dad III

i think today i came to the conclusion that i just assume dad doesn't care about my life and he assumes i dont care about his. subconsciously of course. but still. i hope one day he finds that that's completely untrue.

dad II

everytime there's a sweet example of something he does for me, it seems to get thrown out of whack by something else. he's nice. he's funny, and i really know that he loves me. a part of me just keeps expecting some grand gesture, and the other part of me knows isn't happening.

today, he helped me fix up my mom's old bike for me to ride, which is super awesome. he walked me through changing the tire and everything so i can do it later if i need to. and that was so nice, and i was on a little dad high. about an hour later, i came home with a big bleeding scrap on my leg from were it brushed the gears. i told him wat happened as i climbed on the counter between the sink and the medicine cabinet to address my 'wound'. now, you should know, i want to be a nurse when i grow up, and i kinda enjoy/love blood and gross things, as was i quite proud of my most recent impailment. as i started running it under water, my dad got up from the couch and said 'let's take a look at this'. without looking out, i proped my leg up with pride. however, my dad turned the corner into the garage to 'take a look at' my bike. not me. not my leg. not my boo-boo.

my throut got tight and i blushed as i turned my head, feeling stupid. after a few seconds, i got composed, and assured myself that he didn't realize wat i had thought he meant, and in his mind he was looking out for me.

this seems to be wat always happens. he's nice, and he does things for me, but, not really.

grandma's friend

we were in the car coming home from church, and my dad did this sermon (ya i no, i'm the preacher's kid, as olivia calls me) on materials things and loving god first and above that rest and all that. my grandma's friend came with us, and she was going on about how now she's all changed and she's gonna stop loving all these material things, and i started saying, "well having a passion for something isn't bad, you just don't want to obsess over it too much." i think she would have respected that, and i think we could have gotten into a very intellectual conversation about it. however, she cut me off at about the word 'just' and continued with her stories. honest to god this happened about five or six times, and i was getting super mad. i hate when adults don't listen to my thoughts. it's like, i'm not a bloody genius and you DON'T need to whip out a pen when i speak, but come on! i no i am smart and i know i can keep up with, if not surpass, these primitive conversations.

at the following lunch, i was polite, i was smiley, and i totally was involved in the adult's conversations (adults being my parents, my dad's parents, and this lady) and making good points along with the rest of them. then, this lady turns to me and starts interoggating me about my life, sure i'll take the attention, most high-schoolers would, but she was asking all these questions she'd ask a four-year-old. also, later she made some comment about how she 'never seen a adolesent not finish her chips'. now i'm not complaining about that, hell i don't really care. that sentence just really sums up what i'm trying to say here.

to people like this lady, i will be nothing but a teenager. there's no possible way that i would had good ideas, or any deep thoughts whatever right? i must just think about the the jonas brothers and junk all day. basically; 'i'm older than you, so what i'm saying more important.'

no.

i hope while reading this, you come to disagree with them.

grandma

she's sick. i don't wanna talk about it.

dad

hmm my father. this is going to be a difficult one. you see, i can't get mushy here, because i really don't know him. i know i love him, beyond a show of a doubt i know i love him . but, when he's not here, he's at work. and when he is here, he's so exhausted from work and he's DOA. sometimes, i think he doesn't care. but, i just have to keep reminding myself that he's exhausted, exhausted from working all day so i can have a house to live in and a bed to sleep in (and a computer to blog on). so, in this way, i know he loves me. i know he loves me because why else would he get up each morning?

things about my dad:

-he loves riding his bike down the w & od trail, sometimes for hours

-he loves on the waterfront, and i've heard him say the whole "i cudda been a contender" speech multiple times

-he loves the song "is she really going out with him?" we sing it in his car with the windows down

-he grew up in springfield, VA, with two older brothers and one younger, and not a whole lot.

-he hates stephen colbert with a passion i do not understand

-he preaches at our church sometimes, and just watching him you know he loves it

momma

yes, i love my mom. everyone loves their mom, of course everyone loves their mom. it's almost impossible not to love your mom. I love her because, first and for most, shes loved me from the second she knew i existed. She loves me even when i'm moody or a jerk.

but i also like her, i like her an awful, awful lot. You see, everyone loves their moms, but, liking your mom, is a whole nother ball game. So many people my age don't like their moms. They sneer at them, and roll their eyes, and blame them for ruining their lives, (which seems a little paradoxical because their the ones who gave us life in the first place, but whatever) and it just makes me so sad. my mom is freaking awesome. She's my best friend. I like her because she's always there, always always. she's there to talk to, there to listen to my stories, there to put up with my antics.

You see, i love my mom because she's my mom, and i like my mom because she's my best friend.