This One Today…

Normally I watch Jack until his dad gets home from work on Fridays around 12–1 PM. But today, his dad went out of town after work to meet up with his parents. 

Of course, Jack was up at the crack of dawn—just as I finally got comfortable on the couch, propping up my old knee like it was a precious antique. Normally, I let him watch cartoons for a bit, but this morning he wanted to go straight to my house. So we did.

He was still too sleepy to eat, so we sat on the daybed in his playroom, and I turned on the toons. Now, his mom doesn’t like him to have much screen time, but Grammy (me), with a sore throat and a nose that wouldn’t stop running, made an executive decision: beggars can’t be choosers, so… get over it.

Naturally, we channel surfed for 40 minutes until he landed on the same monster truck video he’s already seen 10,000 times. Classic.

He asked a few times to play the Elefun game I got him from a junk store, and I saw an opportunity: “If you’re good and listen to Grammy,” I said, “we’ll play after nap time.” He agreed. Whew. This isn’t my first rodeo—blackmail and leverage are parenting skills I perfected years ago, and yes, I’m still sharp.

I told him that after breakfast we could clean the playroom and head to the park near his dad’s work. But first, I asked the magic question: “Do you want dun-duns?” (That’s Dunkin’ Donuts in toddler talk.)

His eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. See? Grammy knows what she’s doing.

We had breakfast, cleaned the playroom, and he even tried dressing himself. Not bad for a 3-year-old—his shorts were on backwards, but points for effort. I asked multiple times if he needed to go potty. The answer was always no. This is going to be a battle… I never had to potty train a boy. Sarah was a breeze.

We headed out to the front porch where his monster truck collection lives. He played quietly for a bit while I found a rabbit finger puppet and made it talk to him. He cracked up. Eventually, I gave in and said, “Let’s go get dun-duns.”

In the car, he asked for the windows down. Fine by me—I’m all about the fresh air, and the A/C barely sees the light of day anyway. We talked about our plans, dumped the trash, dropped off some stuff at Goodwill, then hit Dunkin’.

Thankfully, I asked what kind he wanted because, surprise, he didn’t want the pink one this time—he wanted chocolate. Growth! I asked if he wanted a drink, and he patted his cup and said, “No, I have one right here, Grammy.” Logical king.

I gave him his gooey donut and a napkin, which of course he dropped. But don’t worry—Grammy travels with baby wipes. Always prepared.

We made a quick stop at Hobby Lobby because I figured the summer stuff would be dirt cheap. It was… what was left of it anyway. And like the fool I am, I took him down the toy aisle.

He was in front of me pushing the buggy, talking about monster trucks. We browsed surprise toys—he didn’t like them because “he didn’t want a surprise.” Makes sense. No monster trucks, but then—he found a Corvette. Of course, it was more than I wanted to spend, so I tried to sway him. Yeah… no. Not happening.

We looked at cats, dinosaur puppets, a cool rocket, a talking microphone—I almost had him at the $2.99 paratroopers, but no dice. I even offered the puppets and the paratroopers if he’d put the car back. I felt like I was on The Price Is Right. An hour later, the Corvette was riding home with us.

On the way to the car, we passed a homeless man and his dog. I gave him all the cash I had and asked if his dog needed anything. He said no, they were fine. I wished him a good day, prayed over him, and he said, “God bless you.” As we drove off, Jack asked, “Grammy, why did you give him money?” I said, “Because he doesn’t have what we have. And we don’t want him or his dog to go hungry.” Jack said, “Aww…” and I swear my heart cracked right down the middle.

Next, we got some lemonade and hit the park. Jack ran to the rope ladder and climbed up, but when I told him to go down the slide, he froze. Said it was too hot. I felt it—it wasn’t. I think he just got nervous. I encouraged him, but he backed out and came down the rope ladder like a champ. We swung, sang some songs, and then he suddenly said, “Grammy, it’s hot. I want to go home.” Alrighty, home it is.

On the way out, he said, “I want to go through the tunnel!” I was confused—there’s no tunnel here. I turned the A/C on and kept driving. Turns out he meant the train overpass downtown. Ahhh, toddler logic. We passed the fairgrounds where we saw monster trucks months ago, and he got excited. “Monster trucks! I want to go!” I explained they weren’t there right now, and he said, “Check.” So, we drove in, he checked, confirmed I was right, and we moved on.

Then he saw the car wash and shouted, “I want to go to the car wash!” Okay. Why not? he loves the car wash . when we pulled out I said windows up or   windows down? "down " he said ! we  are living our best chaotic lives.

He asked about police cars, and I said they were all out on patrol. He asked if we could drive by the police station because he wanted to check to make sure they were all ok.  I told him the station was  a few streets over and he insisted.   So we did. We even found the "tunnel" along the way. At the station, we talked about how police help people—just like firemen, doctors, and farmers. He nodded wisely. Three-year-olds are philosophers in disguise.

Back home, he played with his new car while I tried to get him to nap in his tent… but so did all four dogs. I knew this wouldn’t work. So I said, “Grab a pillow, we’re taking Maggie and Ollie to the camper.” It was freezing in there, but it felt amazing. Now I know why the electric bill was $358—those A/C units don’t quit.

He napped while I cat-napped under the covers, then went to binge social media. Could I have mowed the lawn? Sure. Did I? Absolutely not. It was hot and my nose was still dripping like a leaky faucet.

When I woke him, I reminded him the Elefun game was waiting. He leapt up like he’d been faking sleep all along. Ran to the house, grabbed the game, and… disaster. The box had empty wrappers, a used tissue (gross), and no butterflies. You can’t play Elefun without butterflies!

I was livid. I paid $15 for batteries and Jack waited two days for this. I snapped a photo and posted it to the store’s Facebook page—of course, they have a “no returns” policy. Something told me to open it in the store. Should've listened to that voice.

Sarah called and said she was headed home to pick up Jack so they could meet his dad at the hotel—with a pool! I thought about booking a room, too, but… five dogs. Guess who’s on poop patrol tonight?

After I dropped him off, I saw two young entrepreneurs selling lemonade on a corner. I was parched, so I stopped. Ordered two. One of the girls asked, “How’s your day going?” and I said, “Perfect! How about yours?” I gave them a nice tip—these girls hustle around town and deserve it.

While I was there, two trucks and a Jeep pulled in, then two more cars. I love that the community supports them. The lemonade? Delicious. Probably just mix, but it was cold and I drank both cups like it was a spa treatment. I chuckled to myself thinking, I should’ve asked if it was gluten-free, sugar-free, and made with filtered water. (Kidding… kind of.)

So here I am, writing this and missing Jack already. Sarah said he cried, saying he wanted to go back to Grammy’s. I offered to meet them again, but she said they’d be fine. Later she said he cried again—this time because he missed his dog. Grammy might be off duty for the night, but with five dogs, two who love to pee on everything and one that poops like it’s a competitive sport, it’s not exactly a vacation.

Wish me luck.

I Just wanted to be Electrocuted by Grace

 When I posted yesterday, I mentioned that even as a kid, I always knew God was there. Not in a way I could explain—just a quiet sense of something bigger, something steady. Even while I was dealing with the loss of one parent and the absence of the other, I felt Him.

But let me be real: I was angry. Really angry. There were times I looked up at the sky and shouted, “I hate you!” I didn’t trust Him. I didn’t believe in anything except that life hurt and nobody was showing up to fix it.

At 16, I was crying in the backyard with my dog, who honestly did more emotional heavy lifting than most humans. I was trying to grow up, figure out who I was, and hold myself together with duct tape and emotional chains. . And while I knew God was there, I wanted Him to be something I could physically reach out and grab—or if I’m being completely raw, someone I could punch in the shoulder and say, “What the f**k"

I still prayed. Still read scripture (even when I didn’t understand half of it). Went to church off and on. But I carried this deep ache that didn’t line up with all the stuff I heard about a merciful God. If He was so loving, why did it feel like I was getting emotionally and physically sabotaged by life at every turn?

I’m not going to take you through my denomination history—just know I’ve made the rounds. Raised Catholic, wandered around spiritually, tried different churches, different messages, hoping something would stick. And even through the anger, even through the grief and numbness, there was always something deep down whispering: He’s still here.

But I didn’t want whispers. I wanted answers. I wanted to be electrocuted by Grace.  

Then one day, as I got older things started to crack open.

My sister Jackie told me something about our mom—how when she got sick, she didn’t want treatment. She already had a disease, and the cancer on top of it just wore her down. But through it all, she had faith. Real faith. The kind that says, God’s got this, even if I don’t. She believed He would take care of us, that He wouldn’t leave us. And somehow, that got through to me.

Her trust made me realize how blind I’d been to how present God actually was in my life. Even in all the years where I felt abandoned, I wasn’t. I just didn’t have the eyes to see it yet. Slowly, the layers started peeling back.

And then, years later, I had a daughter—born exactly nine months after the date of my mom’s death. That’s not chance. That’s a divine mic drop. A gift from God and, honestly, probably a little nudge from my mom. I’ve believed that from the beginning. There are little signs, little winks from heaven if you're paying attention. I wasn't back then but I get them in multitude's now. 

These days, I’ve made peace with God. We’re on speaking terms, and it’s no longer me yelling into the void. When life hits me hard, I don’t ask “why” —I just ask Him to help me walk through it. And sometimes I add, “Hey, if you could move this black cloud to another county, that’d be great. I’m out of dry umbrellas and running low on caffeine.”

I Have to get this on Paper

  Pssst… scrolling again?

Cool, you can keep going. I won’t lose sleep over whether you read this or not.

What I write in my blog? It’s “stuff.” True stuff—but still just words on a screen. I’m not here for likes, hearts, pity, prayers, or emotional hugs from strangers on the internet. I write to get it out. To unpack the mental storage unit full of memories that, let’s be honest, aren't exactly rare online.

Yes, I know—many people have suffered. As kids, as adults. There’s always someone who’s had it worse. I’m fully aware. I know people whose stories make mine look like a Disney short. Doesn’t mean mine doesn’t matter.

You’re welcome to read and say, “boo hoo, little Polly had it rough,” and that’s fine. This isn’t a competition. I don’t need you to validate my experience—this is my story, not a trauma bake-off.

And no, I don’t share everything. You’ll get the rest someday when I finally write that memoir (working title: “Fill in the Blanks and Pass the Beer”). For now, it’s bits and pieces—my catharsis, not your content.

Once, I confided in someone when I was really struggling. Their response? “You should come to work with me if you want to see people who really have it bad.”

Spoiler alert: they completely missed the point.

Here’s what I’ve learned—just because someone’s suffering looks “worse” doesn’t mean yours doesn’t matter. Pain isn’t a contest, and empathy isn’t limited stock.

So, I’m leaving this here.

Hop on, or hit the X.

I’m writing anyway. 🖤

Jonathan Livingston Seagull and the Girl Who Forgot She Had Wings

 Jonathan Livingston Seagull and the Girl Who Forgot She Had Wings

The last post? That one was easy. This one... not so much.

This is dedicated to the one that sent me the book and my mom. ....

Today, I got a package in the mail from some very sweet friends—honestly, they might as well be family at this point. Right on top of the gracious pile of love and thoughtfulness was a book. Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach.

I saw the cover and immediately started crying—not just tears, mind you. We’re talking full-blown, nose-running, can’t-catch-your-breath kind of crying. Then I opened the cover, read the inscription... and started boo-hooing loud enough that I’m surprised the neighbors didn’t pop their heads over the fence with a broom in hand like, “Ma’am, you okay?” You know I would have given them the finger and told them to fuck off because you know. I'm nice like that . 

That book. That book. I remember my mom reading it, and naturally, I had to read it too. I must’ve been barely a teenager—maybe not even quite there yet—but I still remember the words. We talked about it, me and my mom. Really talked. Gosh, I miss her.

I've read it many times over the years, and I even have a few old copies stashed away in storage. But for some reason, tonight was the first time I truly understood its core. Really felt it. Jonathan is this seagull obsessed with flight—not just flapping around for food like the rest, but perfecting the art of it. Perfecting himself. He gets kicked out of his flock, and that exile leads him on a spiritual journey. He meets others like him. And eventually, he returns—not to fit in, but to help others break free.

Lately, I’ve been having dreams—strange, beautiful ones—and they’ve been making me think hard about life. I keep waking up with this lingering feeling: This is what my life should have been. Not that I regret the path I took—I wouldn't trade my family for anything—but if I could have changed something... I would have changed ME.

When my mom died, my sisters were off at college, and it was just me and Dad. He threw himself into work—gone before sunrise, home long after dark. Eventually, my sister moved back and started commuting to college so she could help raise me. She gave up so much, and I’ll never forget that. I’m still humbled by her sacrifice. But no matter how much love there was, it just wasn’t the same.

My mom had this way of bringing out the creative spark in me. I remember one Valentine’s Day, she gave me paper and supplies to make my own cards. I didn’t want to—I wanted store-bought like the other kids. Sure enough, they laughed at mine, ripped them up in front of me. I ran home, fighting back tears. I am crying as I am writing this because I can still remember the way it made me feel. I guess  just admitted I have feelings....who knew?

Honestly, it's a wonder I ever touched paper crafts again—but now? They’re my favorite.

My mother gave me the gift of art, literature, history. She taught me about kindness and God. We watched old black-and-white movies together. She taught me how to sew and embroider before I even turned eight. I still have my first handmade doll, stitched from a mitten.

When she died, it felt like everything died with her. The world she had opened up to me—the one that felt endless and full of wonder—just... closed. No one else seemed to understand what was inside me. All those bright, swirling things in my brain? I locked them away. Because who wants to be friends with a nerd?

Back then, therapy wasn’t what it is now. If you mentioned it, people assumed you were unhinged. Nowadays, you can have a full-on breakdown and book a therapist on a lunch break like you're ordering DoorDash. But me? I stuffed everything down, deep, because that’s what you did. Later in life, I managed to get a few therapy sessions in, but money ran out before we could dig deep enough to find the roots of that inner child. (Yes, I have all those self-help books. And frankly, I hate them. It’s always some overly chipper stranger telling me how to feel. “Just let it go,” they say. Oh really, Karen? How? Through the window?).

I became what the world wanted. I followed the crowd. I masked my pain with a version of myself that didn’t feel like me. Angry. Guarded. Lost. And let’s not even start on body shaming—yes, it existed back then too. We just didn’t have Tick tac  or Snapchat to immortalize the trauma. Thank the good Lord.

I became one of the flock. I flew in circles, doing the daily grind, never quite knowing what it felt like to soar.

People love to say, “You made your choices. You could’ve done it differently.” And they’re not wrong. But I was just a kid—alone and directionless. I didn’t know which road to take.No hand to hold no guidance (Well, I always knew God was there, so let’s just leave that sacred truth right where it is.)

I tried to do differently with my daughter. I nudged her toward her dreams—and you know what? She followed them. She reached for more and got it. I always told her not to let anyone hold her back. That she was bright, strong, and capable of being anything. And I meant it—even when she came home and casually dropped, “Hey Mom, I bought a house.” (I had whiplash from that one, but proud? Oh, endlessly.)

One day she asked me, “Mom… there has to be more to life than this, right?”

I looked at her and said, “There is. You just have to find it. Priorities shift with family, but that doesn't mean you stop dreaming. The earth shifts. Stars die. And still, we go on. You’ve got to reach inside.”

And I think now… it’s time I reach inside, too.

Time to find the strength Jonathan had—to remember how to fly. Because if I don’t? I’ll regret it. I can feel the end of my dash starting to dim, and I don’t want to go out never having let those beautiful things inside me breathe.

Some days, I still feel like that little girl, holding torn paper hearts, with a head full of dreams and nowhere to put them.

But maybe… just maybe… it’s not too late to let them out. To soar. Even just a little.

me.... in my big beautiful world

the Journey part Deux

I weigh myself tomorrow. I use the scale at work—it’s the same kind the doctor’s office uses, but somehow, it never agrees with their numbers. Yikes! I just want one scale to rule them all, and to be consistent. Is that too much to ask?

Last week was a challenge. I admit it—I visited the cookie jar one too many times. But they’re gone now (RIP, sweet soldiers), so that’s done. Moving on!

My home physical therapy is wrapping up. It’s helped about 85%, which is pretty good, but I’m still in pain... and now I’ve developed a brand-new ache. Not sure it’s any better than the old pain, which regularly clocked in at a 9 on the Richter scale. Yes, that’s the earthquake scale, and yes, my knee has been that dramatic.

Thankfully, my chiropractor gave me some extra stretches. They’re helping with mobility, and he’s great at keeping me motivated. Best part? He doesn’t judge me when I slip up. He just says, “Be consistent. Keep moving.” That’s his motto—and now, apparently, mine too. He suggested adding just one new healthy thing a week. Like an extra glass of water, five more minutes of stretching, or being more mindful with meals. Baby steps. And let’s be honest, baby steps are the only steps I trust these days—especially with my track record of tripping over full-sized goals.

Back when I used to work out more regularly, I’d make these elaborate calendars on poster board. I tracked everything—sleep, vitamins, exercise—and yes, I decorated them. Stickers, highlighters, glitter... the whole motivational-art-show vibe. I’ve been thinking of doing it again, but maybe this time I’ll go with a dry-erase board. It’s easier to update, and more forgiving when I, say, skip leg day. Again.

I’m a visualist—I need to see it all laid out: a month at a time, not just one week. At the end of each month, I’d tally up how I did, what worked, what flopped, and what totally tanked (usually snacks). Then I’d adjust and move forward.

Speaking of food, I need to add some new breakfast options—something quick and easy for mornings when I’m flying out the door with one shoe on and no coffee in my system. That’s my goal this week: better breakfast, plus a few easy dinners. AI has actually been great for that! I just type in what ingredients I have, and it spits out recipes like some kind of futuristic chef. It even found a chicken recipe I thought I lost forever. AI for the win!

I haven’t started counting calories yet. That’s... later. Right now, I’m just trying to eat better and stick to those baby steps. If I do too much too fast, I’ll burn out and wind up curled up in a blanket with three donuts and no regrets.

I remember when Sarah was diagnosed with diabetes, and we had to weigh, measure, and count everything. I used to pre-portion her snacks and label them with the carb counts so she could just grab and go. Meanwhile, behind the scenes, I was doing math like a nutritionist/accountant hybrid—factoring fat, fiber, and sugar to make it all work. I have a feeling I might be headed that direction for myself soon, and honestly? I dread it. Like, seriously dread it. (Is there a support group for people who fear food math?)

A friend sent me a link to some easy dance videos on YouTube. I need to start doing those—just ten minutes a day to get my body moving. I’ve been walking on my breaks at work and after dinner—mostly around the driveway and yard. I don’t want to go too far and have to call for help or send up smoke signals.

I used to walk down to the pond and around the property line after dinner every night—if I wasn’t mowing the lawn until dark, that is. Ah, the glory days of multitasking cardio and yard work.

Right now, I’m sitting at the kitchen/dining room table in my pajamas, typing this. I should close the drapes, but... meh. Let the neighbors enjoy the show.

My goal this week is to add ten extra minutes of exercise or stretching each day. I just pop in my earbuds and hit play. There’s something about music that plugs directly into my brain and overrides all the “I don’t wanna” circuits.

Oh—and the bench in that photo? The one with the prickly pillow? Yep, I sit on it and do side stretches and back stretches. It helps my hips and lower back. That bench helped me get my body back in the day. I couldn’t afford a gym or fancy equipment, so that bench was my gym. I had a routine I stuck to for over a year, and I got toned. I even had the beginnings of a six-pack—and no, not the beer kind.

Moral of the story? You don’t need fancy stuff—just a little determination and maybe a stubborn streak.

Fingers crossed the scale doesn’t lie tomorrow... although I have a feeling it’s going to anyway. Scales are like toddlers: unpredictable, moody, and often wrong. But we love them anyway. (Sort of.)

Happy Birthday America !

I was blessed to be here for your 200th birthday, and God willing, I’ll be here to celebrate your 250th.

Freedom —

(noun) The power or right to act, speak, or think as one wants, without undue restraint or control.

Freedom isn’t chaos. It’s having rights—and the deep responsibility to use them wisely.

I started to write more—about where we've been, what we've learned, and what we still strive for. But the truth is, we all carry some part of that history in us already. So instead, I want to share something more personal.

When I graduated high school, my sister gave me a copy of this poem. It has stayed with me ever since. In times of change, uncertainty, or celebration, I come back to its words. I hope it speaks to you, too.

Desiderata

by Max Ehrmann (1927)

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,

and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender,

be on good terms with all persons.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly;

and listen to others,

even to the dull and the ignorant;

they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons;

they are vexatious to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,

you may become vain or bitter;

for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;

it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs;

for the world is full of trickery.

But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;

many persons strive for high ideals,

and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection.

Neither be cynical about love;

for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,

it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,

gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.

But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.

Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,

no less than the trees and the stars;

you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you,

no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,

whatever you conceive Him to be,

and whatever your labors and aspirations,

in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,

it is still a beautiful world.

Be cheerful.

Strive to be happy.