I have been a way for a while.
There is little time to write in my journal; and when I think of it, I forget later.
Some people say don’t write your feelings on the Internet.
Maybe it’s the reason I have written two posts so far. In other areas of writing, I’ve been published by my real (writing) name. I (try) to keep up two blogs under my writing name.
Maybe it’s not okay to vent on a strange planet such as the Internet.
Perhaps it is.
What I do know is that for once I like writing without my name attached.
On Tuesday, I began my graduate assistant position. I met sixty plus people. Names … so many names as I climb four stories in a gothic castle that was once a K-12 school in the late 1800s. You should see it. The castle, as people on campus call it, is beautiful. Staff in the building don’t like it.
The floors creak a little bit. The elevator for the forth floor is hidden. No idea when the building was renovated, but a part of it captures my memory – like a book in which the protagonist finds a newspaper article about the ghost haunting her or him.
In the castle, I am happy.
Not the way a princess is happy.
Corny laughter ensues.
The way a professional finds life in his or her work.
I work at two awesome jobs. When I work those jobs, that is the time I believe in my faith most. Each day, I keep my faith in God and Christ quiet within me. It is the way I believe. My grandmother taught me years ago that you do not go into the streets and yell of your faith. You live it.
When I leave my school – where I work – or my graduate position, I thank God. At home, I lose the control.
I suppose that is the difference. In the working world, I have a degree of control.
Tonight, I tried to thank one parent for his contributions when I was interrupted by the other. I did not finish my sentence for the first parent. Both parents care for my son. I thank them everyday, but I want to show them I mean it. Instead of thanking them both, I give them each an individual, “Thank you.”
Okay, I am a daddy’s girl. At 28, I still worship the ground he walks on. Pardon the cliché. Dad does everything. He has taken care of my mother on hand and foot. He fed my brother and me while working a full-time job. After he retired, he stayed home with us. He is always first in my thank yous.
At dinner, I joke with my parents about the fact. We laugh when there is a thud. It hurts. My husband laughs. He has hit me on the head with the end of a spoon. I stop talking for the rest of the night and wash the dishes.
He thought it was funny.
“It was not that hard,” he said.
I looked at him and walked away. When I’m mad or upset, I cannot talk to the person. I walk away.
Now he sits in another room while I work. Confidence returns when I review the research I’m doing. A sense of pride returns.
I remind myself I’m giving our son a better future.
- I’m A Parent, I Will Make Mistakes (askgeegee.wordpress.com)