And so it continues - Part 2

In part 1 I told yall that Jaime deserved to have her story told. You must be asking why I think Jaime is so special. What did she do to deserve any story. I think she would like people to know why she behaved, acted and reacted the she did during her life.
The beginning of the continued cycle really began before Jaime was even a thought. Jaime's mother was young, 16yrs old when she met and was whoo'd by a 42yrs. man. He promised her a better life than that of a very poor sharecropper's daughter. Her mother ran away with the older man, only to quickly experience out of the frying pan, into the fire. The man who was to save her, only used her to beat on, to sell to other men and in order to ensure she remained with him, he introduced this unhappy, scared, girl to the wonders of heroin. He taught her how to give herself the shots. In the 1950's, there was no hope for her escape. Soon this teenager girl was turning tricks to pay for her growing habit as well as for that of this leach of a human being who preyed on this helpless girl. He brought her to Texas, away from her family, her familiar surroundings, her only means of a possible escape. And so it continued, the cycle began. Eventually, Jaime was born, to a addict mother, and unknown John. Jaime's mother was useless to the old man by the time Jaime was born. He left her with a baby, a habit, and no hope. Jaime was born in the early 1980's. Times were better for a person to get help, but drug addicts were not considered top priority. I know this part of Jaime's life because she felt the need to tell me. She wanted me to understand why she made some of the choices she was making. Jaime continued to tell me... Jaime was never in one place too long, a junkie can't pay the rent, a landlord doesn't care about moving a junkie to the streets. Jaime says she remembered the first time an old man touched her, how he smelled, how his hands were dirty and rough, how he told her to shut up, how her mother asked Jaime to be a "good girl" and not be rude to the old man with the drug she was willing to give her daughter away for if not only a few minutes for. Jaime said she learned quickly as a little 4-5yrs girl to stay hidden, don't let the men see her, "don't expect momma to protect me" she said one of her first memories of her mother's drug problem was her mother sitting on the bathroom floor, sobbing, sweating, rocking as she would her daughter is she knew how to be a mother. Jaime said she was frightened because her mother suddenly fell over, and began to shake violently. Jaime said she ran to the neighbors in the shanty apartment to get help for her sick mother. Jaime was too young to understand the effects of with drawls. This was the first time child services became involved in this little girl's nightmare. Jaime's momma got "well", and got Jaime back. Jaime to the last time I saw her swore her mother loved her. Jaime continues her story, even for me I find it hard not want to slap her mother to this very day. Jaime tells me not too long after her terrifying ordeal, her mother began to take her "medicine" again. Jaime was 6yrs. old the first time her mother decided Jaime was old enough to help her. Jaime was taught at 6yrs old to tie her mother's arm off, with anything available, to load the syringe and to shoot the liquid hell called heroin into her mother's arm. Her mother told Jaime if she didn't do it right, if she didn't help her mother with this ritual, her mother would die, and Jaime would have no where to go. For one moment shut your eyes and imagine your 6yrs, child, niece, grandson hearing those words, seeing the effects of the shot, seeing the blood come back through the syringe. We imagine for one moment, this was a huge part of Jaime's life. I asked Jaime how she felt, now that she is grown with babies of her own, tears came to her eyes, she hung her head, and she softly said "I hate her for that, why me?" My heart broke for her, I wanted to hug her and make the memories go away. But, it was too late. Jaime was taken way from the only person she had really known to love, several more times, each time the state would allow her to go home, and each time her mother would relapse often at the expense of her daughter. Jaime learned early how to cook for herself and her mother, how to hustle money from the old men without selling her body, how to survive in the roughest neighborhoods where she was the minority, where she was beat up for walking down the street, and being white. She learned that CPS was not one to help her, but to take her from the mother that needed her. Jaime was taken was when she was 14yrs. old from her mother yet again, but this time Jaime was pregnant. Jaime said she believed CPS would have to let her go, if she had a baby. Jaime's eye's lit up as she spoke about her baby girl. Jaime had her baby while she herself was in foster care. The day she had her baby the state allowed her to see her baby then they took her baby from her. Jaime said she cryed and screamed the day they took her baby girl who she named Allison. Jaime was resourceful, a life on the streets had taught her well, she knew how to work the system. She played the game so well, she convinced the social worker she would not run away from the foster home, she learned where her baby girl was, she had refused to sign her away. Allison was the one person in this world who would love her, and not hurt her. Jaime took the first opportunity, she ran, and she ran straight to her baby girl. Jaime took her baby and ran again. Jaime ran to her mother. Jaime's mother tried to help, tried to hide her, tried to tell the state she was not longer a danger to her daughter. They took Jaime's baby again, however, through time and effort Jaime had her baby returned to her, and she was taken out of the system. Jaime loved Allison, yet, Jaime had never been mothered, she had never been rocked, she had never known the safety of one home. Jaime kept Allison, and tried to share her with the baby's daddy, only to have the daddy critically hurt in an accident, and he has been and still is basically brain dead. Allison's father's sister,(aunt) would help Jaime with Allison, the aunt loved Allison, but Jaime could not bear to give her baby girl away.
Part 3 to follow.......

And so it continues..

This story is close to my heart, this story reminds me of all the good things I have had, and do have, this story keeps my life in perspective for me.
As some of you know I was not born into a June and Ward Clever household. I was born sick, which I heard about pretty regular, I was born poor, yet my father made good money, I was born into a war zone, yet we lived in Fort Worth. All these things because of alcohol. Yep, you guessed it, my father was a raging drunk and my mother tried to counter that by drownding her sorrows. Who paid the real price, just as kids before me, and after me, we kids did and so it continues. However, this story is not about me. I say the above to say this, I can understand why the girl I am writing about made alot of the choices she made. I will call this girl Jamie, not her real name but she deserves to have her story told. When I met Jamie was was about 19yrs. old. She was as most teens are peppy, her long reddish blonde hair shinned as it blew on that windy sunny day. Jamie was a cute girl. She had a big smile.
I knew about Jamie because she was the daughter-in-law to my very best friend. I had heard of the issues Jamie and my friend's son had. How they squandered their money, how they fought both emotionally and physically with each other. How they had produced two beautiful little boys, with very little time between births. My friend would call me crying asking what she could do to help, she knew the babies were not being cared for in a way she cared for her children. She knew the babies were seeing the fighting, the suspected drug use, the dirty house, the lack of parental stabiltiy. My friend could do nothing. I told my friend to tell Jamie if ever she was in desperate need to call me, I knew Jamie and Jason did not trust or like the police, but I had hoped that because I had known Jason from the time he was 3yrs old that would take precedence. On that sunny day that I met Jamie, she had her babies with her. The boys were about 18months and 3yrs. old. They were beautiful little boys. I watched Jamie with her boys. I could see that she loved them, they loved her. The boys would run to her and she would hug them and smile as a mother does, her eyes would gleam as she spoke of their milestones. Yet, the boys were ragged, they were dirty and Jamie was at her wits end. Jamie came to me to ask me to talk to Jason. She was tired of the physical abuse, she was tired of the no money, she was simply tired of everything. She wanted to keep her boys with her, yet she had no help. Jason paid no child support, her mother was a recovering drug addict with her own issues and her father was no where in sight. How could she work if she had no child care, yet no child care because she had no job. She was desperate enough to come to me. I offered her options, many of which she had tried, I bought her diapers, but this would not help her but for a brief time for just one of her problems. Jamie was in a very bad place in her life and she knew it.
While reading this some may ask why did she have the babies, does it really matter once the babies are here? Or perhaps why did she not give them up if she loved them? Jamie had her reason which I will explain later. Or perhaps why was she any different from so many other young mothers? That too I will explain later. The point is our system, our society let Jamie down. Not when Jamie was a young mother, We continue to pay money to women with 6 kids, women who continue to have children well into their late 20's (old enough to know better),we continue to allow women who have had their children taken away to procreate and continue to have more only to have them removed.
This is not about society issues, this is to be about Jamie and other's like her, and the saddness that she felt.
Part 1-to be continued.

The ugliness of humanity

Boys and girls.. I believe my memory has an image embedded upon it that I will never be able to totally erase. After so many years of seeing torn up bodies, blood, guts, chewed up to burned up bodies there is one memory that I truly shutter when it invades my thoughts. What you must be asking can be worse that seeing at least the crime scene pictures of who we will call her Betty Joe having been knawned on by her dogs for several days. Yep that was a nasty little scene. But this one I see in my mind’s eye is even more hideous. I was working the other day, just as I have done for so many days when Fort Worth PD was gracious enough to "bring" to us a prisoner that they had caught who had our warrants. Ummm, Fort Worth is never ever nice like this...ummm what's the deal. well good god almighty. The prisoner was the one that gave Officer Mason her black eye. Yes HER black eye. The fat idiot hit her when he was trying to get away when he was being arrested the first time. Any way, the goofy idiot.. thats his new name..goofy idiot gets in our jail and starts getting that age old jail house sickness... what a bambie..his tummy hurts.. I tell him with that gut how the heck does he know..I tell him, just can it. Nope, I want to go to the hospital. I tell goofy bastard, I don’t care if you tell them your nuts hurt and they turn out to be as big as your gut..I'm not turning you loose. Well, here comes the hideous part. Oh the agony he has put me through. As you have surmised he is a big fat goofy bastard... I handcuff him cause he needs to go to the hospital, I walk him to the ambulance's back door. I tell him to step up to get into the ambulance. Well of course he is tooo fat to do any of this.. I am trying to push him up with my pointer finger by putting my finger on his back. Gee's I don't want to touch that nasty goofy idiot... I tell the medics to grab him from the front cause he hasn't helped himself in years.. they pull, I push with my one finger... and the other young green officer, he's smarter than me..he doesn’t do anything.. then the unspeakable happens.. the thing that will stay in my memory for so very long I fear... his mother &*$% shorts fall down... I have goofy idiot's hairy butt, with bumps on it.. 4 inches from my face. Thank god he didn’t fart, I swear I would have stomped him to death. I start gagging, the other officer whom is fondly referred to as "brick" continues to just stare at that huge pimplely hairy ass. What the hell.. I tell him..do something don't just stand there!!! one of you guys pull his $#%$ damned shorts up before I accidently catch a glimpse of his tiny weenie. I shudder at the thought..for sure that would have been grounds for workers comp. I still can see that horrible goofy idiots butt... lord help me.

Oh my gosh.

This month (May) has been unbelievable hectic. Noel has had his shoulder rebuilt, and we know how men are when they are hurt. I missed 3 days of work to dote over him. Ummm, let me think, I didn’t get that much help when they broke my leg and shoved a titanium man’s knee joint in my bird leg. I did get a cold burrito and a watered down soda, which I was immensely grateful for, I think cause I am still being reminded of how “he took care of me” oh but I digress. I change his dressing, which means he has to sit down because he thinks he is going to faint. Faint I say!!! It’s two tiny cuts… oh my god how inconsiderate of me. I tell him that the two incisions will require two small bandaids.. I don’t think he hears me, cause he is about to seriously faint. What in the hell am I going to do with a 6’4 fainted guy in a tiny bathroom? I blow in his face, which almost turns him colors cause of my breath. He fusses at me, which hurts my feelings so I am not near as gentle with the application of the TWO bandaids. I have to fan him with the cool rag… back to my original statement.. triplets!!
Then I was hell bent on getting my eyelids reduced. Hell if insurance will pay for it why not! Let me tell you why not. Who knew that my eyebolla’s (Tonia’s term) would conspire to destroy what little looks I have. Oh I got the eyelids sucked and tucked alright. Mom’s eyelids didn’t rebel against the surgery she had. Not mine. I came home from the out patient surgery and rushed to see my lushious eyelids. “Oh shit!” was the only think I could think to say. I discover that I look like frankenstine instead of Flockhart. What the hell have I done! Again, my little angel is gone, he has dumped me off at home and off to where ever… what about the 3 days off I took? Bandaids, that’s it I’ll hide my stitches with bandaids. I am a smart girl, I think to myself. I sleep sitting up, no easy feat. I wake up to find that sleeping sitting up is harder than I thought. My eyebollas are swollen, and have a lovely shade of fire engine red around them. Nice!!! I have astronomy finals today. I am going to go and make the yellow toothed professor feel sorry for me. Bandaids!!! I put them on my poor little lids, only to have the bandaids stick to the stitches… what have I done? I get to school. Yep with sun glasses on. I think if I act just right maybe these younguns will think I am just totally cool. I am wearing a wornout tee shirt and a pair of baggy shorts. Cool. I make it to class, and remove my glasses. Laura and Tonia try to be nice, but the look on Laura’s face of squinty eyes and the sort of frown pretty much gives her away, then Tonia who always tries to find the nice… she says nothing, for a few, then asks me if it hurts. I just laugh until my stitches hurt. I still have stitches 1 week later. The huge black eye is better, and the swelling is better. I no longer get the “oh my god, who whipped your ass” reaction. I have to carry around these stitches for another week. This sucks. Would I do it again, well hell yes, I hate wrinkles and if that teeny tiny bit of fat is removed then it is worth it. Joan Rivers is my Idol!!!!!Pictures to follow.

HEART OF A FIGHTER This story is about a special friend of mine. As you read you will most likely notice quickly that I have left out the name of my friend. I do this for a purpose. My friend is so very special and dear to me. They will know who they are they read this. Just as with my other letters about my dear friends, I have such special memories of my friend. I remember when I met my friend about 8 ½ years ago. His voice was booming, his laughter was contagious and his heart was kind. I liked my friend immediately. He has a way of putting people at ease. I was a “rookie” officer, a female in a man’s world and if the truth be known now, I was scared to death. I had a small son to raise alone. Could I do this job, would I be able to keep this job, will I fit in with this department. Will I get hurt, killed? Who will raise my son, who will be there for him? These questions terrified me because I could not answer them. For those who know me well, you know how unadventuresome I am. I was determined to prove to myself and to those who doubted me that I could be a Police Officer, and I could be a good one! I wanted my son to be proud of me. He had no father to speak of, so I was again determined to be both to him. I was going to be strong and soft. I was so scared but more so I was so determined. So back to my friend. I worked patrol for a year. My god that was a hard year. I missed my little boy tremendously. The hours. But wait the hours. In the beginning I told the department I could not leave my son alone at night to work midnight shift. I had no sitter, and he was too young, even at 11yrs. Our house is old, and he was not going to suffer because I wanted to be a cop. My friend helped work out a deal that I would not have to work a midnight shift. After a year my friend put his name on the line, literally. He made some calls and accomplished the unheard of. I was to be the other DARE officer, within a year of working as an officer. My friend truly believed in me. He has argued a thousand words in my favor over the years. My friend has bought my lunch when I was too embarrassed to say I was broke, my friend has made me laugh when I was the maddest (and I have been fighting mad over the years), my friend has let me cry when my little boy caused me grief, he has put on black socks, the ugliest yellow shorts, and a white tee-shirt and jumped up and down on his hotel bed while we watched movies, just to make me laugh. God, I laughed!! Note: we were in at training and there were other friends there too..for the record, oh and the coor’s lite. It has not always been laughter and jokes, we have argued over the years, and I would sink with sadness when the anger would subside. He is my friend, he matters to me I would think to myself. He is a good man, a good husband, a good son and a good friend. He has a strong heart. Does he make mistakes, yes, does he cuss, yep, does he get angry, you bet. Does he always strive to do what he truly believes is right, absolutely. I mentioned my fear of something happening to me during the course of my job. Policemen get killed – children lose a parent. My son is grown now, he still needs me, but like that of a 12yrs little boy. I wrote a letter years ago, I put it away. I told my friend in the event of my death to “get the foot locker” well my friend thinks cause I have my journals in the foot locker..and I do..ohhh now that’s some reading… but actually, the letter inside asked my friend to watch over the most precious thing I have ever had in my life. The one thing I can say “I did and did well” to please watch over my little boy. I know my friend would have taken my pray to heart and he would have watched my son until his dying day. By the grace of God, my son is grown and I am still here. I trust my friend, I love him like a brother, I hurt for him when he hurts, I am angry for/with him when he is angry. I believe my friend feels the same way. I know even to this day, that my friend would be there for me, if I needed him badly enough, he would stop everything and walk to help me. He would even stop work, to come put my air conditioner in the window! He calls me kiddo, he makes me feel necessary and needed even when others around me do not. My friend and I are going through a difficult time with things around us. Yet, when I can no longer understand why, or control my temper or just need to be a girl and cry. I have my friend. He has me.I respect him because he has a heart of a fighter. I love my friend as I love my own brother. My friend, my confidant, my co-worker and sometimes my hero, GREG ARRINGTON. Love ya brother.

Where's my girdle?

As you all are aware I work with an overwhelmingly majority of men. Yes, men, as much as I would like to say boys, I will respect them and call them men. Nee, I say superhero's just ask them. Well as I think back on my tenure with the Police Department and these fine, responsible, crime solving men my mind shoots back to a time of laughter, frustration, embarrassment and retaliation. Let me just begin my story and spare yall the verbs or whatever those describing words are... Several years ago I was assigned to the a unit we called "the CRU" crime resolution unit to be exact. This unit consisted of myself, two other detectives, school resource officer and Sgt. and Lt. A. he was the leader of the pack. We all worked very well together, we became friends, not only at work but in our everyday lives as well. I shared a small office with the two detectives who were to become two of my closest friends. As time went on, we shared jokes, some appropriate, most not, we talked of our home lives, and let me tell you with that boy of mine I had some home stories. The guys would laugh at me, they would tease me, they would say things that only men could appreciate. They mostly loved to tease me. My two grown, responsible, crime fighting, gun toting friends loved to tease me. I would see that smirk on one of their faces and know they were up to something. They huddled together like 1st graders on the school ground deciding on their next "funny". Usually, at my expense. I loved those guys. I have never laughed so hard in my life. One particular day, had started out somewhat differently. I had been summoned to County Court. Well hell, guess I have to dress up, no men's dockers and a polo for this event. I wiggled into a dress, and high heels and trotted off to court. What in the world was I thinking as I struggle to stay atop those high dollar high heels, my feet were squealing like piglets caught in the barn door. My ability to remember that a dress requires one to sit properly as opposed to flopping down, was painfully obvious as I noticed the baliff eyeball me as my dress crawled up my legs like a spider. That poor old man nearly fainted at just the thought of a gleapsy at my yams. Oh and the getting up, lets just say the 8 month pregnant woman had more grace, I resembled bambie on the ice. I manage to limit my humiliation to a few mishaps and take myself back to the office, where my co-workers wait. I walk in wearing the one dress I own, trying to have some sort of ego. My two office mates had never seen me in a dress. Well good god, the smirks, the giggles and the opinions began to fly. I just sat there, letting the girl's I mean superhero's have their moment. I decide, my pigglet feet can no longer survive in those harness's called shoes. I waltz myself to the bathroom to change into my usual look like one of the guy's outfit. Ahhh, I feel better and safer, t.v. is wrong, female cops can not run in the fashionable kicks made today. I smile and casually put my dress, my panty hose, my shoes and my girdle, under my desk. Now, ladies we all know that girdles are used to hold up our panty hose, not to hide the baby fat that we acquired 15yrs ago. Surely my stuff will be safe under here, I erroneously thought. I leave the room, only to find upon my return that my two friends have hung a donated pumpkin pinata on the ceiling of the office. I think to myself they certainly seem to be well behaved. They sit as if choir boys waiting for the next song. I stop and survey the room, last time they acted respectable they had scotched taped my earpiece on my phone receiver in a way that I could not hear anyone talking to me. I looked really stupid standing with the phone in my hand continually saying "hello" to some poor soul who thought I was an idiot, oh that was a funny all right! Anyway, the room looks safe, my phone works, but wait.... ummm...my stuff is moved from under my desk. Oh they did not.. those wienee's, surely not. I scurry to my desk. They sit silently watching me, they know the gig is up. The moment they have planned and waited for. I look like a poor woman at a Walmart 1.00 sale. I search through my pile of clothes. I will kill them..., in my uncontrolled, can't believe it, I am about to be so embarrassed voice, I turn as if possessed and with lips tight, and eyes squinted like Carol Burnett's Eunice talking to Momma, I say "Where's my girdle?" I see my one friend begin to shake with laughter, my other friend has his head thrown back and is wiping away his tears. They had held it in as long as two boys could. I tell them, this is not funny! Where is it, give it to me,now. Dear God, the thought of the other women knowing I wore a girdle and then the size, have these gooses lost their minds. I tell them I do not think this is funny and to give me the %$#@ girdle. How could they, they were stilling falling down laughing, the madder I got the funnier it was. As I looked around the room in horror, I demanded to know where my girdle was. One of the jokesters pointed outside, he managed to say it was on the antenna of one of the patrol cars. Ahh, shit, was all I could think. I was still recovering from knee replacement, so my stomping out of the room skill had not been reestablished. I limped outside looking frantically for a cream colored, size medium rubberband. Not there!!!! I turn and limp back inside only to find the boys sitting again quietly. I once again demand they return my secret weapon, and tell them I am furious, this is not funny, hahaa. The other jokester points to the ceiling. I look up only to see that orange, ugly, pumpkin pinata. What! My girdle is in the pinata, the pinata I can't reach. The tears are flowing again, as they laugh uncontrollably. I looked like a 5 yoa. cripple jumping for the candy. I try to find a stick, that would serve two purposes, one hit the pinata, two beat the guys. As I begin to tell the two that if they don't give me my rubberband, I am going to dump the shredded paper on the floor and while they pick the paper up, I'll get the pumpkin. Just as I am holding the trashcan full of shredded paper, and dumping on J.D.'s head and desk, the (previous administration)director of Public Service walks past. I am busted. He stops at the doorway, see's me with the can in mid air, J.D. acting innocent and K.D. laughing, he asks what we could possibly be doing. We stop, we look innocent, and J.D. announces that we are practicing for cinco de mayo, the paper was to be the candy. We are admonished for the horse play, I finally (almost in tears, from embarrassment)get my grubby fingers on that stupid pumpkin, I tuck it under my arm, I glare at the boys and limp my self out of the building, across that parking lot, with that pumpkin that swallowed my girdle! Man those were good times. later chicks and chicketts.

Ocean

I want to be at the ocean, this picture can only sustain me so much......Oh but wait Gustav and that other one has beat me...rats!!!!!!!

It's Done!

I did it. I set myself free. I am officially retired! I know everyone must be sick of hearing me whine. I feel like the 3 faces of Eve..(the movie)well some, no most of yall are too young to remember the movie, lets go with Sybil (I was called that by one of the guys and I thought we were going to fight! J.D.!). Anyway, one moment I am so very sad at the thought of leaving the job I had put so much effort into, and so many feelings and concerns for so many people in that nice little Payton Place town. Yet, I feel like I have broken free from a bad marriage, a crazy date, an abusive husband. Most of the people at the department were hard working, kind, sincere people just trying to make a living, raise their kids, and maybe cheat a little on the side (just kidding!). Those people I will miss terribly. The few, the 3-4 people who belittled my friends, screamed at them, said mean, unnecessary things to me. Those 2-3 that used their position to retaliate because I did not think like they wanted me to, because I was vocal about the inconsistencies, the fact I would not shut up and that I did not believe all people in our little Payton Place were drunks and losers. Someone else's words, not mine.I have paid a high price for the fact that I believe the peace at any price is simply not worth it. I loved my job, when I was able to do my job. I have said before, I was not hired to write tickets, or to knock on doors to tell someone to shut their dog up. I did those jobs, I paid my dues, a little known fact, I was Rookie of the Year my first year. I worked hard. My real reason to be an officer was to help those who can not or could not help themselves. I was the one who talked to the 13yrs. who had been molested by her daddy for 6 years, and she knew me and trusted me. She no longer lives with the horrible fear of him coming into her room. I did that!, I talked to the crazy lady who in her sick mind believed she was being stalked, and had been raped. Had she, no, she had not taken her meds. I helped her, in her mind she had been hurt, in her mind she deserved my help, in her mind, I was there for her. I helped her.. she got the meds, help she needed. I did that! I have told many a women about the shelters, I have told many a men, hit her again and I will find a way to put you in jail, with or without her help! I have colored with 3yrs. while officer's took pictures of momma's blackeye, I have changed diapers that I got from Walmart cause the woman left home too fast in fear of being hit again. I have taught over 5000 kids in our little town. I have hugged every single one of these kids, some of them numerous times, simply because they wanted one. Maybe it was the only one they got for that week. Yep, there really are kids out there who find their sactuary at school. My dare kids are starting to graduate now, and they still hug me, they would find me in the town and tell me of their impending marriages, their going away to war, their forthcoming baby. They go to effort to tell me these things. I care about these things. I have gotten baby clothes for the young teen mother, car seats for the mother of 3, diapers for the poor mother, and with all of this I did it in the best way I could to let the women know that everyone needs help sometimes, and that being helped does not and should not diminish her pride or her will to move forward. I tried to help in a way people could still hold their heads up, they could look at me, thank me because I cared enough to help, not because they got something free. The people I have worked with have been some of the best friends I will ever know, the people I worked to help and serve have been the most kindest, warmest, appreciative and supportive people that I could have ever hoped to have served. I love this little Payton Place. I loved the job of helping those who could not help themselves. But, because a wife felt I was unorganized ( the one time she really saw me work) and because I didn't fit the mold and because my loyalties were with a supervisor who felt our jobs were to serve more than to discipline I was removed from helping the kids and women. I was a good officer, just not the kind some thought our little town needed. At the end, I refused to do anything. I put a whooping 12 miles on my patrol car my last day. No one noticed my departure after 9yrs, no one really cared. I had been unhappy for awhile, guess they got sick of me.. thats ok. I will find my way, again, I will not be sad, I only hope someone will care enough to fill my spot and will truly care to help those who can't help themselves in my little town. I love the people in my little town. I find my happiness in the fact I did help a few, and there are many who will remember me long after I am gone. That no one can't take away. I will enjoy my time, and I will stop and smell the roses for a little while,, I will smile all day, then I will begin a new chapter helping those who can not help themselves. If you have any extra little prayers left over please spend one on me!
P.S. I promise this is the last one about poor me! Funny story on its way.

My Son

I have written about wrinkled toes, pink toe nails, sadness and issues. My favorite topic of all, is like most mother's my child. My son, he is everything I had dreamed of him being. I can remember the day I discovered I was pregnant. Me, pregnant!! Oh my god is this one of my good idea's or no? Too late now. As time progress's I realize that this making baby is not at all like on t.v. Somehow, I don't look as lovely as Lucy did on I Love Lucy, nor was I as chipper as Laura on Dick VanDyke. What the three of us had in common was the crying jags. My baby got here in record time. I suppose the falling down the stairs 10hrs earlier in the day, may have had something to do with him getting here. I remember the unbelievable pain, the no drugs, the fear when the doctor told me if I pushed with the pain, my son could die, the cord is tight around his neck. How can I not push. I begin my journey of protecting my baby fiercely. I don't push, and he is born screaming. My beautiful steamy baby boy. I can still hear his miraculous cry, his spread fingers and toes. I loved him, that very moment. Our love began. I was terrified as his father drove us home that rainy, cold day. I was afraid we would have a car wreck, I would not know how to get him out of the car seat, or worst what if I have no idea why he is crying. We made it through that first night, we made it until Christmas eve, my precious baby is 2 weeks old and perfect. Yet, why does it look as if he is turning blue? He is turning blue, this isn't right. My husband says I am being too cautious, nothing is wrong, I know there is! I don't care if there are visitors for Christmas. I call the Dr. and am told to rush my baby to the hospital. I am terrified. My baby, what is wrong, I can only imagine, and that my friends is my worst enemy at times. My baby spends his first Xmas not in his new santa jammies but in a hospital crib. I sit and watch him, I don't think I even blinked. I cryed and paced and prayed, yes prayed, I offered to die, if the Lord would just let me carry my son out of that hospital. The doctors said he simply would forget to breath, perhaps falling down those stairs started the process of birth, that my baby wasn't ready for. What had I done. The Lord allowed me to walk out of that hospital with my baby. To this very day, I hold true to the promise that I would willing die for my son. My son, was 7 months old when his father decided to leave. I once again cryed. What had I done to my baby. How will he grow to be a good man without a father. The day after his father left, I saw my precious baby boy reach for me, and smile. He wasn't afraid because I was there. I would not be afraid, I would not let him down. A love only a mother can know. Time passed, I watched my baby grow to a little boy. The day my son told me he loved me, he was just a baby, but those words were as if he had solved the problems of the world. All the doubts, fears and uncertainty of raising a baby alone faded that very moment. I knew I could and WOULD raise my son to be a good man. My little boy and I made sacrifices, for each other. I worked odd hours, I slept odd hours, I rushed to mother's day out, I rushed to kindergarten, I rushed to soccer games, he became use to my rushing, he knew momma went to work at night, he knew his momma didn't do what most momma's did, he learned to accept the fact I looked for bad guys, he learned to deal with worry. He learned that there were times I would have to work while other's had Thanksgiving with their momma's. But together we held strong. We were a family, a team, even if it was just the two of us, a family. He knew there would be thanksgiving dinner, even if it was a day early, there would always be a Christmas tree, and we would buy it together. We had traditions, the two of us. My son grew to be a good son. Little did I know that some of the fights he had in high school were because kids were teasing him about his mother being a cop, he has and will always be my champion. I would tell my son that people were not talking about his mother, they were talking about a cop, it didn't matter to him. He had a loyalty to me and to those officer's I called my friends. My son has grown to be tall, strong and smart. He has been my rock during times that I doubted myself,even as a child he knew how to say the words that would calm me, restore my drive and make me believe in myself again. Was my son easy to raise, nope, he was a hand full. My men friends would laugh at me, when I would be furious and crying cause of his stunts, or they would offer advice that I just could not do, and no he was and is not a momma's boy. He loves me, he respects me and he appreciates all the efforts I have put forth.
He says he is PROUD of me. Are there any greater words, other than "I love you momma." that a mother can hear.I love him, I am proud of him and he is everything I ever dreamed of in a beautiful, precious little boy (will always be in my heart)young man. NOEL, I LOVE YOU SON.