Blessed. Fortunate. Loved.

My Daddy called a few minutes ago, just to tell me he loves me.  We didn't talk long, maybe 10 minutes, but it warmed my heart.  He's so good.

My Momma has told me often that she doesn't have to be my friend, because she's my mother.  She doesn't mean that in a hateful way; she means that in a way that says, "I love you unconditionally, and I'll always do what's best for you, but you don't have to know everything about me or who I was before you were born."  I get it.  I don't like it, and I'll continue to push her, saying things like "Fine, but I'm going to be your friend.  You don't have to be my friend, but I want to be yours," but I get it.

But Daddy, he's different.  He still loves me the way a father loves a child, but he's cool with being my friend, too.  He tells me the good with the bad.

I'm so blessed.  I'm so fortunate.  I'm so loved.

His phone call came on the heels of an evening where Jimi worked late.  When I got home tonight, I started laundry and picked up the clothes in our room that can never seem to find a hamper.  I was ready to sit down and call it a night when I realized Jimi's working late, and was probably going to be hungry when he got home.  So I threw together a tuna casserole and some jello with fruit, planning that it'd be ready about the time he got home.  It was, but he was carrying a bag full of Taco Bell.  He knew I'd be doing laundry and cleaning, and he figured I wouldn't feel like cooking.  We were each trying to do the right thing for the other.  It's small, but it's huge.

I'm so blessed.  I'm so fortunate.  I'm so loved.