Tag: mother

Don’t make direct eye contact…

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I have three children. Two boys back to back…followed up a little later by a precious little girl. We all oohed and awed when she was born. So sweet. So easy. So quiet. So self contained. Little did I know she was a tiny little ticking time bomb. She was wearing adorable pink bows and efficiently wrapping everyone around her little finger…while she bided her time.

When my boys were little I was a stay-at-home mother. In addition to my own two little critters- I was blessed to babysit my nephew while my sister worked. Three…lets call them ‘lively’…boys under the age of four. It was without a doubt the most exhausting thing I have ever endured. My standard uniform of a sweatshirt, mom jeans and keds was complimented nicely by my unbrushed hair and quiet desperation. And this was before I discovered wine. Don’t get me wrong. It was awesome. I wouldn’t trade it for the world. But damn I was tired. Day after day of unexplained messes, lost shoes, overflowing sinks, fights, naked boys in the yard, and broken things. To many broken things to mention. Lets all have a moment of silence for all those innocent things that died premature and needless deaths at the hands of my three little terrors… RIP vase that belonged to my Grandmother for like 100 years, baseball shaped ceiling fan (why wouldn’t you hit that with a bat…geez), TV remotes, guitars, toys, the washing machine… There are to many victims to mention. Sniff sniff.

I can remember thinking it would be easier to take three small goats to the grocery store than those boys. And I would probably receive fewer stares. Sigh. Every evening my X came home and glanced around with his condescending ‘what the hell do you do around here all day’ look while he poured himself another drink. I would reply with my obligatory sigh of frustration. At the time I thought I was enduring the most trying time in parenting. If I could make it through that I could make it through anything.

But I was naive. So naive… I now have a 13 year old girl. The shit just got real. And I wasn’t prepared…

Let me back this up a little. I’m a girl. Obviously. I was once 13. I work with teenagers. I come from a family of girls. Most of my friends are girls! I’m no stranger to drama. I’m familiar with hormones. In fact-my sisters tended to lean a bit towards the dramatic. Which irritated the shit out of me. So I purposely leaned away from any drama. I was better with silence and the occasional eye roll. Which irritated the shit out of them. Mission accomplished. No crying necessary. So I imagine they are enjoying immensely the situation I currently find myself in at home. With my daughter…

My daughter has embraced her teenage years with a vengeance. Each day is a roller coaster of tears, stomping, napping, and eye rolls. I irritate her like crazy-but she loves me fiercely-at the same time. She wants to be with me. Always… So that I can share in her emotional roller coaster. Did I mention I hate roller coasters? And tears. I’m not that great with tears. And not all tears are bad fyi. We have happy tears as well. Frustrated tears. Laughing tears. Mad tears. Sad tears. Super sad tears. Hungry tears. ‘That’s the cutest picture of a puppy wearing a sweater I have ever seen’ tears. There are many many kinds of tears. Which can be very confusing to say…your 17 & 19 years old brothers. Or also your mom…

Recently the kids were supposed to be leaving to go to their fathers. My daughter wasn’t having it. She didn’t want to go. No specific reason. She just wanted to stay home. In her bed… With her pets… With her mom… As the time to leave approached she collapsed (yes- collapsed…) onto the floor outside my bedroom door. Tears were in full force. She was limp with emotion.  And I did the worst possible thing that I could have done… I laughed.

I was dead in the water. The wailing was in full force now. It was impressive. And now she was pissed. Because…I laughed. I don’t take her seriously. I hurt her feelings. I’m so mean!

Son #2 arrived on scene. “What is happening?”he asks. “I don’t understand.”

“Back away quietly,”I whisper. “Don’t make direct eye contact. And for godsakes…DON’T LAUGH.”

Those are the kinds of things I find myself saying now on a regular basis. “Don’t make eye contact with her.” “If you talk to your sister at all in the next 30 minutes-I will kill you.” “Do you think she has low blood sugar?””Did something happen while I was gone?””Did she hit her head on something?” “Why did you ask her to scoot over on the couch-are you crazy!? Have you lost your mind?! Stand!”

So we are currently being held hostage at my house by the most beautiful, kind, loving, funny, and sincere emotional tyrant in history. My daughter. She’s a teenage girl. The scariest of all creatures… But I love her with all my heart. She exhausts me. She makes me dream of day drinking but also cry with pride all in the same day. Maybe she’s rubbing off on me.

And I bet the X and the homewrecker are really enjoying this too…👠

 

 

They’re NOT ready…

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I had a complete mom meltdown yesterday. A tantrum. It was impressive if I don’t say so myself. We all know that being a mom is hard. But I’m handling it. How about a working mom? Ok…maybe a little harder-but I’ve still got this. How about a single working mom? Sigh. It’s ok. I’m fine. Really. I’ll be ready!

But guess who isn’t ready? Ever. No matter what. Let me tell you who. My kids. My three teenage children. They are never ready. The idea of being ready apparently never even crosses their little tiny teenage minds. And it’s making me lose my mind! I am now convinced they don’t know what the word ‘ready‘ even means. And I’m going to absolutely 100% blame them for my meltdown yesterday.

The little darlings were at the X’s over the weekend. But for the record that does not exempt me from my mothering duties. So for the people who say dumb things like…’at least you have the weekend off’…that’s not how this works! In fact- it usually puts me on high alert status. I’m mothering from a satellite location. Text messages, phone call’s and the occasional email. Checking the calendar for activities.  Reminding them of this and that. Talking them through problems. Worrying about stuff I have no control over. Regular mom stuff. From afar.

Sunday night I specifically say to each of my brilliant offspring. “Get to bed early and make sure you have everything ready for tomorrow!”

“We will mom!”they reply. Their halo’s are shining. They are angels. So considerate. So prepared. But I knew better… Sigh.

Fast forward to Monday morning at 8:15 to me standing in the middle of a crowded school parking lot next to son #2’s car. With his car alarm going off. And I have no way of silencing it. Loudly. Incessantly. Honk honk honk honk. It’s screaming ‘look at this dumb-ass mom!’ as loud as it can. ‘She’s late for work!’ it continues. ‘She’s a bad mother!’ ‘Her kids aren’t ready!’ Honk honk honk honk.

This little scenario started at about 7:40 that morning. I am getting ready for work. Since the kids are at the X’s you would think it would be a smooth morning. But I know better. So when the phone rings I’m not surprised. It’s my daughter.

“MOM! All my stuff is in #2’s car. And he left early for a golf meet. And no one told me. I need my stuff. MOM! Can you get the spare key and get my stuff. Please. Mom. Help. And #1 is supposed to take me to school and he is still in bed. And we are going to be late. He won’t get up!! Mom. Mom. Mom…..”

Insert very large sigh here. SIGH. “Where is your dad?” I can’t help myself from asking.

“He’s not here!!! He left early for work!”she is in full on teenage girl freak out mode.

“Tell #1 I said to get out of bed immediately and meet me at your brother’s car. I will get your things.” Because I’m the mom and that’s what I do.

I haul ass and get the spare key and head to the school parking lot. Conveniently located between two schools in the middle of morning drop offs. I foolishly think I will just dart in grab said stuff and hand it over to my waiting daughter. Emphasis on foolishly. Instead I make a fool of myself. I get to the car and my daughter is no where in sight. I have a key to unlock the door to get the binder that has been left carelessly in the back of the vehicle all weekend. (I mean if you don’t even need it why the hell do you bring it home!!!) But as soon as I open the door the alarm goes off. Fuck! And it won’t let me unlock any of the other doors. So I am forced to crawl over the seats, all the way to the very back of the vehicle, to dig out the binder, back pack and lunch box in dress pants and heels. And then I retrace my steps. And did I mention the car alarm?! It is probably scaring little children at the near by school at this point. And sarcastic teenagers honk as they go by just for fun!

So this is where my meltdown comes in. My tantrum. As I stand in shame next to the screaming car I begin an epic text rant to my children. “What the hell is wrong with you guys??! I am so mad at you all! Why can’t you get yourselves ready!! You aren’t babies!! Get organized! Solve your own problems! Come on!!!!” I spend endless time trying to find track uniforms, golf hats, binders, and parent permission forms that are due RIGHT NOW. Dragging teenagers out of bed. Running home on my break to get someones lunch. Looking for one of the 8 million tubes of Chapstick I already bought for you. (But now I can’t find-so lets just go ahead and make it 8 million and one!) Making last-minute runs to Walmart for science projects… It’s endless! It’s exhausting! And it’s me. My life. My mom life.

I was telling this story to some of my friends at work this morning. “At least they call you…”they said. And they are right. I am glad that they do. Really. I love being their mom. They are my pride and joy. I’m glad they know I am here for them…no matter what.

But sometimes. Just sometimes…I need the little dumb-asses to get their shit together.

 

 

 

Divorce is never done. (Part 1)

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One not so fun thing about a divorce WITH children is money. Which is ironic. Money was a major problem in my shitty marriage as well.  In my marriage specifically-money talked. Whoever makes the money rules the world, right? I didn’t rule the world. I was a stay at home mom. So what was his was his. And what was mine was his also.

Money problems are pretty universal. In all adult people.  But especially in the divorced. (Divorced couples obviously don’t like each other-so there’s no way they are going to agree on financial issues. Come on now…enough with the unrealistic expectations.) What divorced kid hasn’t asked his dad for something and heard the classic ‘That’s what I pay your mother child support for…’ response? So they trudge back to mom and ask again.  ‘As soon as your dad sends my check!’  I cringe even thinking about it…

But I have been lucky compared to many divorced single moms on one account. My X always pays his child support. He has never missed. Not once. Some months it’s a little later than others…but it always comes. Until this month. This month I am having my first go round with the system. And I can’t even blame my X. (Well…I blame him a little. The divorce and affair and all. Remember-every upsetting situation can be linked to the divorce in 3 steps or less. 1. Get divorced. 2. Don’t receive child support check. 3. Have to deal with state workers who make me want to rip out my own hair…)

But let me get back on track. As of last week I still hadn’t received my check for this month. I text my X. He replies that it has been sent. I wait 2 more days. I text him again. He replies that he checked with the bank and that the check in question has cleared his account. I check mailbox diligently. No check. I call the state department of social services family support division. I hold for 11 minutes and accidentally hang up when I’m checking my phone to see how long I have been holding. I call back. I hold 23 minutes. The hold music is horrendous. Like some of the worst. It’s designed to make you give up I think. They are testing you to see how bad you really need to talk with them.  I don’t give up and I finally get someone on the phone. A man with a monotone voice-who seems dead inside. He reports that no check has been received for this month and that I should open a case against my X.

“Are you sure?’’ I ask. “The X says he has a copy of the cancelled check.”

“I’m sure.” he replies. “I can’t help you. Call your county offices.”

I take a deep breath, and dutifully call my county offices. The good news is that someone answers the phone almost immediately! A very lovely lady, who has no idea how to help me. She takes a message for the lady who may be able to help me-but is of course in a meeting.

“But I don’t think we can help you.” she apologizes. “Unless you want to open a case. I think you should call the state back. They can help you.”

“Can the lady who knows something call me back?” I ask.

“Actually-no. Probably not.  You will need to call her back tomorrow… But I really think we can’t help you.” she repeats.

I sigh and text my BDF about my terrible, horrible, no good day and the injustices of my divorced life. I brace myself and call the X. Something I normally avoid at all costs. He is his regular condescending self. This is not his problem. He sent the check. It’s my problem. Etc. Etc. Etc. However- when I explain that the only answer I am getting so far is to open a case against him- he really gets irritated.

“I am just trying to get some help.”I explain.

“I will fax you a copy of the cancelled check.” Click. They man is obviously too busy to deal with this bullshit.

So I hang by the fax machine and wait for the evidence. It comes through. And in the tradition of all faxes it’s a shitty copy. Great. Perfect actually. But since I need the money…I dial the state again. I hold for 19 minutes before my daughter calls three times in a row so I know it must be something really serious.

‘Hello!!??’ I screech. ’What’s happened?!!’

‘When will you be home? Can I have a snack? Where is the ice cream?’ she asks.

‘I don’t know. I don’t care. Don’t call back unless something is on fire…’

I make my third phone call. It’s 4:20. I know my time is limited. I hold for 35 minutes. 35 minutes. 35 minutes in a row. It’s dangerously close to 5:00. I finally get someone on the phone. Another man who lacks job enthusiasm.  I quickly explain my entire story. Every little detail. The phone calls. The cancelled check. Everything. He is unimpressed.

“We can’t help you ma’am. You need to call your county and open a case.”

“The county told me to call you back! I have a copy of the cancelled check. Can’t I speak to the person who cashes checks?!” I’m desperate now. And to say I’m frustrated is an understatement. My right eye is beginning to twitch.

“No one here does that ma’am. I suggest you call the county and open a case against your X.”

So in retrospect- I could have taken off work and driven to the state capital in the same amount of time that I spent holding on the phone. I have a raging headache and still no answers. I am actually fantasizing about my X’s face if I did ‘just open a case against him’- just to cheer myself up.

And I am thinking of all those women who deal with this crap every single month. Asshole X’s who don’t even send the money. The bureaucracy that is supposed to help them. The hours spent worrying and fretting and trying to figure it out. While working. And taking care of kids. And all the other stuff it’s up to them alone to do…

My BDF is right about one thing. No one understands. They don’t get it. Unless they have stood in your shoes-your divorce shoes- while holding endlessly on the phone- waiting for answers-with a sick feeling in their  stomach…

Divorce is never done.

(Stay tuned for part 2. Will I get my money? Will the X get involved? Does my eye stop twitching?  How long will I hold on the phone? Are we out of ice cream? What shoes will I be wearing?)

 

My Momtourage…

 

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Nothing brings women together like being ‘moms.’ In a small town like mine you get to know your children’s friends. And more importantly-their mothers. These are the woman you see almost everyday of your mom life. They are in the morning drop off line, at PTO meetings, sporting events, band concerts, and of course Wal-mart. You are all kind of thrown together-whether you like it or not. And if you are as lucky as I have been- you will meet some of your best friends while waiting to pick up your angels from school. The only thing you may have in common is being moms. But believe it or not-that’s enough.

You are all pursuing the same goal. ‘Mother of the year.’ Until you quickly realize that goal isn’t going to happen. Sorry ladies. So now you settle for ‘Not late to school..today’ as a worthy accomplishment. Because..you know..being a mom is hard as shit. And sometimes it’s a day by day proposition. And frankly we all need support. And who better to lean on than the other moms. The ‘momtourage.’

Thank God for me my group doesn’t get caught up in tearing each other down. We build each other up. We became a team! These women are there when you need them. Picking up kids, helping with homework, dropping off dinner. (Helping you move after a messy divorce.) We have all kind of unofficially taken on a role. A way to contribute. Divide and conquer.

We of course have our ‘super organized mom.’ She is a Queen Bee to any mom group. This chic is on it. She knows things. Lots of things. She always has a list and a calendar on her person. Not at home on her desk. It’s with her. Always. She is who you call when you can’t remember what your forgetting. She is willing to be in charge so that she knows it will be done the way she has it envisioned. So it’s a win/win for everyone.

We have the religious mom. She prays for all of us. Some of us more than others I suspect..sigh. (Sorry and thanks.) This is a busy job. We usually all have some shit going on..and it’s nice to know someone has us covered. She takes her job seriously. Thank God. (Literally..)

Positive outlook mom. She reins in our bitchiness. Somedays that’s harder than others. I imagine nothing wears on her positive attitude more than a roomful of disgruntled mothers. But she perseveres! She redirects us like toddlers back to our happy place. We don’t even know what’s happening..and poof. All smiles again.

We have ‘head of the school carnival’ mom. (Which could also have the dual title as PTO president mom.) Give this lady a hug right now. And then bow down at her feet. Organize a parade in her honor. Never mind the parade…she’s in charge of the school carnival and needs some quiet. Buy her a bottle of wine instead. School carnivals are only fun if you are a kid. Not for the people planning them. This might be the most valuable mom in your group. Everyone make sure they are being extra nice to her. Seriously.

Stay at home mom, healthy mom, teacher mom, nurse mom, working mom, and tired mom. Hot mess mom is a revolving position. We all take a turn just to keep things interesting.. (Except maybe super organized mom. She keeps that shit off the calendar.)

And of course there is the ‘Divorced Single Mom.’ I guess you know who has that position.. In our group there is only one. Maybe that’s all they can handle. Divorced single mom might need the group more than any of the others. She definitely falls into the hot mess category most often. I think that’s inevitable.. Sigh. But the Momtourage has her back..and they helped her find her shoes. 👠

(Thanks ladies..)

 

 

Tired anyone?

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Who needs sleep? One of the realities of being a divorced single mother…I can’t sleep. No sleep here. I know I’m not alone. Everyone is tired. Tired is the ‘new black’ I think. And everyone knows that the new black is slimming. I’m sorry I think I just dozed off a little. I forgot what I was saying… Anyway I can’t sleep. It’s like after being exhausted all day long and dreaming of rejuvenating sleep..I crawl into bed and boom. Wide awake. Not fucking tired. At. All. I mean I’ve got stuff to worry about. I am the only adult human being in my house. Me. It’s all my responsibility. The worrying is 100% my job. No tag team here. This is some serious shit. No back up available. All hands on deck…and still it’s just me. Mom. That’s it. Me with 3 kids. And 3 dogs. And the cats. And the hedgehogs and Guinea pigs..and the fish if they didn’t die. Shit. Did I feed the fish? I better get up and check.

Since I’m up I should check on the kids. Yes- you have to give me your cell phone it’s time for bed. Did you wash your face son? No the Guinea Pig can’t sleep in your bed! And if I’m up I better go to the bathroom again (I did mention I’m over 40 and gave birth to 3 children..my bladder is unreliable…)

Unlike my teenage children I want to go to sleep. I desire sleep. Sleep awesome …tired not so awesome. So after checking that the front door is locked..rechecking my alarm-twice..I’m ready to sleep. I’m determined. It’s 10:23. I calculate how much sleep I get if I go to sleep now…and now…how about now?

So I like to play this game to help me fall asleep. My ‘if I win the lottery game.’ If I win the lottery I will-fill in the blank here… It changes according to my day. Common themes include a full time maid..beach vacations..and quitting my job. Some variances include a pool…a convertible..plastic surgery…a wing at the Children’s Hospital. New shoes! Sometimes I’m learning French..other times I own my very own island. It’s working..I’m feeling relaxed. I’m going to sleep. Then Boom Baby!

What’s this? I didn’t when the Lottery…my X and the homewrecker won the lottery?!? Are you kidding! Somehow this shitty little thought wormed it’s way into my happy place. Now I’m genuinely worrying about this ridiculous little nightmare. I feel the potential sleep evaporate as I picture myself huddled alone while the dynamic duo of evil drink champagne and laugh and dance around with my children and their winning lottery ticket…

Wait did you hear that?!? Is something on the roof? Did I lock the front door? Did I set my alarm? Do I have an early meeting at work tomorrow? I need to pee…

I guess I better get up and check. I’m really not that tired anyway.

Shelf paper? Really?

 

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Screw you shelf paper. Seriously. Screw you…

Do they even still sell shelf paper? And who is buying it? I had this memory pop out of nowhere recently. It was one of those cringe worthy memories. Of me. And shelf paper…

My boys were little at the time. I was a stay at home mom of two busy toddlers and also often babysat my 4 year old nephew. My life was a constant battle of diapers, sippy cups, and laundry piles. Time out chairs. Making macaroni and cheese and watching Sesame Street. I was exhausted. My X believed firmly that he would make the money and pay the bills..I would do the rest. And he expected it to be done perfectly. (Like the 1950’s. I always secretly thought he was born in the wrong era. He liked to have a drink waiting when he got home and a wife that wouldn’t dare question him. I bet he got off watching Mad Men..) But at 22 I whole heartedly agreed to this plan. I would be the perfect little housewife! It would be great!

I don’t remember the details exactly. But the X was going to be away for the weekend. And I came up with a grand idea. I would clean out our large pantry and put fresh shelf paper down to surprise him when he got home. Yes. You heard me right. Shelf paper. I decided to spend my weekend alone cleaning, painting and installing shelf paper. To make my X happy. You see his mother was in his mind the ideal homemaker. She had a lovely pantry. With gingham shelf paper and alphabetized spice jars. Alphabetized! Labeled canisters. Perfectly aligned cans. I think it actually had art work hanging in it… How desperate for some sense of purpose was this woman?? Her pantry was dusted regularly by the housekeeper. The X commented frequently about his disappointment in our lack luster food storage situation.

So while balancing my regular duties and 2 adorable little assholes who needed my constant attention I emptied out the pantry and went to work. I’m pretty sure I was wearing sketchers and sweat pants. (My uniform..) Looking back I should have already known then that I wasn’t cut out for the X’s expectations. Shelf paper? Really?

Why was this ever a thing? Who are these women? And even more concerning-what man is impressed by it? Why do they give a shit about their shelves being covered with adorably printed paper? I mean let’s face it. You are decorating a closet at this point. You are saying I have nothing more valuable to do with my time than this. Plaid paper will bring more value to my existence. Sorry kids..watch another episode of Sponge Bob while I please your father with my spectacular shelf covering skills. Holy shit. Did I do that? I’m embarrassed just writing it.

And let me point out that shelf paper isn’t that easy to install. Its actually kind of tortuous. It’s wallpaper for shelves. You need yardsticks and exacto knives. It’s super sticky. And unforgiving. It takes some skill and patience. And I obviously lacked both. And let’s face it..even then I knew it was dumb. No matter how much I wanted to care..I couldn’t. I wasn’t Martha Stewart. Or my mother-in-law…

So they X came home. And if I remember correctly he wasn’t to impressed. I am not sure he even noticed. It still wasn’t his moms pantry. And while I diligently was working to have a show worthy pantry..my little Angels had been spilling apple juice and Cheerios all over the living room floor.

So what is the moral of this story? I’m not sure. I can tell you for sure I hate fucking shelf paper. That’s a given. I wish I had seen then that my X’s expectations were ridiculous. I wasn’t valued by him. And I wish that I had had the self-confidence to know that anyone judging me by my pantry was not the right person for me.

So guess what? I don’t have shelf paper. Or a husband. Thank God. They were both assholes. Outdated and irrelevant.

But I do have my shoes.. And they aren’t fucking sketchers. 👠

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And the Dish Ran Away with the Spoon..

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Old Mother Hubbard was definitely divorced. It’s obvious isn’t it? This woman is living in a shoe. And not a cute one. Oh wait. That’s the Old Lady. The Old Lady Lived in the Shoe. And swallowed a fly? Mother Hubbard had that dog who was kind of an asshole. But they are definitely divorced. And whose dish ran away with that home wrecking spoon? That bitch is definitely divorced. I think the bitch with no spoons is actually me.

Why don’t I have any spoons? Where are they? How did this happen? I imagine that married women have all their spoons. When I was married I had spoons! I can remember a point in my life when I actually counted them after a party to make sure none were thrown away. My X actually expected it. He had a fear of missing flatware. Now as I sit here eating ice cream with a fork..that memory is distant.

I’m a divorced single working mom. There is no time or energy for counting flatware. My children wonder about the spoons. Which is pretty rich..since we all know that they are the ones who lost the spoons in the first place! And of course they ‘don’t know’ what happened to them. So this is our reality. We don’t fucking have spoons. Our socks are unmatched. Our DVD cases are empty. Don’t even ask me for a pair of scissors. You need a lid for that Tupperware bowl? Really? Stop with your irrational demands. And if you ask me for scotch tape I might have to smack you..

I’m outnumbered and tired. And eating peas with a knife seems a skill we all need to master anyway. Divorce has a way of putting things in perspective.

And counting silverware before I go to bed…I’ll leave that to the someone else… I ‘Ain’t got time for that..’ 🍴👠

 

Shut the Front Door!

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Some things are universal. Married..divorced..or whatever. You can count on your kids to bring you back to reality. As much as I want to believe I could be raising the future President of the United States of America..I don’t get my hopes up. My teenagers constantly give me subtle reminders that they really aren’t that smart. And I’m ok with that..really. I believe in unconditional love. And I have hope it’s still just a ‘phase’.

#1 My children are incapable of hurrying. They absolutely cannot hurry. Ever. I hope we are never in a fire. It’s like they aspire to be sloths when they grow up. No matter how much time I give them. No matter how many times I tell them. They will not be ready. It’s impossible.

#2 They can’t find their shoes. And they aren’t 3 years old. They have vanished. It is more probable they will find Big Foot and he will be wearing their shoes. Why can’t you find them? Why? Why?!

#3 They don’t know when to wear coats. They have no idea. It’s 11 degrees outside. I shall wear this hoodie. It will be fine mom. Stop worrying. What kind of stupid goes outside willingly-when it’s snowing-wearing athletic shorts?

#4 The can’t figure out how to not be tired. They don’t get the whole bedtime thing. They don’t realize that they hold the power to never being tired again! Instead it is a vicious cycle of not enough sleep around here. ‘I’m so tired I can barely get up. I’ll hit snooze and wait for mom to physically force me from bed.’ ‘I’m so tired when I get home I’ll take a 3 hour nap.’ Bedtime arrives. ‘I’m not tired at all..I’m full of energy! I’m actually going to drink a Dr Pepper and just now start my homework that I was assigned last week.’ Are you freaking kidding me?!

#5 They can’t shut the front door when they come inside. They can open the front door. They can move through it with ease. But they can’t shut it. It’s to much to think about I guess. To many steps..to much pressure. This is why I have had a bat, a bird, and a stray dog in my house. Random strangers coming in for a look. Once a police man checking to see if everything was ok. ‘Yes Officer..we are fine. My children are just idiots.’ Shut the Front Door!

#6 They think ‘I forgot’ is a perfectly acceptable excuse. They use this excuse often. It rolls off the tongue with ease. They are baffled by my irritation. I mean..they forgot. What’s the big deal? Everyone forgets to call their mom back. Or turn in a their homework. To shower.. (And in this same category let’s not leave out the ‘I don’t know..’ Why is there a hole in the wall? ‘I don’t know mom.’ Why is the refrigerator door open? ‘I don’t know.’ Where is the dog? Shrug..)

#7 They don’t realize what terrible liars they are. They expect me to buy their pathetic fibs without batting an eye. Oh, your staying the night with a friend..but they don’t have a phone so I can’t talk to the parents? They must be Amish. Seems totally legit. You turned in your paper but the teacher must have lost it? That must happen a lot. Stupid teachers. You didn’t hear me screaming for help when you were 10 feet away? I will yell louder next time. I mean if your going to lie put some effort into it! Have pride in your work!

#8 They absolutely cannot tell the difference between clean or dirty. Rooms. Laundry. Kitchens. Finger nails. Living room floors. They can’t see it.. They honestly can’t tell. But don’t worry. They don’t mind. They are totally cool with it anyway.

Parenting is hard. It’s exhausting. It’s humbling. It’s humorous..

But let me take some satisfaction in the knowledge that while my kids are at the X’s this weekend and I’m relaxing with friends over a glass of Moscato.. He’s probably searching for shoes while the homewrecker is trying to figure out who forgot to shut the front door.

Cheers!🍷

Is Divorce a Sin?

 

 

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God Hates Divorce? Really? Join the club.

So here’s what happened. I’m was driving down one of the busiest streets in my small town with my daughter. It was a sunny day and we were both in a happy mood. I had on my cutest sunglasses. We were enjoying being together and not thinking about any of our negatives. We had the music up loud and were singing along. We were positive! We innocently pull up to wait at a red light. And what do we see? Some assholes with large white signs and apparently lots of time to kill.

GOD HATES DIVORCE! DIVORCE IS SIN! SINNERS WILL BE WELCOMED IN HELL!

Really people? With everything going on in the world..divorce is your issue? Have you people even watched Fox News lately? I live in a pretty small town. Not a lot of picketers or protesters. We’ve never had a riot. (Besides a couple of issues on Black Friday at Wal-Mart. Learned my lesson there..) Their presence- these evangelistic picketers- was noteworthy. To say they stood out would be an understatement.  I watched my daughters face as she read the signs and there meaning registered. Her cheeks got red. She was upset. It’s like a dark cloud rolled in. She glanced at me anxiously while she tried to gauge my reaction.

And I was trying hard to have the most nonchalant reaction possible. But it wasn’t working. I shrugged. But I know myself well enough to know that my cheeks were red. I was angry. And embarrassed. And sad. I tried to be reassuring..but the truth was that those signs exposed another bit of self doubt I carry around deep down. Is divorce a sin? Am I really going to burn in hell?

I believe in God. I was brought up in the Episcopal church-but we didn’t go every Sunday. I joined the Methodist church when I married my X. I’m not any expert on religion. My faith is a mixture of churches and experiences I’ve had throughout my life. I’ve never read the entire bible. (Unless you count the Children’s bible I used to read my kids at bedtime.) I have a very dear friend who helped me tons during my divorce. And she has a very strong faith. She was/is my go to person on religious stuff. I remember asking her if divorce is a sin. And she searched to come up with an answer. I mean I hear people say that it is. Why would mine be any different? She tried hard to reassure me. But she was at a loss for words. She even wrote out bible verses for me to read to make me feel better. But the truth is I still feel like something as bad as divorce has a good chance of ranking under the sin category.

But to the assholes standing on corners with picket signs about divorce. Go home. Stop judging. Stop scaring little girls. Worry about your own Sin.

I’ve got the worrying about mine covered..

(PS.. When I think about pulling up to that stoplight now…I regret one thing. I should have taught my daughter how to wave with her middle finger. If I’m already going to hell…I might as well go with high heels and attitude.🖕🏻👠).

 

 

 

 

 

Who the Hell are you?

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Who am I?

What am I supposed to be when that’s all I wanted to be… Wife. Mother. Stay-at-home mom. PTO president. Church volunteer. Wife. My family was my life. I had great pride in all of those things. I thought I had it all figured out.

Trying to reinvent yourself in your late 30’s. Against your will. What great fun! Said no one ever. I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t know.. I hadn’t even considered it. I really thought my X and I would grow old together. That someday our kids would be able to visit at Christmas with their own families and sleep in their old rooms. I would always be part of that. Part of him. We would weather through our tough times. I was naive. I held on to my marriage with all my might. It was who I was. It was my life.

But that didn’t work out. Request denied. Door slammed. Move along lady.. So now what? That’s the million dollar question. The last few years have been the hardest of my life. My divorce was pretty much a shit show. I had my pretty little picture ripped in two. There has been a lot of sadness. And anger. And let’s not forget the fear and anxiety. They are always close by. But I have strapped on my high heels and kept moving forward. 👠And with that I have began to redefine myself. And it has been at times liberating. I am no longer judging myself through the eyes of my X. I’m so much more than that.

I’m still a mother- just a single working one. And a woman. Just a single dating one. I’m a Nurse. A professional. A writer? A friend. A daughter and sister. I’m smart. And god dam I AM tough. Even when I didn’t believe it. I look in the mirror today and see a whole new person. Maybe..just maybe..who I am is more. I’m not sure yet. But I have hope in the maybe.

I’m not the same person that I used to be. But my divorce isn’t going to be my end all-be all. No! Almost every single aspect of my life has changed. Constantly evolving in my quest to figure this shit out! I will not give my X the satisfaction of breaking me. I will not continue to see myself through his eyes. Fuck that. Fuck him. He was wrong..

But I do know one thing for sure. I’m not a wife.

I’m divorced.

And I have the shoes to prove it…