They Walked Away… We Kept Living

I’m gonna just say it… I was a single mom for seven years. And to be honest, I loved it.

Was it hard? Of course. Was it my own fault? Yep. I picked the biggest losers I could find to marry and have kids with. I own that. But once I accepted that reality, I quit wasting my time wishing people would be different than who they had already shown me they were.

One thing is for sure—my kids didn’t do without. They had a roof over their heads, food on the table, birthday parties, school activities, and a mama who showed up every single day. In a lot of ways, they actually did better without the chaos, disappointment, and broken promises.

This year, I’m calling out the dads who left. The ones who walked away from responsibility, child support, birthdays, school plays, sick kids, and every hard part of parenting. The ones who disappeared and left women to do it all… not even caring if it worked out or not. Not even knowing if their children had what they needed. Not even checking to see if they were okay.

And here’s the reality: a lot of us women didn’t just survive without them—we thrived without them. We raised good kids, built stable homes, and created happy lives. We worked, paid bills, sat up with sick kids, attended parent-teacher conferences, worried about money, and carried the entire load ourselves.

They missed every milestone, every memory, and every chance to know their own children.

Children grow up. They start connecting the dots. They remember who was there and who wasn’t. They remember who came to the games, who helped with homework, who stayed up when they were sick, and who simply disappeared.

I don’t care if people think this is harsh. It’s the truth. People make decisions, and then they live with them. Choosing not to be in a child’s life is a decision. Walking away is a decision. Missing birthdays, holidays, graduations, weddings, and grandchildren someday… those are all consequences of that decision.

And their families know it too. They saw it then, and many of them still see it now. Many of them chose not to build relationships with those children either. They had birthdays they could have attended, phone calls they could have made, and memories they could have been part of. They chose not to. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, and a leopard doesn’t change its spots.

Many of these men are still exactly who they were back then—still blaming everyone else, still avoiding responsibility, and still running from accountability. And if their lives are a mess, that’s not on the women who stayed and did the work. We earned our peace. We earned our families. We earned the respect of our children.

And if today some of those men are hearing “Happy Father’s Day” from a sibling, a parent, or another family member while their own children don’t call, don’t text, and don’t acknowledge them at all… I hope it stings. I hope they realize that being a father and being called “Dad” are two different things. Titles are earned, not biologically assigned. And I hope they understand what a fraud it is to celebrate being a father when they chose not to father their own children.

Because we didn’t take that title away from them.

They gave it away all by themselves.

They missed out on amazing kids and the adults they became. We didn’t miss out on anything. We got the privilege of raising them, loving them, and watching them grow into incredible people. The loss wasn’t ours. It was theirs.

I Miss Being Young… For About Five Minutes

Every once in a while, I think it might be nice to be young again. Then I remember what being young was actually like.

For starters, I was broke. Not “I should probably watch my spending” broke. I mean counting change for gas broke. Living in a low income duplex broke. Choosing between shampoo and electricity broke. I didn’t have a 'savings' account. I had a 'hope' account.

Then there were the relationships. When you’re young, every relationship feels like the one. Every breakup feels like the end of the world. You spend hours dissecting conversations with friends like you’re working a cold case. 

“He said this...” 

“Yeah, but what do you think he meant by this?” 

Now? I wouldn’t give two rats’ ass what he said or what he meant. If a grown man wants to play games, he can buy a PlayStation. I don’t have the patience or energy.

Then there were the jobs. When you’re young, everybody tells you to 'follow your dreams'. Easy advice when you’re not the one living on ramen noodles and change you find in the couch cushions, wondering if your checking account will make it to the next payday that's still 7 days away. Back then I worked hard and worried about every bill in the mailbox. Lay awake at nights worrying! Today I still work hard, but at least I know the lights are staying on.

The truth is, I don’t really miss being young. I miss having a younger body. I miss reading a menu in a dimly lit restaurant without holding it at arm’s length. I miss eating whatever I wanted without my body filing a formal complaint the next morning. I miss shopping for and wearing a bikini!

But the rest of it? The uncertainty. The bad decisions. The drama. The lack of money. The terrible taste in men. No thank you! 

Every now and then I think it might be nice to be twenty-five again. Then I remember I was twenty-five once. And honestly, I’ll take sixty-one with money, wisdom, grandchildren, and a good husband over twenty-five, clueless and men that can't get their shit together...  any day of the week. 🤣

Not Everything Needs an Audience

Maybe I’m showing my age, but whatever happened to excusing yourself to fix a wedgie?

People used to slip into a restroom or at least wait until nobody was looking.

Now?

They’ll stop right in the middle of Walmart, Apparently that’s the perfect time to perform what looks like an emergency excavation and grab a handful of pants, and perform a full-scale recovery operation without the slightest bit of embarrassment.

The rest of us are left staring at a box of cereal, pretending we didn’t just witness it.

I don’t know when public wedgie removal became socially acceptable, but apparently I missed the meeting.

I’m Not Ignoring You, I’m Regulating Myself

​Leave Me Alone So I Can Lick My Wounds

I have to wonder… am I the only one who, when I don’t feel good, just wants to be left alone?

In today’s world, it seems like everyone immediately goes online and lets everybody know exactly how they’re feeling. They post if they’re sick, sad, mad, overwhelmed, or having a rough day. And honestly, that’s fine. Social media is how a lot of people keep in touch now, and for some people, talking it out helps.

But me? I’m the opposite.

When I don’t feel good, I tend to disappear a little. I want to be by myself. I want quiet. I want to go lick my wounds somewhere and just deal with whatever is bothering me on my own.

It’s the same when I get upset. I don’t usually want an audience, advice, or twenty people asking me what’s wrong. I need space. I need time to process my feelings and let my emotions settle down. Being alone somehow helps me regulate myself.

Maybe it’s because I’m more introverted these days. But when I really think about it, I’ve always been this way. Even when I was younger, I preferred to retreat, think, and come back when I was ready.

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. We all cope differently. Some people heal out loud. Some of us heal quietly.

Neither way is wrong.

I’m just curious… am I the only one who wants to be left alone to lick my wounds, or are there more of us out there?

Do Weird People Know They’re Weird?

One of the things I spend an embarrassing amount of time thinking about is whether weird people know they’re weird. Not bad weird. Not dangerous weird. Just the kind of weird that makes you stop for a second and think, “Well, that’s certainly a choice.” Like wearing a tail and cat ears. Come on now… that’s weird.

The other day I saw a guy walking down the street wearing an outfit that looked like he got dressed during a power outage. Nothing matched. The hat made no sense unless he was someone’s little buddy on a stranded island during Pride month. His walk had a little extra drag to it. And yet he looked completely confident, like he owned the sidewalk.

It got me wondering. Does he know why people are looking at him? Or does he think he’s perfectly normal and the rest of us are the odd ones? Then I made the mistake of thinking about it too long. What if weird people don’t know they’re weird? More importantly, what if I’m weird and do know it?

I mean, I talk to myself. A lot. My husband is forever asking, “Who are you talking to?” And I answer with complete confidence, “Myself!” Sometimes I need expert advice.

Nobody has ever staged an intervention for me. I’ve managed to keep friends, jobs, relationships, and a reasonably good reputation. But maybe every weird person says the exact same thing.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized everybody has their thing. Some people wear strange hats. Some people collect things nobody understands. Some people sing to their pets or name their plants. I talk to myself. We all have our quirks.

Maybe normal is just a group of weird people agreeing not to point fingers at each other. And maybe being a little weird isn’t something to hide. It’s part of what makes us interesting. The world would be pretty boring if everyone acted exactly the same.

So I’ve decided it’s okay to be weird. Wear the odd hat. Talk to yourself. Collect strange things. Dance in your kitchen. As long as you’re happy, not hurting anybody, and not asking me to wear cat ears, I think we’re all going to be just fine.

​

Visiting Sleeping Beauty

I went to see my mom today like I do most Wednesdays. She’s in a nursing home now, where she should be receiving round-the-clock care, but we still go see her and check in. Just because someone lives in a facility doesn’t mean you stop being their family.

She has pretty much stopped using her phone. I don’t think she has much interest in it anymore. I usually call before I leave and tell her to expect me, but this time I didn’t because she doesn’t answer the phone anyway.

When I got there, she was sound asleep after a busy morning. And I mean sound asleep. I couldn’t wake her up. She didn’t want to wake up either. She was perfectly content being asleep.

This is exactly why I always called first. From now on, I’ll make sure she’s awake and expecting me before I make that two-hour drive.

The day wasn’t wasted because any day you get to see your mom is a gift, especially at 92 years old. But I have to admit, I don’t really want to drive two hours to visit Sleeping Beauty.

I guess that’s one of the strange things about this season of life. As our parents age, we adjust right along with them. We learn new routines, new expectations, and sometimes we learn that even our visits need a little planning.

Next Wednesday, Sleeping Beauty is getting a wake-up call.

The People Willing to Raise Their Hand

It’s easy to sit in our living rooms, scroll social media, and complain about our government. We complain about roads, schools, taxes, regulations, crime, and the direction of our communities. We talk about what should change and how someone ought to fix it.

But then election time comes around, and most of us vote for the same people over and over again and expect different results.

The truth is, holding public office is hard work. It’s long meetings, endless phone calls, criticism from every direction, and decisions that make one group happy while making another group angry. It’s missed family time, constant scrutiny, and carrying the weight of thousands of opinions on your shoulders.

And it takes courage to even run in the first place.

You have to put your name, your reputation, and sometimes your family in the public eye. You have to be willing to have strangers judge your motives, criticize your past, and pick apart your every decision before you’ve even won the election.

Most people aren’t willing to do that.

Whether you agree with a candidate or not, there is something admirable about anyone who raises their hand and says, “I’m willing to serve. I’m willing to try. I’m willing to be held accountable.”

Real change rarely happens by complaining from the sidelines. It requires people willing to step into the arena and communities willing to consider new ideas and new voices.

If we keep electing the same people and expecting different outcomes, we shouldn’t be surprised when nothing changes.

Democracy asks two things of us: the courage to run and the willingness to thoughtfully choose who leads. Neither is easy. But both matter.

My Daddy Would Have Been 94 Today!

My daddy would have been 93 years old today.

It’s funny how someone can be gone for years, yet you still find yourself thinking about them, hearing their voice in your head, or wishing you could pick up the phone and tell them something.

My daddy was one of those people.

When I was a teenager, all my friends thought he was handsome. Of course, back then I rolled my eyes about it because that’s what teenage daughters do. But they were right. He was handsome. He had that easy smile and kind eyes that made people feel comfortable around him.

As he got older, he would laugh and say he looked like Santa Claus. The white hair, the beard, the twinkle in his eye—he wasn’t wrong. But what made him truly resemble Santa wasn’t how he looked. It was who he was. He was kind, generous, patient, and always willing to help someone who needed it.

He was also one of the hardest-working men I’ve ever known. He believed in showing up, doing the job right, and taking care of his family. He didn’t need recognition or applause. He simply did what needed to be done because that’s who he was.

Looking back now, I realize how much of what I value came from watching him. The importance of hard work. The importance of keeping your word. The importance of being kind even when nobody is watching.

The older I get, the more I appreciate the lessons he taught without ever having to say much.

I miss him. I miss his laugh, his stories, and the comfort of knowing he was always there. But mostly, I miss being his little Rinkydink.

Happy 93rd Birthday, Daddy.

You were loved more than you ever knew, and you are missed more than words can say.

Somebody has to do the work

I don’t understand this idea that people shouldn’t have to work. Every single thing we enjoy exists because somebody got up in the morning and did a job. Somebody built the roads, grew the food, picked up the trash, stocked the shelves, built the houses, taught the kids, and kept the lights on.

People act like because America is already built, it will somehow keep running on its own. It won’t. Everything has to be maintained, repaired, replaced, and preserved. That requires work.

Life isn’t supposed to be a walk through a garden, tiptoeing through the tulips while everyone else pays your way. You’re supposed to contribute. You’re supposed to get up and do something. That’s how you appreciate what you have and how you gain pride in what you’ve earned.

I also don’t understand the idea that everyone should be their own boss and nobody should have to answer to anyone. If everyone owned a business, who would have the money to buy from those businesses? Society works because people fill different roles and depend on each other.

And no, I don’t think able-bodied adults should expect other taxpayers to support them while they choose not to contribute. People can give back in many ways—through a job, volunteering, mentoring, helping family, or serving their community. Everyone can contribute something.

Maybe this is my Gen X talking, but I was raised to believe that if you want something, you work for it. If you want a better life, you build it. And if you’re capable of contributing but choose not to, don’t expect everyone else to carry your load.

Somebody has to do the work. Otherwise, everything stops.

 

What the Hell Happened to My Eyebrows?

I knew getting older came with a few surprises.

I expected wrinkles. I expected random aches and pains that show up for no reason and stay longer than houseguests. I expected reading glasses. What I did not expect was for my eyebrows to quietly pack their bags and leave without so much as a goodbye note.

Seriously. What happened?

I didn’t shave them off during a wild phase in the ‘90s. Or pluck them into thin lines. (like the 90210 days). I’ve never been aggressive with eyebrow maintenance! Yet here I am, standing in front of the mirror, wondering if my eyebrows entered the Witness Protection Program. One day they were there, and the next they were so light I could barely find them.

And while I am on this rampage... WHY are new hairs popping up on my chin? It’s like my eyebrows are relocating to other parts of my face. Apparently, my body looked at the situation and said, “We’re moving the hair budget to another department.” I did not approve that transfer. What the hell?!

The good news is I’ve reached an age where I don’t panic about things like this anymore. Most women won’t leave the house without putting on lipstick. I won’t leave until I’ve drawn on a pair of eyebrows.

I am starting to laugh about it, but if anyone sees my missing eyebrows wandering around out there somewhere, tell them I’m looking for them. I’d really like them back.

The Questions That Kept Us Safer

Back when I was young, there were commercials reminding parents to ask their kids: Who? What? Where? Why? And How? Who are you with? What are you doing? Where are you going? Why are you going there? How are you getting there? It seemed simple, maybe even annoying at the time, but those questions probably kept more kids safe than we realized.

We also grew up hearing things like, “You are who you hang out with,” and “If I don’t know the parents, you’re not going.” We hated those rules as kids. As adults, I understand them completely.

Our parents wanted to know who was influencing us, whose house we were spending time in, whether there would be supervision, and if there was a safe way home. They checked in, set boundaries, and expected us to answer questions.

Parenting wasn’t about being your child’s best friend. It was about knowing their friends, knowing their families, paying attention to changes in behavior, trusting your gut, and being willing to say no.

Maybe those old questions and old rules weren’t controlling at all. Maybe they were one of the reasons so many of us made it safely to adulthood.

That’s a Wrap!

After 34 years in childcare, I did not sell my center because I wanted to. I sold because the system made it increasingly difficult to continue.

For decades, I did everything DHS asked of me. I became one of the first 2-Star centers in my county when the Star system was introduced. I earned additional credentials when master teachers became a requirement. I ensured my staff completed increasing training hours, maintained compliance with new regulations, achieved 5-Star status, and earned national accreditation. During COVID, we adapted yet again, providing virtual learning support and continuing to serve working families during one of the most difficult periods our industry has ever faced.

Every time DHS raised the bar, I met it. Every time new requirements were introduced, I invested in my program, my teachers, and my facility. I believed quality childcare mattered.

What I did not expect was for DHS to continually increase expectations while reducing the financial support needed to meet them. Subsidy reductions, eligibility changes, and unfunded mandates created a situation where providers were expected to deliver more services, hire more qualified staff, offer better benefits, maintain higher standards, and somehow do it with less revenue.

Quality childcare is expensive to provide. We were told to invest in continuity of care, teacher education, accreditation, and quality improvement. We did. Then the funding that helped support those efforts was taken away.

The reality is simple: childcare centers cannot operate at a loss. When government policies make quality care financially unsustainable, providers are left with two choices—lower their standards or leave the industry. I chose not to compromise the quality of care I spent 34 years building.

I was fortunate to have interested buyers and was able to sell. Many providers will not be so lucky. They will simply close their doors.

DHS says its mission is to support children and families. From where I stand, its policies are driving experienced providers out of the field and making quality childcare harder to find. After 34 years of adapting, complying, investing, and fighting to stay afloat, DHS did not just influence my decision to sell—it ultimately made it necessary.

Raven Carter,  Yukon OK

Monday Was Yesterday, Right?

One thing nobody told me about retirement is how fast time would go.

When I was working, it felt like it took forever for Friday to arrive. Monday would show up, and by Wednesday I was already wondering if Friday had gotten lost. The days were filled with schedules, deadlines, meetings, phone calls, and a hundred things demanding my attention. Some afternoons felt like they lasted a week all by themselves, and 6:00 p.m. seemed to take forever to get here.

Now, the weeks seem to disappear.

The funny thing is, it’s not because I’m sitting around doing nothing. I’ve actually been keeping busy. There are doctor appointments, grandkids staying the night, swimming, shopping, lunches with friends, day dates with my husband, and visits with my mom. I’ve done lots of cleaning and prep work for moving, and I’ve even stopped by the daycare to help with various things when they need an extra hand.

Somewhere between all of that, Monday turns into Friday.

I used to think retirement would feel slow. Instead, it feels like life just shifted gears. The clock hasn’t changed, but how I spend my time has. These days, my calendar is filled with people I love instead of things I have to do.

Still, if someone could explain how it’s already June, I’d appreciate it.

The Guilt Hat

I'm putting it away!

I’ve come to the conclusion that I spend a lot of my life wearing what I call the guilt hat. The guilt hat is invisible, but trust me, it’s there. It’s the hat that magically appears every time someone else’s problem lands in my lap. Suddenly, I’m wondering if I should do more, call more, help more, fix more, worry more, or somehow become personally responsible for things that were never mine to manage in the first place.

The crazy part is that nobody hands me this hat. I put it on myself. Someone is unhappy? I reach for the guilt hat. Someone made a bad decision? Here comes the guilt hat. Someone’s life is a mess? Let me see if my guilt hat matches my outfit.

Somewhere along the way, many of us learned that being a good person meant carrying things that don’t belong to us. We confuse caring with carrying, and they are not the same thing. I can care about you without fixing your life. I can love you without solving your problems. I can support you without making your responsibilities my responsibilities.

What I’ve finally realized is that not every problem is mine to solve, not every burden is mine to carry, and not every crisis requires my involvement. Just because something lands in front of me doesn’t mean I’m required to pick it up.

These days I’m trying to retire the guilt hat. Not because I don’t care, but because I’ve learned that carrying everyone else’s worries doesn’t make me a better friend, mother, spouse, or person. It just makes me tired.

Turns out the guilt hat was never a requirement. It was just an accessory I forgot I could take off.

Aged to Perfection

I’ve reached that stage of life where I no longer want my picture taken. Not because I’m ashamed of how I look or trying to hide from the camera. It’s because every time I see a picture of myself, I think, “Who is that woman?” In my head, I’m still me—the same personality, the same sense of humor, and the same person I’ve always been.

The strange thing about aging is that it sneaks up on you. One day you’re taking pictures, and the next you’re volunteering to be the photographer. Women have it the worst. Everywhere you look, someone is reversing, freezing, fighting, injecting, lifting, tightening, or filtering aging until they resemble a startled cartoon character. Apparently we’re supposed to spend retirement trying to look like we just graduated college.

I don’t want to look 22. I survived 22. I paid my dues for these laugh lines. I earned every gray hair, wrinkle, and reminder that I’ve actually lived a life. That doesn’t mean I want to let myself go. I still want to look nice and take care of myself. But there’s a huge difference between looking younger and looking good for your age.

Somewhere along the way, society decided “for your age” was an insult. I think it should be a compliment. Looking good for your age means you made it to your age. Not everyone gets that opportunity.

The truth is there has never been a fountain of youth, and there never will be. The choices are pretty simple: die young or live long enough to get old. That’s it. Yet somehow we’ve convinced women that aging is a personal failure instead of a privilege.

And people age differently. Some are blessed with great genetics; some aren’t. Some spent years in the sun; some didn’t. Some wrinkle, sag, or turn gray at 30. Some never do. None of those things make someone better than anyone else.

Maybe it’s time for a new motto. Not anti-aging. Not age-defying. Not forever young. Those are all marketing slogans designed to make us feel bad enough to buy something.

I say the new motto should be: Aged to Perfection. Because perfection isn’t looking 30 when you’re 60. Perfection is reaching an age where you finally stop apologizing for looking exactly the age that you are!