Before the Bills and the Back Pain

Sometimes I wonder what I would give to go back to page one of my love story.

Not because I want to change the ending. Not because I would choose someone different. But because I’d love to read those first few chapters again while knowing everything I know now.

I’d like to see us before the mortgage payments, the kids, the jobs, the bills, the arguments, the losses, the responsibilities and all the ordinary life that somehow piles itself on top of two people who once couldn’t get enough of each other. Back when a phone call could make your entire day. When you noticed every little touch. When staying up half the night talking didn’t seem ridiculous because tomorrow didn’t matter nearly as much as right now.

I wonder if I appreciated that version of us enough.

Probably not.

That’s the funny thing about beginnings. You rarely know you’re standing in one. You don’t realize that someday you’ll look back at an ordinary Tuesday night, a cheap dinner, a song playing in the car, or the way someone reached over and grabbed your hand and think, God, I’d give anything to have five minutes of that again.

But I wouldn’t want to stay on page one.

Because page one didn’t know what was coming.

Those two people didn’t know how many times life would test them. They didn’t know there would be days when love felt effortless and days when loving each other was a decision. They didn’t know the people they would lose, the children they would raise, the mistakes they would make, the forgiveness they would need, or how many times they would have to find their way back to each other.

Page one is beautiful because it’s full of possibility.

But there’s something pretty damn beautiful about page 10,000 too.

That’s where the wrinkles are. The inside jokes nobody else understands. The stories you’ve told a hundred times. The fights you barely remember what started. The quiet nights when nobody is trying to impress anybody anymore. It’s knowing exactly how that person takes their coffee, what will make them mad, what will make them laugh, and when they need you to just leave them alone for a minute.

Maybe I wouldn’t give anything to actually go back. Maybe I’d just like to visit.

I’d whisper to that younger version of myself, Pay attention. This is the beginning of something you’re going to spend the rest of your life remembering. Then I’d come right back here. Because page one may have had butterflies. But these pages have a whole life written on them.

Just Say You’re Sorry

Why have we made apologizing so damn complicated?

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

Not an apology.

“I’m sorry, but you…”

Nope. You just took it back.

“I’m sorry if you were offended.”

Oh, we’re getting worse. 😂

Sometimes you had good intentions and still hurt somebody.

Sometimes you misunderstood.

Sometimes you were tired, angry, defensive or just plain wrong.

You don’t have to hold a congressional hearing to determine exactly what percentage of the argument belonged to each person before saying:

“I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”

An apology doesn’t make you weak. It doesn’t mean the other person was perfect. And it doesn’t erase your side of the story.

It simply means you’re grown enough to recognize your part of it.

Your ego will survive.

And so will you.

Somebody needed to say it.

Ya Gossiping Turd Bucket!

 Whoa…

“Don’t tell me what someone said about me. Tell me why they felt comfortable talking about me to you!”

That right there pretty much explains why I am not part of a gossip circle. 😂

People who know me already know better than to come to me talking about somebody I care about. Because I am probably not going to sit there quietly, nod my head, and pretend I didn’t hear it. Nope. I’m going to have something to say. And depending on who you are talking about, I may even send a little slang back your way. 😂

I’ve noticed that I am often the last person to hear about something—or I never hear about it at all. And honestly, I think I know why.

People know I am probably going to ask questions. I’m probably going to defend somebody. I’m probably going to say, “Well, did you ever think about it this way?” And there is a very good chance I am going to put a stop to the whole conversation before it turns into a full-blown gossip festival. 

I don’t need to know everybody’s business. I have enough of my own! And apparently, somewhere along the way, people figured out that if they bring gossip to me, they may not get the reaction they were hoping for. I’m not going to help tear somebody down just so we can have something to talk about.

So maybe being the last to know isn’t such a bad thing after all. Maybe it means people know I’m not going to carry somebody else’s mess around for them. And honestly? That makes me feel like I’m doing something right. 😂

Raven hasn't changed much.

I’ve been a rebel pretty much since birth. One of my first full sentences was “Baby do it!” That probably should’ve been everyone’s warning. At five, I’d bite my friend Patricks’ fingers when he stuck them through the fence. When we went camping, I made my older siblings or cousins carry me from the shoreline because I didn’t want my feet muddy. 

Independent? Absolutely.

Spoiled? Possibly.

As a teenager, I was known to sneak my parents’ car out. As an adult, I divorced two men who thought they were going to control me. Boy... were THEY wrong!  They needed a weaker female and I wasn't it.

I hate being bossed around, I hate procrastinating, and I REALLY hate reading instructions. I’ve always believed if I set my mind to something, I can figure it out. Sometimes the hard way, but I’ll figure it out.

That stubbornness has gotten me into trouble, many times.... but it’s also gotten me pretty far. I raised kids, built a business, survived hard things, started over more than once, and made plenty of mistakes along the way.

At 61, I’m still basically that little girl saying, “Baby do it!”

When my mother worked she used to tell "Raven stories" and he friends even asked to hear one if they were having a bad day.  I guess I made their problems look smaller somehow! lol 

I doubt I’ll make it into an actual history book, but someday when my family tells stories about me, I hope they start with:

“Oh Lord… let me tell you what Raven did.”  

The Precious the Ordinary Moments

I had this weird thought… What if I woke up tomorrow and the last 45 years had just been a dream? I’m young again. No husband. No kids. No grandkids. No career. No house. No cell phone with my entire life inside it. My parents are alive. And apparently, I have to live the 80s all over again—which, honestly, there are worse things. But then I started wondering… would I do things differently?

Would I recognize Dennis when I met him and think, There you are? Would I hold my babies a little longer because I already knew how fast they were going to grow up? Would I know which friendships would eventually disappear and make more of an effort to hold on to the people who were worth keeping? Would I recognize the moments when I was seeing someone for the very last time and hug them a little tighter? And what about the people who would eventually hurt me? Would I avoid them this time, or would I face-rake them and kick them in the shins? LOL. Maybe I’d realize that even the people who hurt me somehow became part of who I was becoming. Maybe some lessons just have to be learned the hard way.

Would I know which arguments never really mattered and just shut my mouth? That’s a trick question—you know I can’t keep my mouth shut! But maybe I’d at least know which arguments mattered and which ones didn’t. Maybe I’d say the things I wish I had said and let go of the things that weren’t worth carrying.

Would I do better in school and take it more seriously? Maybe go to college? Choose something completely different? Become an actress, a therapist, or a lawyer? You know… actually do something with all that potential I didn’t even realize I had yet? Would I take that summer trip to Holland when I was 15 instead of staying home because I didn’t want to leave my boyfriend?

I know I would walk through the halls of my childhood home a little slower this time. I’d look at everything and take it all in because I would know the day would come when it wouldn’t be my home anymore. I’d sit on my swing set a little longer, looking at the mountains and watching the sunset, knowing that someday I’d give anything to sit there just one more time.

And when I saw my parents young again, would I just stand there and stare at them for a while, knowing I had somehow been given back something I thought I had lost forever? I would notice everything this time. Their voices coming from another room as they talked to each other. My daddy telling some funny joke while rubbing his hand over his face. My mom completely ignoring him when he started a sentence with, “Now, Judy…” I’d sit beside them a little longer and probably drive them crazy with questions. I’d hug them more. I’d listen more. I’d soak up all the ordinary things that didn’t seem important at the time because I’d know something my younger self couldn’t possibly have known yet: there are only so many Christmases, birthdays, phone calls, and times you get to walk through the door and say, “Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad.”

I’d appreciate my young body instead of constantly finding something wrong with it. I’d probably look in the mirror and think, Girl, you have no idea how good you’ve got it! Of course, younger me wouldn’t listen. She’d probably find something to complain about anyway. We always say, “If I knew then what I know now…” But what if you actually did? I think I know my answer. I would change things.

I’d change whatever I could to better myself. I’d make smarter decisions. I’d take a few different roads. I’d hold on to some people longer and let go of others a hell of a lot sooner. I wouldn’t want to repeat every mistake just because it was part of my story. But there is one thing I wouldn’t risk changing. My kids. Whatever roads I had to take to get to them, I’d take them again. Every single one.

They’re the one part of the dream I’d have to find my way back to. And maybe that’s what makes this imaginary do-over so complicated. Because if I change too much, I might change the very things that led me to them.

So maybe I wouldn’t want to wake up and live an entirely different life. Maybe I’d want to take everything I learned from this one and simply do some things better. I’d change what I could without changing the people I couldn’t imagine my life without. I’d spend a little less time worrying about the destination and a little more time noticing where I was standing. I’d slow down long enough to realize that sometimes I was already somewhere worth remembering.

So if I woke up tomorrow and I was young again, with 45 years of memories from a life that supposedly never happened, I think I’d make the most of it. I’d do some things differently, appreciate some things more, and probably still make a few stupid decisions because, well… I’m still me. But this time, I’d know just how precious the ordinary moments really were.