And the baby is a senior

As school starts this year and all the "First Day" photos pop up on all the social medias, I settle in and think about what this year means to my child and to myself.

A seventeen year old girl. 

Last year of high school. The excitement of the future; not just college, but an entire lifetime ahead. Marriage...her own children...career options...OPTIONS... the whole world ahead of anyone is the most exciting time in everyone's life.
Choices.
Opportunities.
The world as your oyster and at your fingertips.
I relived my first days of senior year. The thoughts of college. The thoughts of leaving the nest.
I thought I loved her 16 years, 11 months and 25 days ago. Today, I can barely breathe thinking of my life without her even a semester at a time.
She drives the car.
She makes me laugh.
She follows instructions and challenges me.
She laughs at my jokes and makes me cringe at the future.
This doll is my world. My everything from the day she first took a breath and I didn't even know it.
Slowly she has taken over my entire sense of self.
Everything I do in life, I think of her needs first. She doesn't know it, but I couldn't move forward if she weren't there. Not anymore. I don't brush my teeth without wondering if she brushed hers. I don't cook without thinking what she can't stand on her plate.
When the news is on I worry about her. Every parent has these moments, I know. Children change lives. Bigger than anything imaginable.Now, and then. Little, then BIG. Then bigger. Then bigger than that.
Her life is my life.
My first born.
My soul kept.

Again, with the smile

Three very long days, hundreds of "end of summer" passengers, strange cities, amidst a heated political climate and a southern storm a brewin', and even though I can barely stay focused on the last two trips of the evening, I'm still smiling. On auto-pilot, so to speak, but very much, just being me.
A businessman walks out of the bathroom and asks for a Coke. Simple enough. I scoop ice, pop open a can, and grab a napkin. As I hand him the items, he says, "that is a well rehearsed smile", or something to that effect. Implying that my smile which he perceived as fake, was something I doled out no matter what the circumstance.
Although this bears witness to two facts, 1) he doesn't believe he was worthy of my fantastic smile, and 2) he felt as if asking me to get him a coke was a pain in my ass and I gave him the smile in response.
Wrong on both counts and insulting to who I am, it also reminded me what I offer up, even when on auto - a huge smile to everyone who needs one.
My response to his remark, "I smile like this all the time. I am like this, all the time".
His response, "it's annoying".
Whoa.
My smile is annoying?
Look here, Grinch...but before I could even respond, my associate, my partner in crime for three days, jumped in. "Annoying? She IS like this all the time. She is one of the nicest..." yadda yadda.
Then I laughed. I don't need to defend myself to a stranger, and how sad, to be so conditioned that you believe anyone who smiles at you is only doing so facetiously.
He then stood in the back of the plane and chatted with us for about twenty minutes before returning to his  seat. He talked about all the legacy carriers and how, "they just don't get it". How rude and awful the crews are and how our airline is so different in the way they treat customers. A common exchange between many of our customers, how much they love us and prefer us to all the other airlines.

Ironically enough, this particular trip showed another side to our passengers. We had passengers bring us chocolates, compliments and even jewelry. The three days was filled with gratitude and love from our passengers and I felt truly lucky to have my job this week. As exhausting as each day was, we received genuine appreciation from our  passengers which, sometimes, is far greater than any compensation.

By the end of this particular flight, as the gentleman from the beginning of this story exited the plane I waited up front to say goodbye personally, I asked if I was still annoying him and he smiled and said, "Actually, it's quite charming."
Yeah, that's what I thought.

Sports and relationships

And I do not mean, hate the game.
I love football. I grew up on football. I wanted to be a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader when I was a little cheerleader of life. I think it was more exciting for me to cheer on the Cowboys, whom my father hated, than to actually be a cheerleader, but this is how it all begins, n'est ce pas?

I watched an HBO Sports documentary on Steve Gleason - the game that changed his life, his bout with ALS and the revival of the Saints. It is an emotional documentary. It touches on passion for life. A game Americans relate to and are conjoined by, and a relationship one man has with the game and his city. Passion is not defined by one man's concept, but by any man's engagement with his perception of that concept.
Steve Gleason is a hero. He has that passion. He loves his city. He loved the game.

The irony of his life and his relationship with the Saints, is the scandal that ensued most recently. Bounties and payments made and taken for physically damaging other players from other teams. The Saints were made a target, as if they were the only team to ever bounty up another player ina  professional sport. But men like Gleason and many, many others who suffered the final blow and damage of these boounties now pay the ultimate price.
 Unable to speak, and with few mobilities left, these men speak on the power of the game - the power of the blow, every blow with ultimately led to their demise. Gleason clearly states, it is not the words of the head coaches that cause damage to other players, it is the impact itself. The head to body, head to head and head to ground contact with immobilizes these hero's we love to watch over beer and nachos on Sunday.

Like Gladiators, these men get into the ring and fight for a paycheck, fight for their families and fight for their fans. As if they are changing the world. Some get killed against the lion.
I have a son who wants to fight the lion.
Now my fan status has a different outlook.
Do I think Steve Gleason's mom appreciates the game as much as all her son's fans? How about his wife, or their infant son?

What some give up to be a hero is not winning the game. It is the fight that happens after the games are over and life is on the line. For the future of other players. For their families.
Not for the game.

Heartache and the meaning of life

The purpose in life, under some terms is not simply to evolve, but to engage and learn.
This is affected by the people we are born to. The friends we choose. The children we are blessed with.
The lovers that cross our paths. Our lifelong friends, and our acquaintances.
Each of these relationships is specific in determining how we proceed to our (own individual) next level.

I held on to this article for  few days before I actually read it, because I knew there were things that I would easily get, and things I wasn't ready to face yet; the path of my own journey I didn't want to see on paper. Like knowing your bank account is a mess, but being afraid to log in and see it firsthand, because in your mind, the damage is far worse than in reality.
This article in O magazine lightly sauces a few very typical behaviors that change people's outlooks. But, on some level gives a better outlook on how and why we become the people we are today. How do we react to these encounters? How do we train our persona's to react to similar acts in the future? Do we become more aware? Do we repeat the same mistakes over and over again? Do we jump up and never open the door again?
I finally read the article today, and as I suspected, received it far better than I anticipated. The #1 point made, which we have all walked through...hanging on longer than necessary believing under some sun that we are more special than that person thought we were. And we are, even if they don't think so.
I had a great friend tell me once, "just because "that guy" mistreated me, doesn't mean I am unlovable". Those words changed my path. My outlook, my life.
I had attached my love-ability to some dick, who treated me just like my dad did forty years ago, and responded as if that was my future, my story, not just my history.
I had to tell myself everyday for months, "I am loveable". And today, I would never have to say that outloud, because I know it's true, but then, I needed to hear it everyday, even if only from my own lips, to remind myself that one fucktard (maybe two) does not define me.
But, had that never happened, had I never been mistreated, had I never heard my friends kind words, had I never picked my ass up off the ground and revitalized myself, and my spirit, I would be the same pathetic girl disengaged by words and actions of someone so careless, they don't even care about them self, much less anyone else.
The benefit of heartache...the quality of engaging in life.
Always the opportunity to build a better universe for self.