Tag: writing

3 Years from Now…

3 years from now….

I’m sitting here trying to picture it… My son will be 14 by then. I have sworn off dating and relationships until he is out of the house. It would take a LOT to change that.

I used to think that by the time my son was 14 I would be married and just working and raising my kids. Now that all seems like a far off dream. Its back to just me and B.

In 3 years B will be a freshmen in high school. Hopefully following the rules for once and staying out of trouble.

As for me? I feel like I’m entering my Carrie Bradshaw phase. I see myself going to all the work functions with free food (my favorite), spending my mornings writing (I don’t post everything I write you know..), drinking my coffee and enjoying the silence of a quiet life.

Carrie Bradshaw: replacing the shoes and clothes with books and dogs.

When Steve and I split up last spring all my friends laughed at me. Not in a “haha your life sucks” kind of laugh but in the “Other girls who go through a break up do something crazy with their hair. You got another dog” kind of way as my friend AJ put it. But you know what, I was truly happy when it was just me and B in our little apartment. Long before Steve came into the picture. I always wanted dogs anyway (I wasn’t allowed to have them while I was growing up because the apartment had a no pets policy).

Now I own my house, I love my job, I’m getting back into my routine, and I have been feeling more ME than I have in a long time.

From the age of 23 to 29 as a single mom with what feels like a lifetime in between.

Quiet nights that turned into early mornings. Writing on my laptop at the kitchen counter (now at my desk in my home office). Drinking my coffee. Mornings with B before school. Dinner every night. Bedtime stories after bath time (Not that bedtime stories or baths happen anymore, he thinks he’s to big for that now).

When life starts to feel normal again, you start to do your normal things again.

In 3 years… I hope that feeling isn’t “more me” it’ll just be… Me.

Daily writing prompt
What will your life be like in three years?
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Have you ever broken a bone?

I have broken 6 bones in my life. 3 toes, my tailbone, my knuckle, and my skull.

I cracked my skull when I was about 4 years old. I still remember it like it was yesterday. We were AVid hocky fans in our house. My dad and I were in my grandmas TV room watching a match. I was sitting in one of those kid size plastic 4 legged chairs in front of the fireplace. I couldn’t tell you which team scored but almost 25 years after my grandmother sold the house I can still tell you what that fireplace looked like.

The fireplace was raised about a foot and a half off the ground on top of a brick ledge that was about 2 feet deep from the wall all the way across. The lower half of the wall was completely brick. Grandma had the mantel lined with the stereotypical 90’s posed family photos, along with a few embarrassing photos of myself.

I couldn’t tell you what team it was but someone scored. And then everything happened so quickly. I got excited and was rocking back and forth in my crappy little chair and jumping up and down like every 4 year old has been told not to from the moment they sit in one for the first time. The next thing I knew the legs bent and I went down. My head hit the brick ledge.

The funny part is that I don’t remember it hurting. I remember my dad scooping me up. I remember my grandparents running into the room. I remember my dad holding a washcloth to the back of my head while we sat on the couch. I remember that the fire was still on. I remember grandma looking at the back of my head. I remember that I never saw that chair again.

My dad told me that they never took me to the hospital. He stitched the back of my head up himself right there on the couch in my grandmas basement. As a parent nowadays, I don’t know how I would handle that situation. However, I would defiantly NOT attempt to stitch my own kids head up. I think the only reason that I don’t find it strange is because my grandmother didn’t object. If you knew her, you’d understand why that’s oddly comforting.

That is one of my earliest memories. I haven’t thought about it in awhile. I wonder if that has anything to do with my irrational fear of falling from even small heights… Probably.

Daily writing prompt
Have you ever broken a bone?
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