Out of the Mouth of Babes

I had no plans to complete today’s Writing 101: Dark Clouds on the (Virtual) Horizon assignment.  But the following conversation that took place while running errands today changed my mind. I know kids say the darnedest things, but sometimes the lessons they can teach (or remind) us takes my breath away.  And sometimes, the realizations can break my heart.

Youngest son:  I love you, Mom.

(Before I can even respond)

Middle son:  Why do you have to tell her that several times a day?

Youngest son: Because it is true.

Middle son: Yeah, but you don’t have to keep telling her.

Youngest son: Do you love Mom?

Middle son: Yeah, I do.

Youngest son: Then why don’t you ever tell her?

Middle son: Because I don’t have time.

Youngest son turns and stares at his brother.

Youngest son: Mom, I love you.

Me: I love you, too.

Youngest son turns back to his brother.

Youngest son: Wow, that really took a lot of time.

Middle son: Yeah, time I could spend playing a game.  Besides, she already knows. I don’t have to tell her.

(And this is when my heart begins to ache because I realize that this child is truly his father’s son.)

Youngest son: You will be so lonely when you grow up.  No woman will want you if you don’t tell her you love her.

Middle son: As long as I have money and my good looks, I won’t be lonely.

Youngest son: You will be when she finds someone like me that tells her they love her all the time.

Youngest son: Don’t worry, Mom.  You’ll never be lonely.  I will always tell you I love you.

If I allowed myself to cry, I would have been sobbing at this point.  The lessons our children learn from us … especially when we don’t even realize what we’re teaching.


Desiree G:

Ember’s words are carried on an ocean breeze straight to my heart … and hopefully, yours.

Originally posted on The Scripts of Nidaba:


Wounds revealed and smothered by the tides

Screams muffled by the wind from all sides

Intensified pain with saline then subsides

Away from reality, the true self hides

Heavy footprints wiped off by the foaming waves

Far off the shore, a break from incessant raves

In the vast abyss of lies and confusion, the truth saves

Out in the open, the sun unveils what the heart craves

Inspired by Desiree 

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Raised in a Barn … Kinda

The Writing101: Size Matters assignment asked for a description of the home we lived in when were twelve.  I guess it is another glimpse into the making of Desiree.

My childhood home was built with blood, sweat and tears.  Of course, a few cinder blocks, lots of recycled lumber and thousands of nails were needed, too.  My parents started with a dream of a two-story, rustic family home surrounded by ten acres of towering pines and oaks.  There was no money to hire a construction company so they gathered together a more precious resource, their friends.  Every weekend, a group of talented, fun-loving former hippies gathered to build a dream.  A keg of beer was proper motivation, too.

We moved in with only insulation for walls.  I climbed a ladder to my bedroom each night. And just so there is no confusion, it was a tall metal construction ladder; not a romantic grapevine rope used by a fairy princess. It took three years of dedication and sacrifice for our house to be completed.  After a brief respite of enjoying the fruit of their labors, expansion began.  A screened in porch became a living room.  A rotunda-style dining room was also imagined and made real. Two bedrooms did not seem to offer enough space, so two guest rooms were added. Almost thirty years later, there is still work to be done.

As an adult living in my childhood home, I am haunted by memories.  My porch is engraved with the initials of my first love. The same steps on our wooden stairs still creak (the third, sixth and eighth).  I now sleep in the same room I lost my virginity.  Every Thanksgiving, I am tempted to make my children eat outside at the old wooden picnic table in honor of the pilgrims, just as my mother did. The wood burned donkey on our door that embarrassed me as a child, now brings me smiles.  On Sunday mornings, I can almost hear my Mom’s banjo. And I know I hear her voice when I tell my boys to “dry your face” when there are tears.

I swore I’d never return to my family home. But yet, here I am.  The hardwood floors may be worn and scarred. The tobacco barn siding may be warped and faded.  We may have painted fairies watching our every move. We may not be living in MY dream home, but I am raising my children in a home full of history and love.  And that cannot be bought for any amount of money.

Message in a Bottle #15

I hold between my fingers a treasured shard of sea glass.  The beauty that radiates from its smooth surface belies the treacherous journey that led it to this abandoned sea shore. When you look into my whiskey eyes, look beyond the seductive allure (that is just a façade) and dive into the pain I so diligently hide.

message bottle sea

*Pinterest image, source unknown