Saturday, April 9, 2011

50 Day Challenge


50 Day Challenge:
A Picture that makes you cry.

This is Bonnie.
I have seen Toy Story 3 at least 496576758674567 million times.
This is not a lie.
But every stinking time Bonnie and Andy play with the toys at the end I sob like a little, um, well, like Bonnie.
It just gets to me every time.
Look how cute she is!?!
How can you not choke up at that sweet little animated cartoon girl?
Ok, yes, I may need some counseling.
shush.



The stack of bills that appears in my inbox/mailbox/checkbook each month brings me to tears.
Since we live in the country our property taxes are stupidly cheap.
buuut....
we don't have city water, propane, or electric.
You have no idea how much our water bill is.
So, now I shall share.
We actually use about 6 bucks of water a month.
But there is the $48 dollar fee for "sewage facility", $ 60 fee for "water facility usage", and a $25 fee for "processing".
seriously???
I mean, seriously???




Here is a stack of bills that doesn't make me cry though.
It makes me jump up and down.
and giggle.
and twirl my hair.
and giggle some more.




Now for a sad sob story.
This is the first weekend after I discovered I was pregnant.
Sam and I were on our way to the zoo in San Antonio but stopped to look at this house.
And we got it!
The house (not the zoo silly).
Our first house together and a baby on the way.
We had such a great time that day.
I was so excited.

I look back on that picture and see how very much I was kidding myself and pretending to be happy during that time.
I was extremely happy to be pregnant.
I have always wanted children and a large family.
but, Uncle Jeff had just passed, I was 1500 miles from my family in a job I hated and a husband that worked 23 out of 24 hours a day.
It was rough.

But that day.
In that picture.
Was fun.
I felt hope and promise and excitement at carrying new life.
I was so incredibly happy to be with child.
(lordsy shmordsy that was corny).
too bad.
it's your fault for reading this.
and damn, I'm skinny.
little did I know that I would learn to waddle...
:)




This is my Momma and my Pops.
at a Dylan concert.
in Indy.
My Pops most popular place.
(Dylan concerts, not Indy you sillies).
I wonder how many he has seen...
I bet he has a list.
He keeps list and books and journals in the same fashion that I do.
wait.
I guess since I am the egg and he is the chicken (er, or Rooster) I keep lists and books and journals in the same fashion that he does.
I'm also fairly certain that he owns every possible album that involves Dylan in some way, shape, or form.
and don't even get me started on the books.

I' am so his daughter/twin/possible clone.
The older I get (ie, the more mature...um...I think)....the more I understand the connection between my father and I.
Scary, I know.
Teenage Kathryn would be traumatized by that statement.
She'd go pierce her belly button or dye her hair or something.

Anyway, why am I talking about myself?
or Dylan?

I have always respected the love my parents have for each other.
IT is truly a love like I've never seen.
I'm not even sure I can describe it.
Imagine that! me:? not talk? out of words?

They aren't sappy or mushy.
They NEVER argue.
I can count on one hand the times I've heard raised voices.
not joking folks.
The love they had for each other was the foundation of the family and from that grew the people that my brother and I are today, and hence Little O.
Our home has always been a haven to the misfits, the creatives, and anyone and every one that felt the urge to join the clan.
My parents are the pillars of that (wow, I'm corny today) but oddly enough, that's not untrue.
They stood up to conformity (and mini-vans and TV) and said, taught, and accepted people for just exactly who they were.
Most importantly, they did it together. I've never seen their love for each other waver.
ever.

I love this picture.
It shows a long life of devotion.
the highs, lows, the steady, the boring, the "are you up there cause we're down here"?, the late night cereal, the early morning donuts and church, the bike rides, and the near death thanks to Max insane bike riding skills, the long road trips, the bickering, the "nights", the old movies. the pizza nights (still trying to master Dad's special sauce), Hush Puppy, bed night snacks, and the way Dad always said to Mom..."hey lover".




This was the very first time Little O smiled.
He was looking at his Papa, who was drinking tea.
Now O screams Papa! at the top of his lungs anytime he sees a tea bag.
This includes in all forms of public settings.

But it does make me cry to remember how excited this new Momma was to see that toothless grin.
If you had asked me when I was 20 if seeing my child smile would reduce me to tears I'd probably have looked very confused.
Now all it takes is this one little memory and I'm a blubbering fool.



I always have to throw in that awkward photo.
It's what I do.
The reason this picture makes me cry is very simple.
Look at that expression on my face.
Sam took the picture.
We were at the most stupid concert ever so I pulled out my ipod and we each put in one ear-bud and listened to Dylan the entire concert.
We had just gotten married.
That look right there on my face?
see it?
That's love.
We didn't work out and I'm happy that we didn't (otherwise I won't be marrying D) but I am thankful for the time that we had together and all that we taught each other.

We were so young.

We may have had some nasty, awful, hateful conversations but I am a better person because of Sam and all that went went through.
I just look at myself in that picture and remember that flash of a moment.
And I cry.
It's complete and total trust and friendship.

Dear D,
when you read this know that young love is fleeting and nostalgic.
What you and I have is FOREVER love, lasting, true, and the kind that makes me laugh when the garbage disposal gets stuck cause there is a hot-wheel in it, the kind that I will never grow out of but, rather, will grow with.
A picture of you and I doesn't make me cry.
It makes me smile.



1 comment:

Harris Family said...

What beautiful memories.