Read Online Might as Well Laugh About It Now by Marie Osmond, Marcia Wilkie - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Marie Osmond, Marcia Wilkie
Ads: Link
long-term damage, alive and well. My mother had such a green thumb and would sing and talk to her plants every morning. Every year her Christmas cactus rewarded her attention with a respectable number of blooms. When we left on the Christmas tour, I gave specific directions for the care of the cactus to a friend who was watching the house for us. Returning on Christmas Eve, I was so disappointed to find it pale and without a single blossom. It seemed to be matching my spirit of sorrow about the inevitability of my marriage ending. I thought over and over about my parents’ marriage and how they not only loved each other, but walked the same path, strove to improve themselves together and separately, and always encouraged each other in all things. And in their closeness, they laughed. Every day.
In the weeks that followed, I had many sleepless nights, wondering if I was being wise. I knew that divorce couldn’t resolve our relationship problems. We have seven children together, and many other choices would have to be made as a result of this one choice.
I felt that God’s answer to my ongoing plea for guidance was to remind me always of the gift of free agency. I was the one who had made the choice to be in the marriage, and now that I found my feet to the fire, it was for me to fix the mess. I wasn’t going to be rescued. The only way I would ever learn and grow was to make the next decision on my own, too.
My heart was heavy and I wished I had my mother with me still. To say to me firmly: “Gather yourself together! You have children who need a happy mother.”
Imagining her saying this to me suddenly gave me the clarity I needed. I would never be that happy mother if I stayed in my marriage. I would never be the best person I could be for my children or for myself. I knew I had my answer. The next morning I called an attorney and said I wanted to file for divorce. Though I knew it was right, I still longed for my mother to tell me that it would be okay, to give me encouragement.
I went downstairs, listening to the voices of my little children getting ready for school. As I turned into the kitchen and went to the refrigerator for the orange juice, something caught my eye. On that February morning, a new beginning was announcing itself once again. My mother ’s Christmas cactus had bloomed overnight and was covered with dozens of bright fuchsia flowers.
Needled
I’m wearing the diamond stud earrings my dad gave me for my sweet sixteen. If you use a magnifying glass you can see them.
I had to wait seven long years to get needled. I had asked for it every year for my birthday, starting at age eight, but my father didn’t think that I was old enough to handle it. I couldn’t figure out why it was such a big deal.
“It doesn’t hurt,” I tried to convince him at age ten. “It’s fast. No blood.”
“You might regret it,” he told me. “You’re still too young for those types of long-term decisions.”
“Now they use a gun!” I pleaded with my dad when I turned thirteen. “They won’t miss.”
“When you’re sixteen, you can decide,” he told me. “Not before.”
It could have been the words like “blood” and “gun” that bothered my father, a war vet, but I think it was more about what ear piercing would signify to him. His only daughter would no longer be a little girl.
So for me, and obviously also for my dad, having a teeny-tiny hole punched into each earlobe turned into a rite of passage, a bridge from girl to young woman.
Needle-less to say, in my own mind, I was already a full-grown woman by age twelve, and my sixteenth birthday seemed like a torturously long, almost eternal time to wait. I knew that I was going to forever love my pierced ears. I was right about that. I wear earrings every day. But I was wrong about the grown woman thing.
My teenagers have tried to talk me into accepting that getting a tattoo should be no big deal. Though it may be true that everyone seems to
In the weeks that followed, I had many sleepless nights, wondering if I was being wise. I knew that divorce couldn’t resolve our relationship problems. We have seven children together, and many other choices would have to be made as a result of this one choice.
I felt that God’s answer to my ongoing plea for guidance was to remind me always of the gift of free agency. I was the one who had made the choice to be in the marriage, and now that I found my feet to the fire, it was for me to fix the mess. I wasn’t going to be rescued. The only way I would ever learn and grow was to make the next decision on my own, too.
My heart was heavy and I wished I had my mother with me still. To say to me firmly: “Gather yourself together! You have children who need a happy mother.”
Imagining her saying this to me suddenly gave me the clarity I needed. I would never be that happy mother if I stayed in my marriage. I would never be the best person I could be for my children or for myself. I knew I had my answer. The next morning I called an attorney and said I wanted to file for divorce. Though I knew it was right, I still longed for my mother to tell me that it would be okay, to give me encouragement.
I went downstairs, listening to the voices of my little children getting ready for school. As I turned into the kitchen and went to the refrigerator for the orange juice, something caught my eye. On that February morning, a new beginning was announcing itself once again. My mother ’s Christmas cactus had bloomed overnight and was covered with dozens of bright fuchsia flowers.
Needled
I’m wearing the diamond stud earrings my dad gave me for my sweet sixteen. If you use a magnifying glass you can see them.
I had to wait seven long years to get needled. I had asked for it every year for my birthday, starting at age eight, but my father didn’t think that I was old enough to handle it. I couldn’t figure out why it was such a big deal.
“It doesn’t hurt,” I tried to convince him at age ten. “It’s fast. No blood.”
“You might regret it,” he told me. “You’re still too young for those types of long-term decisions.”
“Now they use a gun!” I pleaded with my dad when I turned thirteen. “They won’t miss.”
“When you’re sixteen, you can decide,” he told me. “Not before.”
It could have been the words like “blood” and “gun” that bothered my father, a war vet, but I think it was more about what ear piercing would signify to him. His only daughter would no longer be a little girl.
So for me, and obviously also for my dad, having a teeny-tiny hole punched into each earlobe turned into a rite of passage, a bridge from girl to young woman.
Needle-less to say, in my own mind, I was already a full-grown woman by age twelve, and my sixteenth birthday seemed like a torturously long, almost eternal time to wait. I knew that I was going to forever love my pierced ears. I was right about that. I wear earrings every day. But I was wrong about the grown woman thing.
My teenagers have tried to talk me into accepting that getting a tattoo should be no big deal. Though it may be true that everyone seems to
Similar Books
