Joys of Aunthood

In other news today, it seems that youngest nephew decided to pee in big sister’s toy teapot and serve it to her dolls. About the same time as the tea party (which sister missed), sister was having the lump and cut on her head examined by the school nurse.  Note:  Walking backwards in the hall using the “eyes in the back of her head” doesn’t work as well as Mommy’s eyes do in the back of HER head.

I prefer to think of my nieces and nephews as gifted and creative.  They think outside the box.  WAY outside the box, but with only the genius a child can possess.

Others. I fear, see them as:

1) so far away from the box they can’t see the edges anymore, or

2) that they are buried deep within the darkness of the box.

I really love these kids!

~ Gean

My Acne Story

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I’ve struggled with acne for a long time. It started with just a few spots here and there. I remember my family telling me not to worry, that it was normal for a teenager.  But as I went through my teenage years it seemed to get worse, not better. I tried everything that’s out there for acne – every product, treatment, or pill. Doctors continued to give me remedies that didn’t help. They always said it gets worse, and then better. But better never came to my house. He probably skipped my street.

So, acne made me feel self-conscious in a big, big way. I felt like I had pizza face. I felt like people judged me. I felt unattractive and less confident. I felt like people were staring at me all the time, that they were looking at my acne instead of me. And that gave me a lot of anxiety making me feel really, really bad about myself.  I wasn’t beautiful, and it was so important to me to be beautiful.

I used to cake make-up on, and it never seemed to be enough.  People always told me that make-up causes acne.  Fun fact:  it doesn’t cause acne, but it does clog pores.

When I was about 15 or 16, I went to see a dermatologist, and he gave me some cream and some pills to take.  My acne got worse and worse, but then it gradually got better as time went on.  I’d see good results, but every time I saw good results, I’d stop the prescription creams and pills.  A few months would go by, and sure enough, acne came back even worse than before.  I finally started using the cream again, and really sticking to it and thought it was gone for good.

I was about 17 when it popped up like crazy all over my face.  There seriously wasn’t a space between what was a pimple and a space that was clear.  It tore at my confidence.  It made me feel so bad that I finally just told myself: I love my acne, and I love myself.  I just really didn’t give a f*ck about what people thought.

Finally, I found a brand – Origins.  Turns out sticking to one brand that contains all natural ingredients was one of the main keys that helped me control my acne. I’m happy with myself today.   Yes, I still have marks and some acne here and there, but I love my acne because it’s a part of me.

So, here’s a big Life Lesson:  At the end of the day know that you’re beautiful and strong.   Never let anyone tell you you’re not.  Stay true to yourself and love yourself. I think that is one of the most important things ever to know in life.  ~ Gean

About 4 years ago, Part 2

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In the past ten days Mom has mowed the front yard, the back yard, landscaped all side yards, planted gardens, clipped and groomed three dogs, vacuumed the entire house (two levels), mopped all bathrooms, kitchens, entrance ways, dusted furniture, scrubbed toilets, cleaned bathrooms, shined mirrors, scrubbed the kitchen and all appliances , washed dishes,  paid bills, and prepped her taxes.

She did not lose a single pound.  She is, however, very tired and extremely cranky (hey, I’m being polite here).

We discovered if she wasn’t busy moving or doing, she yelled at a lot of people, including me.  Yeah, I’m 16 and selfish, but who isn’t at that age.  I still love her.  And I think she still loves me.

I just think she needs more wine.

My egg donor called again today.  Got the school pictures I promised I would send her.  THAT isn’t her son.   Well, no sh*t lady.  You haven’t seen your so-called son in 15 years.  I, however, am gorgeous in those photos, and they do not do me justice.

So, the phone rings, and Mom being the bad-ass she thinks she is, hands it off to me.  Great mother points, Mom.

Yeah.  Bad me.  Bad Mom.  But the truth is that this had been mutually agreed upon since we first realized birth mother was not a rational human being.   I am obviously a much better bitch than Mom, even with her crazy cancer meds.  It is an improvement.

I AM very grateful Mom sold her gun to my brother-in-law earlier this year.  ~ Gean

 

Photo by Mom

Getting cozy

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It’s that time of year where you get out the hot cocoa and warm socks. The time of year I love; and, why is that you ask? I love the feeling of the soft cozy sweater keeping me warm from the cold but beautiful winter. I love this time of year because it brings joy, happiness, and love no matter what’s going on.  Last, but not least, the lights, trees, and of course we can’t forget the hot chocolate! ~ Gean

 

Photo by Gean

About 4 years ago…

Right Boob

A Rose by any other Name…

…Is still the Right Boob.  Duct tape worked for a while.  Then it didn’t.  We’re going to try plastic wrap next with soft adhesive in the back.  We’ll see.

I ­so get this.  My Right Boob is totally radiated…irradicated…whatever the correct word is.   Stage 0, so looks like I won the Cancer Lottery this year.  Get to keep the Right Boob.  All is well, even after radiation.  OK, OK, so it’s mostly good; a few bumps and scars guaranteed to entertain for at least another five years.

So, the kid comes to me half way during the radiation treatment, with her Right Boob all messed up.  “Are you sure it’s the Right Boob,” I say.  “Yep,” she says,”it is.”   “Duct tape,” I say, knowing it is a temporary solution.   OK for now, but she and I both know its days are numbered.

What can I say?  I love this kid.  I buy her boobs on Amazon, while hers still grow.  If they last 6 months we’re happy.  Mine lasted over 60 years, but who’s to judge?  My Right Boob doesn’t look this good even without duct tape.

So, out she walks, head held high and smile to match.  She’s going to a teen “event” tonight.   At sixteen, she owns the world; more importantly, she owns a second set of new boobs.  Yeah, I’m a foolish, old woman who loves to spoil her baby girl.

Tears come after she leaves.  I don’t want to show them now, not when she is on top of the world.  A party to attend, and closure on a personal issue that has been a black spot on her soul since…since when?  I suppose it began the day she was born.

Today she feels free.  Today she spoke the words she has wanted to say for most of her life.  “No,” she tells the person on the other end of the phone, “no, you are not my mom…you are my birth mother.”   And just like that it is over.

Only for me, there are tears because I know why birth mother didn’t keep her.  I know why auntie/momma gave her up at puberty.  The other two moms still call her by her birth name.  She isn’t that person, never was.  He never really existed, and when he did, no one knew what to do with him, or even how to love him without conditions.

“Send him to me,” I said to my cousin.  “I’d love to have another kid.  It’s all family.  It’ll be good.”   Yes, friend, insanity does run in my family.  None of us are spared.

And it is all good, and it’s golden, especially since he is she, and she is bold, beautiful, intelligent, and a challenge to anyone who meets her.  Those that can appreciate such rare combination of traits become her friends and family forever.  Those that don’t…well, for her loyalty is a sharp sword that cuts in both directions.

So why cry?  I cry for the two moms who came before me.   I cried because they wanted something else.  “A girl would have been nice,” she said.  “This one wasn’t really supposed to live, was it?” said the other.

I am so sorry for you.

And yes, I am still a foolish, old woman who probably cries too easily.

But I still have my Right Boob.   ~ Gean’s Mom

 

Photo by Gean’s Mom