Sand and Surf

The tides were high today, waves crashed into the rocks along the shore and carried seaweed, broken tree limbs, and assorted sea creatures onto land. The sun – less intense than in days past – still carried an intense yellow glow that cast upon us. Ri insisted on taking her shoes off, toying with the sand between her toes. She gathered it in her hands and watched it fall slowly down in a glistening cascade as it caught the light. She searched for sticks, and once found, dragged them through the sands creating lines. She watched the water wash each away.
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“Hannah!”

She is a bit obsessed with all thing Anna (of Disney’s Frozen). Elsa? Who is that? Olaf? Well, yes, we like him, too.
So mommy found a very inexpensive Anna dress and presented it to Ri. “Hannah!” she shouted, shrugging quickly out of her clothes and insisting on putting on the gown. We added her princess kit (won at Chuck E. Cheese for a lot of tickets). She took pictures – willingly – in the studio.
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And then it was time for bed. And she refused to take off the dress Princess Ri slept in her gown, holding it in her hands, with arms clamped against her to ensure no one could try to remove it in her sleep. I began to fear we’d never get the dress off of her. And then, the lure of a bath changed her mind.
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J turns 9

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Weather Heat Advisory: 105

Thirty minutes filling balloons for 5 minutes of explosive fun and wet relief.


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Return to Watkins Park

Carousel rides are the best.
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Sincerely sixteen

I’m told boys don’t have sweet sixteens. Anything considered sweet is feminine,  and right now there is no place for a heterosexual young man to harbor female traits.  Hubs assures me (repeatedly ) that men, boys, and male babies are never to be referred to as cute, either.  So, I committed a foul when I wished our son Happy Sweet Sixteen on the morning of his birthday.

But truly,  the day did arrive like a candy treat worth savoring. Sixteen has to be better than fifteen.

It has been a long year.  There has been more discord and more defiance. More punishment,  more deprivation. More challenge and more secrecy.
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At times I’ve wanted to call it quits and admit defeat. I’m just the step mom. I’ve no control, only opinion. And in his heart, his mother is someone else.  If I overstep, I cease to exist.

Yet he is my son. I pray for his success. I mourn his failures. I contemplate how to help him achieve,  to make difficulty disappear. I hold expectations high.

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I love him. Through his struggle to become the man he wants to be, I love him.  I didn’t carry him, or labor to deliver him in 1999. But I carry him now in my heart and I labor to keep him safe, give him a home, and prepare him for a prosperous future. I stepped up to be mom.

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