I saw this hurriedly written note from December 2009 from of all places, Facebook.
I’m glad that it doesn’t sound as bad as some of my random regurgitations do.
How lucky can a girl get?
This weekend, I’ve been bitching and moaning about my freaking head—well, it hurts. But as I sit here and complain some more about the shit I can’t do because I’m stuck at home, I read stuff everywhere that connected some dots for me.
First, I read somewhere a mention of a book I really like, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. This book reminds me of somebody who liked it very much and whom I’ve recently lost and miss terribly (30 second crying jag done). And that person reminds me of somebody else, and so on, and so forth.
I’m lucky. I realized that while most have A mother, I had two + a lola.
I was raised by three women. Primarily, by my grandmother. She was my roommate, protector (nobody’s tougher than my lola!), nurse, religious advisor, drill sergeant, and warden rolled into one. My mom, my first career woman/entrepreneur role model. Gutsy and dogged, she’s easily the hardest working person I know; also the recipient of teenage angst x 4! And my other mother, my aunt. My nanay. She was my special treat, my vacation, my advocate, my sanctuary. She was the best kind of insurance a kid could ever ask for.
The person I am now—although extremely flawed and often terrible—would be nothing compared to the monster I could have been if not for the women who raised me.
So, again, bitching headache aside, how lucky can girl get?