Strong

Bobbie Tipton Kaltmayer
Sep 5 · 2 min read

Daddy’s Girl

My Dad

At family gatherings he somehow manages to be the center of attention. Everyone moves to be a little closer. He tells jokes and pokes fun and usually at someone’s expense, but that doesn’t matter. If you’re included you feel special.

He came from very little. 1 of 12 kids from a small house in The Bootheel of Missouri. Of the 12 my dad only had 4 sisters, so as one can imagine, they were always causing trouble. It’s funny though, the town was small, the house smaller, but if you heard him talk about where he came from, you would have believed he was a Rockefeller. He was so proud of his upbringing and so loyal to his family.

My dad worked hard. He really did. Sometimes two jobs, sometimes delivering newspapers, but always doing whatever it took. My dad was king of the side hustle before it was a thing. He was a man who believed in paying his bills too. I mean, if he couldn’t afford it, he didn’t buy it. I cannot remember ever seeing a late notice arrive in our mail. When he finally went to purchase a vehicle and get a loan, the loan officer told my dad his perfect credit score was like a unicorn. They didn’t exist.

Friday nights were about popcorn, soda and Uno or crazy 8’s or just any card game where we could all sit at the table. Friday nights were about family.

As I got older and wanted to keep up with my friends, I never really knew we didn’t have a lot of money. I had the designer jeans, the cool tennis shoes and I was always somehow able to go on the church trips and attend the camps that now, looking back, I know we couldn’t possibly afford. I can only imagine the sacrifices and extra hours that went in to make those things happen.

My dad was about commitment. If he said something, he meant it. When my dad told you he would show up- you better believe he did. Sometimes the first to arrive.

My dad hated being late. With two daughters, this sometimes proved to be difficult. Once, on a church night, my sister and I were still fixing our hair or doing our make-up, he decided it was time to leave, so he left us. No warning (besides the 200 times he’d tell us we’d be left if we didn’t hurry) he just left. We went to get in the car and it was gone. We moved faster after that.

My dad was about loyalty. If you were one of his, he would do anything for you. He wanted everyone around him to be okay. He would do whatever that took to make that happen. Let you move into his house with your four kids, pay to get your car fixed, or even, come pick up your kids and take them to school in the morning when you tore the ligaments in your ankle and couldn’t walk.

My dad was the first man I ever loved. So. When I began dating, first of all, if my dad didn’t like you, there probably wouldn’t be a second date. The big litmus test though, for me, was could you give him a good game of ping pong. Seriously, if you sucked at ping pong, there was no second date. My favorite guys were the ones who wanted to hang around my house on a Friday night playing ping pong with my dad.

My dad always believed in showing up. One of the best feelings for me was playing soccer at a far away school, looking up, and the only parent in the stands was my dad. I wouldn’t even know he was coming. That’s just how he rolled.

My dad is my hero. He taught me how to play sports. He taught me about work ethic and commitment. He taught me to always show up for the fight, even when you knew you were going to lose. He taught me to live without boundaries and he taught me that you could be rich without having money.

My dad is a really big deal.

Watching him lay in his hospital bed, looking like an old man is probably the hardest thing I’ve ever done. And I’ve done some hard things. To say that this is a chapter in my life that I’m not prepared for is an understatement.

I watch him as the confusion sets in and I want to hold him and kiss his forehead and make it all okay — the way he did for me when I skinned my knee or lost a big game. However this ends, I know, without any doubt, I was one of the luckiest ones.

I will forever and always be Daddy’s Girl.

Pink Clouds Aren’t There Everyday

what-is-pink-cloud

Today I don’t want to be strong.

Today, I don’t want to tell everyone they’ll be okay. I mean, what if they won’t?

Today, I don’t want to say “you got this.” I mean, what if you don’t?

I don’t feel like saying, hang in there, keep getting up, it’s worth it. What if it’s not?

“Life on life’s terms” is not always an even playing field. Sometimes, life’s terms suck. People get sick, husbands have heart attacks and parents get older. Those are life’s terms. I used to cheat life’s terms. I didn’t “do” life on life’s terms. I’d drink through it and change the terms. I’d hide from the feelings and just not deal.

Guess what? Hiding from it doesn’t make it go away. Closing my eyes doesn’t mean it can’t find me. Life still happens. And, I’ve learned, it is okay. It really does get better.

Happy is an emotion and emotions change. So is sad. It is okay to be sad. It doesn’t mean something is wrong with you or that you need to be fixed. For me, being able to be sad has become somewhat of a super power. I don’t need someone to tell me don’t be that way. I don’t need anyone to say anything. I just acknowledge that there are sad circumstances going on and that it is really okay.

I think, in today’s world, with instant everything, we forget that life is a process, that it takes time to heal and it takes time to develop. Instant gratification, instant coffee, instant being okay. It is just not how it is. Sometimes, the good stuff takes work and it takes time.

So, guess what? I might not feel it every moment of every day, but I really do mean it. “You got this.” I know this in my heart. I’ve got this, too.

As a wise woman recently told me, “you gotta feel the low lows if you want to be able to feel the high highs.” Well, life, give me what you got. I’m ready.

We Have Those Days

Today I don’t want to be strong.

Today, I don’t want to tell everyone they’ll be okay. I mean, what if they won’t?

Today, I don’t want to say “you got this.” I mean, what if you don’t?

I don’t feel like saying, hang in there, keep getting up, it’s worth it. What if it’s not?

Today, I just feel like something else is winning.

I’m having one of those days.

To the Mom

Bobbie Tipton Kaltmayer

To the mom who is celebrating her 50th Mother’s Day,

To the mom who is celebrating her first Mother’s Day,

To the mom who knows this is her last Mother’s Day,

To the mom whose arms are empty this Mother’s Day,

To the mom who lost 4 to have one,

To the mom who chose to adopt,

To the mom who didn’t have a choice,

To the mom who did it alone,

To the mom surrounded by a village,

To the mom of the sick child and a life full of doctors,

To the moms no longer here,

To every mom:

Did you know? That day you realized you were late, did you know? When that stick came back positive, did you know?

Did you know that you would do whatever it would take to protect this human?

Did you know that a glimpse of their smile could stop you in your tracks?

Did you know this person would cause endless nights of no sleep? Did you know?

Did you know before that you weren’t complete? Did you know there was still that missing piece?

Did you know you would worry over the healthiest meals and then go with the Happy Meal anyway?

Did you know their accomplishment would bring you more joy than your own? That first hit, the soccer goal, the hockey shutout, the award for the lead in her school play….Did you know?

Did you know you would be able to feel their pain? The first injury, the first break up, the bully at school, the IV lines, the drug addiction…Did you know?

To the moms that love when we are unlovable, that sacrifice when they have nothing left, that rejoice when we win,

To the moms that know — and would do it all again:

Thank you.

Happy Mother’s Day

Casualties of Alcoholism

When I was 9, my family moved, and I had to switch schools. I remember the day vividly. My stomach was upset as I was worried about my clothes and fitting in. We started the new school right after Thanksgiving, and I can remember that I hated my coat. I was terrified.

I somehow made it through the day and on to the school bus. This was strange to me because it was the first bus I ever had to ride because at my old school we walked.

On the bus, this girl from my class plopped next to me and started talking. A lot. I don’t think she shut up the entire ride home. I discovered she only lived 2 blocks from me. Actually, I discovered pretty much everything about her in that 30-minute ride. From that day on, she became my best friend.

We did everything together. Sleepovers, swimming in summer, bowling, you name it, we did it together. It was inevitable that we took our first drink together.

The first led to many drinks together. Our jr. high and high school years were filled with many nights of drinking and holding each other’s hair while we threw up.

As the years passed and we had our own families, we didn’t see each other often, but often enough. There were very few times we saw each other where alcohol wasn’t involved.

We celebrated all of the milestone birthdays with a lot of drinking. Divorces happened, life happened, and we helped each other in our typical fashion.

Here’s the thing. I always thought she had a problem. That she needed alcohol to get through life. I never felt like it was me. I mean, I would go months without drinking until we hung out together. Sometimes she would get sloppy drunk and cry or yell irrationally at her kids. She had the dui, not me. So, she had the problem. That’s what I thought.

What I feel now is that whenever we got together, we would act the way we did when we were young. Balls to the wall – so to speak. I suspect a therapist would say our relationship was toxic. My drinking progressed with my depression. I was, after all, the one with the problem.

After my suicide attempt, I left the psych ward to discover that my family had decided she would no longer be in my life. She didn’t visit me there. My last conversation with anyone before the attempt was with her. I don’t feel like they blamed her actually, just that she wasn’t good for me. She was blocked from my phone and all social media accounts.

She had been an essential part of my life for 40 years. I sang at her wedding. We watched each other’s kids. We gave each other rides to the airport and helped each other move. Now, I couldn’t even say…what? Goodbye? See you later? We’re not good for each other? It felt like a divorce.

My heart broke a little. She never tried to contact me. (She could have reached out through mutual friends or email) She didn’t visit me in the psych ward. She just moved on while I was trying to piece together what was left of my life. I’ve cried more than a few times over this lost friendship.

It’s been 3 years. We have seen each other a few times over the past year. Her mother’s funeral and her daughter’s housewarming. We’re pleasant to each other. We ask about each other’s family. We’re socially polite.

The funny thing is – I’m glad we are no longer friends. I have grown more as a person in the past 2 years than I ever thought possible. I have surrounded myself with strong women of faith, with people in recovery and with family that only wants to see me thrive. “Iron sharpens iron.” I believe that. I think that when we were together – neither of us could ever get to our full potential. I sincerely hope that she is growing and is happy as well. But the friendship we had – looking back – seems weak to me now, as our common denominator was always alcohol.

So, this friendship goes down as a casualty of alcoholism. The breakup, however-became the leg up to my recovery.