Over the years, I have made many things myself – “from scratch,” as they say. (Thank you, Mama for teaching me.)

I’ve made nutritious meals, cakes, cookies, candies, clothing – for myself, my family, and some friends’ babies (all grown up now) – curtains, pillows, crocheted blankets, caps, scarves, pretty little cell phone slings for when you need and don’t have a pocket for your cell phone, and anything else I needed but didn’t have.

One year I made everyone homemade Christmas presents. Some got ceramics. (Thank you, Mother-In-Law, Jeanette Cox for teaching me.) Others got embroidered handkerchiefs. Mama’s said “Imogene. A small image of her mother” in the corner. I lost hers on the way to her house for Christmas and found it later with an ad in the newspaper. (Thank you kind person who found and returned it.) Such a tiny box. Why did I have it in the back of a pickup truck with the rest of the gifts? 🙄

Anyway – made lots of things. But none of them – although tasty, pretty, or useful – are really that important . . . well, food is pretty important . . . but my point is:

In recent years I’ve started noticing some much more impressive and important things I have made by my own damn self. And I’m so glad I did.

Made my own Diagnostician. (And moved in with her. That’s how I found out I have ADHD.)

Made two whole bodyguards. 

Made my three best friends. 

I made the gentle, intelligent, loving man who is helping teach and train this little grandson of mine.

I fully realized this recently while I cried in my room, listening to my son on the other side of the door, talking so sweetly to his nephew – giving him the kind of gentle, patient fathering he needed himself once upon a time. He is able to expertly and lovingly turn this little boy around when he starts on the wrong path — which recently he seemed to be checking to see how far down he could travel. Not too far, turns out. Thank you, Uncle. 

And I made another one who sits with him and colors, plays video games, teaches him to be (insists that he is) polite and respectful, and makes him feel safe.

He looks up to and adores both of his uncles and he’s always so glad when they come to see him – which they do every weekend (more than many kids get with their fathers.)

I’m so glad they are here, so sweetly filling in gaps for him. And for his little sister. (That one may get louder and more complicated. We’ll see . . . Good luck, guys.)

So, yeah. I didn’t get a Daddy in my life. I really wanted that.

I didn’t get a happy, lasting marriage, a partner to grow old with. Really wanted that too.

I didn’t get listened to, or understood much by people I really craved that from.

I didn’t get much at all that I really wanted out of life – except for them. And I made ’em myself. 

Yes, I know some genetic input from another was necessary to bring about their existence. And I’m thankful for that input. But I did the work. I’m taking the credit.  

“Nobody gets everything. Everybody gets something.” (Mary Tyler Moore from her book “After All.”)

Yes, MTM. And if I were given the choice and could pick only one of those things I wanted so much, they would be it.