Luck in Euphoria

I’m lucky enough to feel lucky. No, I don’t mean the kind of chance of winning the lottery or finding a hundred dollar bill on the ground. I’m talking about the little things. 


The best example I can explain is to briefly tell the story of me growing up. My parents split when I was very young and my dad was supposed to have supervised visitation because of a domestic violence charge. He never ever showed up to any visitations; when I asked him why, about 16 years later, he said, and I quote, “In truth I was angry about the supervised visitation and I was totally a rebel.”


This was after he told me that I made his “pathetic life worth living.” I mean, I guess the most logical thing to do when your child has enough impact to keep you alive is to pack up and move to New Zealand (but not before changing your name).


I am extremely lucky enough to have been given the mother I have. Not only is she immensely strong, but she works so hard to give me the best possible life I could ever have. She worked full-time, went to school full-time, and took care of me full-time. I can barely take care of myself as a college student living on my own, so I don’t know how she ever did it. My mom is my superhero. 


When I was in preschool, my dad married some chick named Margot. “Chick” isn’t the right word, more like Grandma. I remember her showing me pictures of her kids, who, at the time, were adults. Just for some reference, my dad at this time was about 33 or 34 and was married to a woman who had children in their 20’s.


Age is just a number? Okay, sure, but I’m a little biased in this situation.


I should also note that Margot was my dad’s fifth wife.



Margot wasn’t too keen on my dad having to pay child support, so she moved them both to New Zealand, as I mentioned before. I was three or four the last time I saw my dad, and I can’t even try to explain what his voice sounds like because he stopped answering my phone calls. That’s a lot for a small child to handle. 


Back to my mom. 


I never realized how poor we were until I was in college. There were a lot of signs that a kid just doesn’t notice: moving to live with other people, going from a really nice school to a public school, buying multiple $1 roast beef sandwiches from Arby’s that would last us through the week. When my aunt got married, she, her husband, his family, and my grandparents flew over to where we were (Las Vegas) to get married because we couldn’t afford plane tickets out to the Midwest. 


My mom worked hard, though. She would leave for work before I left for school and she’d come home long after I had gotten back. She worked for Harrah’s, which, from my knowledge, owns a lot of the casinos in Vegas, as an internal auditor. I used to tell everyone that I also wanted to be an internal auditor (spoiler alert: I really, really don’t) because I wanted to be just like her. 


She raised me all by herself from day one and has helped me from friend troubles to car troubles, and isn’t afraid to teach me a lesson while she’s at it. 


I’m sure your mom is pretty great, but in my mind, mine will always be the best in existence. As I’ve grown older, I appreciate her more than I ever did when I relied heavily on her; in truth, I still do. After coming in contact with my dad following 13 years of silence (who, by the way, doesn’t know my birthday), I realized that though I may have been the product of two imperfect people, my mom is three times the person he could ever be. 


So, while I may never find $100 on the ground, I won the mom lottery and I’m proud to be the kid of a woman strong enough to face whatever life throws at her. Happy birthday, Mama K.