by them—no matter what. And if you decide that you need to move on, then by all means do so. But end your marriage first. Take your time to go through the proper channels and legally put an end to your marriage. Then you can have all the payback sex you want—but chances are if you actually take the time to get a proper divorce, you won’t be interested in payback sex or revenge.

 

And for all my conservative Christian friends out there, I know for a fact that you believe this to be true, too. I mean, wasn’t it you who said, “Divorce is a sin and God hates sin,” to me when I told you I filed for divorce. Wasn’t it you who looked down on some children playing in the street in your neighborhood and said, “Those kids are messed up because they are being brought up in a home with a single mom.” If my calculations are correct, Newt’s self-inflicted divorces created 2 single moms. But one of the single moms died of cancer, so luckily her children were just seen as orphaned. (I’m being sarcastic here in case you didn’t notice.)

So, now it’s okay to elect Newt president because we “are a forgiving people?”  I won’t vote for Newt and I will tell you why. I may be a “forgiving people” but I’m not a “forgetful people.” I know first-hand what infidelity does to your children. I know what it does to your wife. I’ve seen what it does to a husband. It destroys lives. No one should forget this.

If Newt can inflict this type of destruction on his own children, then I cannot even image what he would do to our country. I refuse to let guilt force me to forget what this man did to his children. I hope no one forgets what happened to my children.

I’m not sure who I will vote for in November, but I do know this—I will never again vote for a man who humiliates his wife in public. It’s just unforgettable.

You don't exhaust me



Perfect fit

I guess after my last rant about Veronica’s bus situation, some of you want to know “what happened?” Well, it won’t take me long to fill you in on the details. I met with some of the people from Veronica’s school this morning for our 504 meeting and needless to say the head of transportation was a no-show. The bus is now on a different route and I guess I have no reason to be upset anymore—at least that is what they tell me. (It’s not over…)

Being a step-dad means you have to explain
to your step-daughter that your cell phone is not a toy

Robby came with me to the meeting. It was the first time we have done the “parent meeting” together. It was nice to finally have someone on my side that I could trust. Robby is a special ed teacher, so he was a little nervous about being on the other side of the conference table. He did great.

It’s hard for me to let anyone help me. This ruckus at the school has been good for me. It has been a wake-up call for me. I realized that I tend to only let Robby be step-dad when I want him to help me. If the kids are acting crazy, then I have no problem telling Robby that he needs to calm them down. If I have a meeting or appointment, then I have no problem letting Robby take over and watch the children for me. But if I have a 504 meeting at the school, then I ask Robby not to show up so I can handle things on my own. It was wrong—I was wrong.

Being with me gives Robby a chance to be a dad and I love that for him. But I haven’t really let him take on that role completely. Robby is always very clear with the children that he is not their dad and that he is not trying to replace their dad. He is something different. But “something different” is sometimes hard to define.

Sometimes being a step-dad means you have
to be frustrated with the fact that step-daughter
doesn't listen very well

I don’t like to let people help me because it has always gone badly in the past. The times I have asked my ex-husband to go with me to meetings went badly—he would start yelling at people and negotiations would halt immediately. I was always left alone at the end to try to mend broken fences. My parents weren’t much better. They would never yell, but they would be so passive that I felt like I was being betrayed when they showed up to “support” me.

So when Robby said he was coming to the 504 meeting, my first response was “why?” I couldn’t figure out what his angle would be. It’s probably because he didn’t have an angle. He was just worried about me and Veronica and he knew he could help. I mean, this is what he does for a living. I should see him as an asset, not a potential enemy.

I realized that I was just flipping a switch on Robby from “help me” to “back off.” It was wrong and I apologized to him. He has a real chance to be a dad and I have been yanking that opportunity away from him every time I wanted to control the situation.

Being a step-dad can also mean that you have to splurge
a little to let step-children have the chance to feed a giraffe

Giving up control is very hard for me. I’ve had to seek professional help for being a control freak—that’s no joke. And it’s no wonder I have such a hard time with control issues—I have never been able to trust anyone.

Trust, control, love, happiness, etc.—they are all connected. You need one to have the other. When you lose one, you feel the need to control the others. It’s not that I can’t control these things anymore—it’s that I don’t want to control these things anymore.

I realized today that my past relationships have been physically exhausting. Trying to love someone who doesn’t love you back is exhausting. Trying to control a person who doesn’t care about you is exhausting. Trying to be happy around a person who is miserable is exhausting.

Sometimes step-dads have to let step-daughters laugh
at them for being scared of snakes

After our meeting at the school, Robby took me out for breakfast. We sat and talked and laughed and drank coffee. Despite the rough morning, I felt good. I felt rested. And that is when I looked at Robby and said, “You know what makes you so different?” He popped an eyebrow and said, “What?” I laughed and said “You don’t exhaust me.” It was as if I had discovered a long-lost secret.

Four little words—“You don’t exhaust me.” Is that it? It sounds so simple, but yet its meaning is so powerful. And it’s so true. I used to feel like my shoes were made out of lead weights and that I needed to just close my eyes and rest for a minute. I felt like I had been walking for miles and miles and I was carrying a dense backpack. But I wasn’t. I was just carrying everyone else’s crap. I was tired of trying to make miserable happy. I was tired of trying to keep my head above water. I was tired of being the responsible one and paying bills on time and balancing the checkbook on my own. I was tired of being broke all the time. I was tired of cooking, cleaning, and being responsible for the children every minute of the day. I was tired—really, really tired.

In 1998, my ex and I moved to Fairbanks, Alaska with the Army. During the winter, it would get down to -40 or -60 degrees. One winter, I was working as a substitute teacher at the schools on post. We shared one Jeep. My ex was supposed to pick me up from work, but he forgot. I had to walk home in -45 degree weather.

I had to walk a little over 2 miles which is not much for me, but after a mile of walking in knee deep snow, I began to get really tired. I remember looking at the thick piles of snow on the side of the road and thinking that I would just lie down for a bit and get some sleep. I began to slap myself in the face to keep myself awake. I knew that if I ever gave into my body’s desires, then I would fall asleep in the snow and never wake up again. I made it home and collapsed on the couch and cried myself to sleep.

Step-dads must also recognize the fact that
step-sons look pretty cool in their sunglasses

That kind of exhaustion is the same exhaustion that I have felt for years. I realized today that it is gone. My back doesn’t ache from carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders any more. I have energy to keep up with school, my children, and Robby. I even have time for myself now.

I pray I will continue to allow myself to let Robby help me. I need his help. I want his help. And most importantly, I don’t feel guilty when I accept his help. He has lifted a weight I have been carrying for too long. I can finally lie down in the snow and let myself relax and know that I will wake up and everything will still be okay.

Dear Dr. Spann, You messed with the wrong mom.



Capt. Francesco Schettino ordered dinner
less than an hour after the accident.



I like to follow-up the end of my day with a quick read of the news. The top story last night was about how the captain of the sunken cruise ship ordered dinner from the ship’s kitchen after the ship had run aground. And he didn’t just order dinner for himself, but he also placed an order for his new lady friend.

After I read the story I wanted to shout, “You have got to be kidding me!” Where do some people get the nerve to do the stuff they do? How can they show their faces in public? I just don’t get it. My brain doesn’t work that way.

This past week has been extremely stressful for me. On top of the fact that I am in school full-time and I have a very time-consuming internship, I now have to deal with school-related foolishness for Veronica.

This happens about once per year with her. Someone does something stupid and I have to act like a crazy mom until they fix it. For example, when we lived in Colorado the school nurse had a physical therapist show up at Veronica’s school and perform an evaluation on her in the foyer of the school. This was after I told the nurse that I did not want Veronica evaluated for physical therapy at school. Can you say “law suit?” I did and I won.

Other honorable mentions include finding out that other children were using Veronica’s wheelchair for a racing cart at recess and finding out that Veronica was left on a bus alone during a field trip because everyone was so excited to exit the bus. “It was only for 5 minutes,” giggled the teacher in charge.

How is it that I have not punched someone in the face yet?

Despite my record of “complaints,” school officials don’t seem to fear me. I think it is because they underestimate the intelligence of parents who have special needs children. They think we are either dumb or too busy taking care of our children to understand basic civil rights.

So the issue at hand this week is the fact that Veronica’s bus has been late to school for the past 3 months. Why is it late? Because they have too many children on the bus and the driver cannot pick them up and deliver them to school in the amount of time she is allotted.

Does the head of transportation care? Nope. Does the principal care? Nope. Does the head of the special education department care? Does the school counselor care? Is anyone at Veronica’s school advocating for her? No, no, and no.

Take a good look at this guy--he's Dr. Spann, the
head of transportation for my daughter's school
and a total douche.

So what does this mean? Well, basically if you have a child with special needs then the school helps you to develop a 504 plan. The plan lays out what special services your child needs and puts everything in writing so there is no guess work in making sure your child receives a quality educational experience. Veronica's 504 is being violated which is against federal law.

Showing up late for school every day is really beginning to wear on Veronica—that is why I made my complaint. During my complaint process I was put in contact with the head of transportation for the county. What does he say? “The bus driver is wasting too much time coddling those children by holding their hands and walking them to the bus and talking to parents.”

This is a lie. Veronica has had the same bus driver for almost 3 years. They have never been late to school until this year. This year is also the first year that we have this rejected former principal head up transportation. Coincidence?

So what makes me most mad? Is it the fact that this monkey told me that the bus driver should drive faster to get my daughter to school on time? Or perhaps the fact that he told me that he would have someone waiting for Veronica at school so that they could monitor how long it takes her to get from the bus to her classroom—maybe speed her up a bit? Did I mention that she is in a wheelchair?

Or maybe I’m mad because he told me not to worry myself and let him take care of everything? Perhaps I’m angry because the principal would rather do research on how many other children are late for school in Veronica’s class rather than contact the transportation office and tell them to fix this.

I guess I’m mad about those things, but I am really mad at the fact that no one seems to take me seriously. No one at the school seems mad or put out over the fact that my daughter’s civil rights are being violated.

I just don’t get it, but like I said earlier, my brain just doesn’t work that way. I’m not capable of talking to people like they are stupid. I take responsibility for my mistakes rather than pawning them off people who cannot defend themselves.

And while I cannot compare the ignorance of these school officials to the captain of the cruise ship who is responsible for killing people, I can say that the absolute arrogance and apathy of these types of people makes me want to scream at the top of my lungs “aaaahhhh!”  

Even though my brain doesn’t work that way, it does work well enough for me to find a way to thoroughly punish these idiots for what they are doing to my sweet little girl. I told Robby that I won’t be satisfied until the head of transportation is out of a job and I meant it. And after speaking to the head of transportation for the Georgia Department of Education this morning, I have a feeling I may get an early birthday present.

I quit for a good reason

Today was Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. Living in Savannah, GA, this day is definitely observed and celebrated. Growing up in Dublin, TX, we finally got a day off of school when I went to Jr. High School, but we got the day off for Stock Show Day, not MLK, Jr.

 I’m glad my children are growing up in a place where this holiday matters and they get at least 2 full weeks of lessons in school teaching them the importance of Dr. King and his journey. They have learned the importance of sacrificing a bit of their own happiness to ensure others have the freedoms and opportunities in life that they deserve. While we didn’t do anything significant to celebrate this day, something did happen that will make this very special to me.

 Veronica sat in her bedroom this afternoon and took off her shoes, leg braces, and socks all by herself for the first time ever today. For most people, taking off shoes and socks is a mundane event that happens several times each day. But for an 11-year old girl with a disability, taking off socks and shoes on her own is quite a challenge.

But I have to be honest—Veronica should have been doing this on her own long ago. Before her last foot surgery, she was taking off her tennis shoes and one of her leg braces on her own. But the surgery slowed her down and I have been doing this task on command ever since.

To sum up, I have enabled her to remain disabled and completely dependent on me. Why? I have no idea except to say that I wasn’t strong enough to do the right thing.

Robby and I were talking this morning before I left his house. We always spend our weekends together either at my house or his and saying goodbye gets more painful with each week. This morning we were doing our usual pep-talk that gets us through another week apart.

We realized that we have a little over 4 months until we move in together and begin our new lives as a family.  To me, 4 months is not a lot of time. I began to flip through the tasks in my mind that I wanted to complete before we move in together—making sure my children are independent was #1 on the list.

I realized that my original plan with going to graduate school had been that I would receive small alimony checks for 2 years. During that 2 years, I would try to live off of that money while I earned  my master’s degree, started my new career, and became completely self-reliant financially. During this time, I would also help my children to get used to the idea that I was not going to be around every day after school to cook their meals and help them with homework.

The big idea in my head was to get Veronica completely independent before I joined the workforce. Two years seems like a long time in the beginning. Now my two years has become 4 months and I still haven’t enabled Veronica to figure out how to get her shoes on and off on her own—I began to panic a bit when Robby held up 4 fingers and said, “We only have 4 more months until we are together all of the time.”

 

I let her master archery,
but not shoes?





During the drive home, I zoned out in my head and thought about what I needed to do to get Veronica more independent. I realized that she wants to be independent, but I wasn’t helping her. She wakes up in the morning and gets dressed on her own—something she has only done for the past 3 months. Once she puts on her socks, she screams, “Mom! I need my shoes on now!”

I don’t miss a beat in dropping everything to put her shoes on her feet.

At the end of the day, she enjoys taking a long shower. Again, she has only starting bathing on her own over the last few months. But before she can undress, she sits on the toilet and screams, “Mom! I need my shoes off!”

Again, I drop everything to squat down and pull off her tennis shoes, leg braces, and sweaty socks. It’s tiring and I have been frustrated with the task—never sure when it would ever end.

So today, I handed her the dressing stick and reacher and told her that she needed to try to get her shoes and socks off by herself. This suggestion was met with a tantrum. “What? You know I can’t do that by myself!” she screamed.

Veronica's tools--reacher, dressing stick, and sock tool

I calmly said, “I need to put your brother’s clothes away. Why don’t you see what you can do while I do that and then I will come back and help you.” I walked out of the room while she continued to scream and throw her fit.

I stayed in Jude’s room and listened to her cry and shout, “Mom, please come help me! I can’t do this!” I hung up Jude’s clothes in his closet while she continued with, “Mommy? Mommy? Please help me! I need you, Mommy!”



If you have a disabled child, then perhaps you have been through this tug-of-war. The only thing worse than having to ignore your child’s pleas for help, is knowing that you are the reason that she cannot do most normal tasks on her own. On my drive home today, I realized that I was the reason Veronica wasn’t putting on and taking off her own shoes. I can blame it on her disability, but the truth is obvious—she is capable of so much more than I allow her to do.

Gearing up for zip line at camp--
I let her fall from sky but I didn't make
her take off her own shoes?

As tears streamed down my face in Jude’s bedroom, Veronica’s pleas began again. I heard her beating her dressing stick on the wall in frustration. I heard her banging her head on her metal bed frame. I heard her gasp for air as she cried in frustration—but mostly I heard fear.

After her father left several years ago, the realization that her mother might one day leave her became a fear in the back of Veronica’s mind. What would she do if she didn’t have me around to dress her and bathe her?

Not forcing this child to man-up and conquer this fear was one of the worst mistakes I have ever made as a mother. I kept hearing the voice of a friend who had to overcome her own disabilities—“She is mad at you now, but one day she will thank you.”

Veronica’s screams began to slowly subside and I heard her begin to try to take off her shoes. I heard a shoe hit the floor and she let out a deep breath. Then I heard the steady rip of her Velcro straps on her braces. I heard her gasping for air and pushing with all of her might.

She can scuba, so shoes should be no problem

I finally walked down the hall to take a peek at her. She was sitting on her bed with no shoes or leg braces on. She was pulling off her socks with her dressing stick and refusing to recognize my presence at her door.

She can dance in public,
so shoes should be cake

After the last sock was off, she looked up at me and said, “There, that wasn’t so hard after all.” We both laughed through our tears.

She stood up on her shaking weak ankles and hugged me tight. She buried her head in my chest and wrapped her thin arms around my waist. “I’m sorry, Mommy. I love you.”

I kissed the top of her head and said, “It’s okay, baby. I love you, too. And I’ve never been more proud of you then I am right now.”

I told her that she is one of the smartest people I know that she is capable of so much, but that she will never know what she can do if she never tries. “And trying is not the same as giving up quickly and making me finish the hard work for you.”

She seemed to get it and she walked down the hall to the bathroom to take her shower on her own. I left her wheelchair in the bathroom and I told her that she would have to get out of the shower on her own and get herself dressed. She groaned a little as I walked out of the bathroom.

She got dressed on her own and even tried to put on her shoes by herself. She said her goal is to be totally independent by summer. I think she will be independent before summer.

I let her hit the slopes but not attempt a shoe change? Why?

And a part of me is happy but a larger part of me is struggling to figure out what my role will be if I’m not the person she is dependent upon for everything.  Taking care of Veronica and knowing that her shoes are on her feet correctly gives me great peace even though I know it is wrong.

I feel like one of those mothers who is overfeeding her fat child because food makes her baby happy and hunger makes her cry. But it’s wrong. It’s wrong to make your child disabled because you can’t stand to hear her cry. I admit I was wrong. I was addicted to helping my daughter. I didn’t know how to stop. I didn’t want to hear her cry. I didn’t want to admit that my time as enabler needed to end. I didn’t want to feel unneeded.

But my job is not to raise a child—it is to raise a woman. I want Veronica to be a strong and independent woman who can go and do whatever she wants whenever she wants and not be tied to me. And today I made the decision to let her go.

It hurts a little to know that I have spent the past 11 years doing everything for my little girl and now that must end. I have no doubt that Veronica will know exactly what to do with her new-found independence. I just pray that I can continue to be a good mom and enable my child to grow up.

Dr. Pepper has left the building

I got sad new last night—there will no longer be Dublin Dr. Pepper made in Dublin, TX. The news article I read, said they even closed Old Doc’s Soda Shop. My children are heartbroken. It’s their favorite place to visit when we go to Dublin to see my folks.

I knew from random news’ reports that there were some legal issues between Dublin Dr. Pepper and the Snapple Corporation, but I had no idea that shutting down business in Dublin was on the horizon.

For those of you who don’t know what I am talking about, let me catch you up to speed. I grew up in a small town in central Texas called Dublin. While the town looks dusty and unimpressive, it is home to the world’s oldest Dr. Pepper bottling company in the world and their Dr. Pepper is the only one made with real Imperial Pure Cane Sugar.

I was a little freaked out when I read the news last night, because I had just written an 8 page essay on Dublin Dr. Pepper. It’s the first time I have written about it and I would like to share an excerpt:

 Dr. Pepper, Texas

Some people call it soda. Others call it pop. Where I come from, it was either Dr. Pepper or Coke. When someone asked you if you wanted a Coke, it didn’t necessarily mean Coca-Cola. It could mean anything from Orange Fanta to Sprite, 7-Up, Frostie Root Beer, or Mr. Pibb—but it never meant Dr. Pepper. If someone asked you if you wanted a Dr. Pepper, then it meant only one thing, “Do you want a Dublin Dr. Pepper?” 



The bottling plant  has been in Dublin since 1891



            My parents moved my sister and me to Dublin, TX when I was a year old. Back then the population was about 1,300. We had two small grocery stores, a Winn’s dime store, a jewelry store, a meat processing plant, two banks, an insurance company, numerous churches, a Western Auto, a hardware store, and a Texaco gas station that was closed on Sunday. There was a small elementary school that housed kindergarten through fifth grade and next door was the junior high and high school combined. The football team played 1A ball on Friday nights and everyone drank ice cold Dr. Pepper fountain drinks in paper cups from the concession stand. No other drinks were offered and since Dublin was in a dry county, drinking beer in public on a Friday night was unheard of.

            The main street that ran through the town, Patrick Street, was the only paved road in Dublin. Everything was covered in a thick layer of grit from the dirt roads and the local peanut mills. If you suffered from allergies you were better off moving away than trying to fight the dust. The south end of town was marked by two sets of railroad tracks, an old feed mill, and the Dublin Dr. Pepper Bottling Company.

            I lived in Dublin until I was 21 years old. I went to the Dublin Independent Schools from kindergarten until I graduated. My graduating class was comprised of 43 students and 13 of those students went to school with me all 12 years. We had a high Mexican migrant population, so I had to learn to habla español at an early age in order to have more friends to play with on the dust-filled playground. When I turned 10 years old and began my fifth grade year, dairy farmers from California and Arizona moved to our area in mobs in their race to avoid higher EPA standards and beefed-up border patrol round-ups. Fresh milk flooded our small town, but we all still preferred the taste of Dr. Pepper—there was no substitute.

            Throughout my elementary education, we toured the Dr. Pepper Bottling Company during the occasional field trip. We would dismount the old yellow school bus and climb the dusty cement steps to pass through the tall wooden doors to enter the holy sanctum of pure Dublin commercialism. Year after year, the same tired-looking old men ran the operations inside the plant.  I had been on the tour enough times to remember that the guy who checked the bottles for cracks was the one who was missing a finger and the guy who check the lids was the one who made jokes and winked. The guy that stood on the rafters and poured the 50 pound sacks of Imperial Pure Cane Sugar into the brown liquid-filled vat of fruit juices and caramel color was the guy who never said a word or smiled.

            My favorite part of the tour was the end. We were all given a small eight ounce bottle of unrefrigerated Dr. Pepper. We had to stand inside the plant and drink the contents. We were then instructed to place the bottle into the empty wooden pallets before we could leave. Some of my classmates just downed the contents like it was water. Some refused to drink warm soda and put their full bottle into the palette. I was always the last one left drinking my free pop. It was my chance to taste something made with real sugar.

My parents were health nuts and I wasn’t allowed to have sugar. And by that, I mean, I wasn’t allowed to have sugar of any kind. Drinking a soft drink ranked at the top of the list of banned sweets—chewing bubble gum was the number one no-no. When mom made cookies, they were whole wheat carob chip cookies. I can still hear here saying “You should consider yourself lucky to have a mom that cares enough to not let sugar rot your teeth out,” as she scooped the dense brown treats onto a serving plate. I would close my eyes when I ate the cookies, but even that trick couldn’t fool my mind into believing that I was eating chocolate instead of carob.

My mom sweetened everything with molasses. If we got lucky, she used honey. Looking back, it was probably good that I had never had the chance to get used to the real taste of sugar so I never craved it. But my taste buds could instantly tell if I was eating real sugar or some healthy substitute.

So when the taste of a real Dublin Dr. Pepper hit my lips at the end of the field trip, there was no way I was going to chug down the entire eight ounces in one gulp. I wanted to savor it. I wanted to feel the sweetness hit my tongue. I wanted to determine every flavor in the bottle. The tour guide said that prune juice accounted for 70 percent of the fruit juice used in Dr. Pepper—could I taste prunes? Could I taste the cherries? Did I detect a hint of candy? My child’s brain couldn’t define the flavor. It was unique. It wasn’t “total garbage” as my mom had tried to tell me. It was the taste of my childhood.

My last 6 pack of Dublin Dr. Pepper sits on my mantle

***

I sat at the computer for a while last night reading everyone’s posts on Facebook about the buy-out. One of my high school classmates wrote “it’s like losing a member of your family.” Perhaps it sounds dramatic because in reality we can all live without Dublin Dr. Pepper and we shouldn’t need to go to grief counseling over this business merger.

But there is some truth to that statement in the fact that it leaves a hole in the lives of so many people who depended on that business for their livelihood. Not only have people lost their jobs, but the town has lost a tremendous amount of revenue that won’t be replaced. There is nothing in that town to replace it with. No one will come to Dublin and build a large business that will be able to sponsor every sporting event, school event, rodeo, or parade. Dublin Dr. Pepper money flows through every business in that town. Even my mom has relied on extra cash from selling Dublin Dr. Pepper in her dance studio for the past 30 years.

The saddest part of all of this is the fact that this didn’t have to happen. It boils down to poor decision making, poor planning, and a whole lot of corporate greed. I hope the people of Dublin and the families of Dublin Dr. Pepper can eventually move beyond the anger and disappointment of losing such a time-honored and treasured business.

But to be honest, I have no idea how they will ever be able to do that. Grief leaves an empty place that eventually heals when it is filled with something else. Right now, I don’t see what that “something else” will ever be.

God bless Dublin, TX.

Can't you see I've waited long enough?

Those of you who know me know that I love the Foo Fighters. Despite the hundreds of songs I have stored on my iPod, I tend to listen to a random shuffle of the six Foo Fighters' albums I have on my playlist.

This morning, I went to the gym to do my morning run on the treadmill. I don’t exercise for fitness or weight loss—I run for my sanity. So, this morning I had to crank up the speed to run off the stress that lingered from the holidays and starting a new quarter at SCAD.

Wasting Light is the last album the Foo Fighters put out. It has been nominated for several Grammys including their nod for album of the year. In my opinion, it’s the best album they have ever made.

I don’t have a favorite song on the album, but I do have a favorite running tune, “Walk.” It’s the last song on the album and Dave Grohl reportedly said he wanted to put the song at the end because it wraps up the album's theme of time and second chances.

The end of the song is the segment that resonates with me. Here are those lyrics:

Now
For the very first time
Don't you pay no mind?
Set me free again
You keep alive a moment at a time
But still inside a whisper to a liar
To sacrifice but knowing to survive
The first decline another state of mind
I'm on my knees, I'm praying for a sign
Forever, whenever
I never wanna die
I never wanna die
I never wanna die
I'm on my knees
I never wanna die
I'm dancing on my grave
I'm running through the fire
Forever, whatever
I never wanna die
I never wanna leave
I'll never say goodbye
Forever, whatever
Forever, whatever

I'm learning to walk again
I believe I've waited long enough
Where do I begin?
I'm learning to talk again
Can't you see I've waited long enough?
Where do I begin?

Several days ago I realized when I sat down to think about my New Year’s resolutions that something was very different about me this year. I couldn’t figure out what it was though. Then it hit me yesterday when I was walking onto campus to start my fourth quarter at SCAD—I don’t want to quit anymore. I’m excited to be alive—I’m excited to be living.

It may be hard to believe that behind this tough exterior is a very tired person. I’m tired of fighting and struggling to make ends meet. I’m tired of trying to balance my duties of mom with full-time student. I’m tired of looking at an empty bank account.

I’ve never considered suicide, but there have been days when I wished someone would come to my house and pick up my children and take them away for a while so I could hide from the world under my blankets. This thought has always bothered me because I love my children dearly and I hate the idea of being separated from them.

This morning I could feel the lyrics speaking to me-- “I’m dancing on my grave, I’m running through the fire…I never wanna die.” And it all became clear to me—not long ago, a part of me did want to die. It’s not the part of me that loves my children and wants to watch them grow up. It’s not the part of me that wants to earn my master’s degree. It’s not the part of me that wants to marry Robby.

So, I had to ask myself, “What other parts of me are there?” And I realized that the parts of me that wanted to quit seem to be dead now. They don't exist anymore. They don’t whisper “you’re stupid” in my ear any longer. I haven’t thought about having someone pick up my children in a very long time.

I have this new sense of energy and love for life that I cannot fully describe. I truly want to live again. And in the words of Dave Grohl, “I believe I’ve waited long enough.”