The Stars Can't Break the City Sky
Truthful Tuesday

I love my dad, but he’s an ass. He’s a drunk and an adulterer and a hell of a human being, does more for his friends than just about anyone I’ve ever met. Conflicted feelings, I have them.

A few weeks ago he took the phone from my mom when I was talking to her, wandered outside and lowered his voice. He’d won a goodly sum in the state lottery, a Pick 4 ticket. He hadn’t cashed it, he hadn’t told my mom he’d won anything, he hadn’t told anyone.

I’m putting it in the mail to you, he said. I want you to use it for the adoption. You can’t tell your mom what I did, not a word.

We’ve been talking about it for several years now, the Mister and I, trying to squirrel away money here and there but something always happened and there were other things for which a rainy day fund was necessary.  Just a piece of paper to state what we already knew, what he already was in every way that mattered to me and to Kid A, the only dad he’s ever known.

So we sent in the lottery ticket and got back a nice sum, did our research and asked for references and next week (hopefully) we start the process with an attorney who has done a whole heck of a lot of second parent adoptions, many of which were no doubt a lot more complicated than our own.

I have some anxiety.  Paternal rights were never established, but my understanding is there’ll still need to be a TPR anyway, and I’m worried about that, mostly because it brings back in a wave of emotion all the shame I was made to feel when I got pregnant in the first place.  But we’ll see it through.  Because as much as I tell myself it’s not a big deal. that piece of paper, it matters.

When I told my dad I was pregnant, he stopped talking to me.  Six months of barely acknowledging me, a mix of stubborn Irish pride and worry and sorrow and disappointment that made what I was carrying feel even heavier. This is the man who came to the hospital once, and stood as far away from the bassinet as possible.

This is the man who offered up his whole heart when that baby came home, who became his inseparable companion and best friend.  I’ve thought we were done so many times, he’s broken my heart a hundred different times but I’ll never be able to walk away. 

Truth is, I’ve made peace with that.

amusdbyyou:

Some of the best people in my life I’ve never met.

moodyrebelmage:

Clint Barton doesn’t show up 15 minutes late with Starbucks. Clint Barton shows up an hour late with cheap pizza, a broken nose, and a stray dog.

Kid B, in the elevator this morning: My nipples are tiny. You have really big nipples, Mama. How come your nipples are so big?

I actually felt a little bad for the 20-something bro riding with us.

Lessons from tonight’s insomnia

"In the Shadow of Two Gunmen" is not the appropriate West Wing episode to pull up on Netflix for background noise when you are trying to quiet your mind enough to fall asleep.

But oh, the volumes of Josh/Sam fic these episodes inspired.

door:

I work in a comic book shop. Today a black woman I’d never seen before came in (neither the fact that she was black nor female are unusual for my store—it’s got an awesomely diverse customer base). She was looking for Afterlife With Archie, but stuck around to browse after I pointed it…

therumpus:


“I was in too much shock to photograph Miller being carried away,” Gilbertson writes, “but if I had taken pictures, they would have depicted a crumpled, dying man… Those kinds of images show the horror and repugnance of war… But they don’t speak to the larger truth: war takes people away from those who love them. I came home. Billy Miller didn’t. I needed to photograph his absence.”

Nathan Webster reviews Bedrooms of the Fallen by Ashley Gilbertson.

therumpus:

“I was in too much shock to photograph Miller being carried away,” Gilbertson writes, “but if I had taken pictures, they would have depicted a crumpled, dying man… Those kinds of images show the horror and repugnance of war… But they don’t speak to the larger truth: war takes people away from those who love them. I came home. Billy Miller didn’t. I needed to photograph his absence.”
Nathan Webster reviews Bedrooms of the Fallen by Ashley Gilbertson.
My idea of rich is that you can buy every book you ever want without looking at the price and you’re never around assholes. That’s the two things to really fight for in life.
John Waters  (via detailsdetales)
nevver:

“This is Jim Rockford, at the tone…”