I am floundering
Tripping
Stumbling
Falling
Not wanting to rise again
I can’t think about it because
I get a lump in my throat
My eyes threaten to cry
I feel sick to my stomach
I am uncertain
Unsure
Unstable
I don’t know how to make it through this
I will pretend
Masquerade
Bluff
Take so many deep breaths
That I shall eat up all the oxygen in the room
In an attempt to be okay
Motherhood, fatherhood, parenthood in general, truly is the toughest job you’ll ever love. I thought my job was tough when my son’s dad asked for a divorce when I was only a couple month’s pregnant with him. I thought my job was tough trying to deal with behavioral issues, accompanied by extreme anger and huge temper tantrums, which cropped up in my son at the young age of three. I thought my job was tough when he was butting heads with his third grade teacher, and crying himself to sleep every night because he hated her so much he didn’t want to go to school. I thought my job was tough the first time I had to put my son on an airplane, by himself, to fly halfway across the country to spend five weeks of the summer with his dad. I thought my job was tough when my son started deflecting my hugs and kisses, and acted like returning my “I love you” was a struggle to get past his lips. But as I wrote in this post, nothing can prepare a parent for when a child reaches the age when they have the desire to go live with their other parent. That particular moment is when you know for sure, that being a parent is a tough job.
Weeks ago my son’s dad and I sat down and discussed the possibility of my son going to live with his dad. At that time his dad informed me of his intent to retire from the military, and possibly take a contract job in Afghanistan. His dad had a two year plan, which had my son going to live with him the beginning of his freshman year of high school. Needless to say, after years of deployments and separations, I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of him being absent for another year of my son’s life. His dad’s end goal was to do this contract job, and then fully retire once his wife finishes nursing school and goes to work, thereby allowing him the chance to be a stay-at-home dad. Honorable intentions, but I believe these next two years are particularly crucial when it comes to my son.
But last week, after my mother informed me she isn’t willing to transport my son to and from school in the coming year, his dad and I sat down for another chat. His dad offered me a possibility I’m not particularly comfortable with. He told me he wants me to consider my son starting school next year in the town he lives in, whether he is there or not. Do you understand what I’m saying here? He wants my son, to live with his wife, for possibly a whole year while he’s gone to Afghanistan, instead of living with me. He did preface it by saying he knew I might not be comfortable with it, and he was afraid I would have terrible guilt feelings about allowing my son to do it. After all these years he knows me very well, because even hearing the words come out of his mouth immediately made me sick to my stomach and made tears well up in my eyes. I left the restaurant that day not knowing how to feel about any of it. I wasn’t even sure how my son would feel about it, but I knew I needed to sit him down and ask him about it.
Yesterday we had almost an hour in the car to talk, so I brought it up. I asked him how he would feel about living with his dad’s wife, even if his dad was in Afghanistan. I told him his dad and I had talked about him starting school next year in the town his dad lives in. He said it would be okay with him. I told him I wasn’t sure how I felt about it, that I had reservations. I asked him why he felt he wanted to move. He said, “So you can have a break, and because I want to go to a different school, and because I feel like you’re annoyed with me all the time.” Wow. . .gut punch. I told him I don’t feel like I need a break from him, and I am not annoyed with him all the time, but maybe it seems that way since I feel like he’s always testing limits with me. And when I felt like I could do it without breaking down and totally losing it, I told him none of this has anything to with how much I love him. And he told me he knows that.
So now I am left with all these feelings, and all these questions. Should I allow this? How do I really feel about this? What kind of mother am I if I allow him to be parented by his stepmother the majority of the time? If I do allow it, can I live with the guilt? Is there a possibility this will make my relationship with my son better? This is all I have known for the last 12 years. How do I get up every morning and walk past his empty bedroom and not feel like a total failure? Since the day I brought him into this world, he’s the only thing I’ve been living for. How do I let him go?
Have you ever had to reach down deep into the pit of your soul to find the courage to do what’s right? I know there are some of you that have. I’m not talking about returning a lost wallet, or giving back change to the clerk at the grocery store who thought you gave her a twenty dollar bill instead of a ten. I’m talking about one of those life-changing decisions you must make when you are a parent.
I am a mother. I am many more things than that, but first and foremost, I am a mom. It’s how I have defined myself for the last 12 years. My ex-husband and I split before our son was born, and our divorce was final when he was a few months old. Our son has never know us as a couple, and he has been pretty comfortable with being co-parented. Recently, he has been testing boundaries, and being disrespectful, at times, to teachers and to me. I am a fairly domineering parent, more so than his dad, but will freely admit I am sometimes too exhausted to follow up with punishments for extended periods of time. Don’t judge; it happens often with single parents, and I don’t feel ashamed of it.
My son turned 12 a couple of weeks ago, and I decided it was time to dive head-first into teaching him certain life lessons like laundry, how to clean the bathroom, etc. I have also gotten a bit harsher when it comes to dealing with his mouth and how he treats me. Everything kind of came to a head on Monday evening when I got to school to pick him up and found out he had gotten in trouble again during the after-school program. It was the same issue as three times previous–disrespecting teachers. We got to the car, and I lost it. I’m a screamer. Once again, don’t judge. Some people yell, and I am a yeller. At times I feel it’s the only way I can get him to listen to me. I was angry, because we had just discussed the disrespect issue during parent-teacher conferences. Obviously, he wasn’t getting the point. Monday night discussion carried over into Tuesday morning and ended badly with him back-talking, and me losing patience again. I talked to my Dad on the way to work, and called my brother on the way home and discussed it with them. I come from a family of “he needs a 9 1/2 up his ass” men. The men in my life believe raising boys is like raising dogs or horses; establish dominance and show them who’s boss. I do think there is something to this rationale, however, I can’t get involved in a pissing contest with a male because, well, I am female, and it just doesn’t have the same result.
All of this led me to a lot of thinking and soul searching. I had to start asking myself some hard questions that I really didn’t want to hear the answer to. For years I have known the day might come when my son might ask to live with his dad. I had no idea when it would occur, and there is nothing you can do to prepare for it. I had to ask myself on Tuesday, if that day had come. My son was helping me cook supper, and after he got his plate we sat down at the table. My stomach churning, I asked him if he he ever thought about wanting to live with his dad. I steeled myself for the answer. “Yes,” he said, “I think about it all the time.” “I think it’s time for me to go and live with my dad, because I am almost a teenager, and he needs to teach me how to be a man.”
I couldn’t help it. I started crying a little bit. Sometimes children are wise beyond their years. Sometimes, they are too smart for their own good. I have always tried to do what is best for my son, even though it has been quite painful, and exhausting at times, and I knew at that instant, that allowing him to go live with his dad, was the best thing for him. Am I sad? I think devastated would be a better word for it. For 12 years every waking moment, and many sleeping moments also, have been dictated by taking care of my son 24/7. His dad has never had the pleasure of doing that. He is a good dad to our son. Doesn’t he deserve a chance to have the same joy I have had? How many men in this world would gladly step up and be full-time parents to their children if they had the chance? A lot of them would, and do it gladly. Our society doesn’t allow this to occur often enough. Judges often think children are better off with the mother, and don’t even consider giving the father a chance.
As I sit here, watching a beautiful snow fall, crying as I am writing this, I know I cannot be selfish and try to keep my son to myself. I have always freely shared time with his father, but now I have to let go of my son even more. I had to reach deeply inside myself 28 years ago, to find the courage to give my daughter up for adoption. Now, I must dip into that well again, to allow my son to go live with his dad. I don’t like it, but I know it is for the best. Why does doing what is right always have to hurt so damn much?
I often wonder why I don’t have a boyfriend, because most days I think I am fairly fabulous. Holiday time with my family makes me think all potential suitors must have seen video footage of the dysfunction, and this is the reason they all suddenly can’t return text message, phone calls, or emails. I sat in the chair today, flipping through the waste of paper that is Black Friday circulars, imagining what it would be like if I brought a man to a holiday dinner, and what he would witness.
The meal began with us attempting to “give thanks”, everyone going around the table and saying a couple of things they are thankful for. I tried to start this tradition a few years ago, because we really don’t have any traditions in our family, unless you call eating great food and getting slightly sloppy on cocktails a tradition. The “thanksgiving” started out well, the junior niece saying “family and food”, and then my son, the comedic orator began. . . . .”Pants, I am thankful for pants, shouldn’t we all be thankful for pants?” More than one person is an audience to him, so my brother shut him down; tradition denied!
The meal continued, my son continued talking on numerous subjects–weed being one of them, of which he knows absolutely nothing about, but thinks it’s quite funny to talk like a stoner. I tell him for the umpteenth time to stop talking about something he knows nothing about. Senior niece says, “My dad does, because my mom told me they did it together!” I in turn have to cover my mouth with my hand to shield my laughter and not spit my “fauxtatoes” all over. Meanwhile, junior niece is interjecting throughout all the chaotic conversation, “PIE”, but she’s saying it more like a southern belle, so it’s coming out “pah”. I can’t help if I make the most kick ass apple “pah” for miles around and this is all she’s worrying about consuming.
As dinner comes to a close, my brother informs our mother that she needs to de-fur his back. Yes, I just said de-fur. My brother takes after my dad in that his head might lack for hair, but his back doesn’t. However, he can’t reach to shave it, or use the damn depilatory, so he must enlist help. (Every year when I blow out my birthday candles, I secretly wish for the perfect woman to come along for my brother to help him with his back grooming.) So, before “pah”, my mother applies the stinky hair remover cream to my brother’s back. Senior niece, junior niece, and my son are all there to watch. They don’t want to miss a minute of it. My brother informs my son he will probably inherit the back hair, and my son vehemently denies the possibility, but decides it’s a good time to inform everyone that he now has pubes, and might even know the possible number of how many pubes. Senior niece seems to think everyone has pubes “down there” and under your arm pits too. Grandma goes on to inform her that, the reason they’re called “pubes”, is because it’s pubic hair, and for christ’s sake, doesn’t she know where the pubic region is??
Meanwhile, I am sitting in the other room, trying to choke down my faux pumpkin pie, that I have drowned in half a can of whipped cream because it tastes so shitty, knowing that I love the shit out of these people, and they make me laugh, sometimes to the point I almost piss myself. Also knowing, that if some guy I bring home to this doesn’t think this shit is just as funny as I do, that we probably don’t stand a chance, and he might as well take his fucking turkey to go.
Are you all prepared to get your glutton on? We have once again come to that special day of the year when it is not only acceptable, but quite encouraged, to indulge in gluttony! Do you have your big pants on? Are you prepared? Turkey, ham, stuffing, pies. . . .they’re calling your name! Fucking go big or go home!
My fat bottom girl butt is much smaller this year than it was last, thanks to my new low-carb lifestyle. Sounds terribly boring, doesn’t it? But, I will still be eating me some turkey, and some faux pumpkin pie, and trying to convince my mind that my twice-baked cauliflower is actually creamy mashed potato goodness. I am also trying to come up with something really good to use to trump my brother in our favorite holiday game we like to call, “Let’s See Who Can Gross Out Mom the Fastest at the Dinner Table”. Have you played before?? If not, try it out here, and hit me up with your contributions!!
Oh, and Happy Thanksgiving Bitches!!!
I think last night influenced my almost totally shitty today. Why, you ask? Because I can’t get past “what might have been”. Technically it isn’t even about “what might have been”. Sorry, I am sure you’re confused. Me too!
Last night, my ex-husband and I took our son trick or treating. I was going to let him go alone with our son, but since said son is almost 12 years old, this was most likely the last year for trick or treating, so I wanted to go along too. It was me that took him the first time, so I felt it only fair that I was there for the last time too. This was one of the only times, since our son was born, that we actually did something together. My ex and I are on pretty good terms, and work really hard to co-parent our son effectively. We have had some bumps in the road, but most of the time we get along pretty well.
Well, all of the “family time”, led to me analyzing shit on the way to work this morning, and wondering about the “what might have been” stuff. Don’t get me wrong–I do not want to be with my ex, and am happy that we are divorced, because I was miserable with him and he with me. However, there is a little part of me, buried way down beneath the trash-talking, pole dancing, sex loving hot chick, that is Suzy Homemaker, and desires domesticity. At least a little bit of domesticity, along with the love of an amazing man, tons of laughter, and lots of hot sex! 🙂
It totally perplexes me that I can’t seem to find this shit after 11 years of divorce! I don’t understand it. I seriously scream at the universe some days and ask, “What about me?”. I am a good person and I deserve this!! I have waited a long time for my big love, where in the fuck is it??? Why does it seem that the universe is telling me I’m not worthy?
I realize that life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans, but this is not where I expected to be at my age. I didn’t expect to be fighting all of my battles solo, with no one else on my team. I get so damn tired of doing it all alone. When I get in this mood, this is the only song I can think about.
Just so you know, I’m not a good sick person. I have a hard time sitting still, unless I’m reading, or extremely inebriated. In my book, sick is no excuse, unless it’s the pukey, shitty, kind of sick.
We have “The Sickness” at our house. Thank goodness just the cold kind, not the pukey, shitty kind, because I still need to replace the second toilet! We call it “the sickness”, because years ago, when my son was around 4, he wasn’t feeling well, and Grandma asked what was wrong. He replied, “I think my mom gave me the sickness”, because I had just gotten over a cold.
My boy is still my baby, even though he is as tall as I am now, and 11 years old. He will always be my baby, and is even more so when he doesn’t feel well. It’s my chance to get more hugs, and his head on my shoulder. I can sit still for that.
You know, I was going to get on here tonight and right about my low-carb diet, but I have been side-tracked by my ex-husband/father of my child, and his stupidity. It has come that time in our son’s life when it is time for orthodontics. I could only hope it would be as simple as just straightening some teeth! Well, my son inherited his dad’s mouth, which means over-bite, over-extention, put some special appliance in there for 2 1/2 years, plus braces, and hope that fixes the issue or he has to have surgery. The cost of all this?? A sweet $4,500. And they want $1,100 of it upfront, in about 10 days when he goes to get the appliance put in.
Normally, I wouldn’t think this would be an issue, but his dad has been acting really strange the last couple of months. Not sure if it has anything to do with the fact he’s getting ready to marry for the THIRD TIME in a matter of a couple of weeks or not, but he seems to want to argue about all kinds of stupid crap. He’s all concerned that the insurance isn’t going to pay their share of the orthodontics cost. And now, when I remind him yesterday that we need to figure out how we’re coming up with $1,100 by October 10th, he tells me maybe I should go get a second opinion. Hey, jackass! Were you listening 6 months ago when I told you after the last time I took our son to the dentist that it was time for an orthodontics consultation?? I even told you the scheduled date, but then cancelled because I thought his prices were exorbitant.
Needless to say, I am furious, because he writes me tonight and tells me I can just send him the bill, like I have in the past, and he will reimburse me. Let me get this straight. I haven’t asked for a raise in child support for almost 7 years, he makes a lot more money than I do, lives in a house that costs 3 times as much as mine, which he gets a housing allowance for, doesn’t have to pay for any of his healthcare, and very rarely takes off work to take our son to any type of appointment, he expects me to come up with all of this money up front, and for me to sit around and wait for him to reimburse me? I don’t fucking think so. Maybe, you shouldn’t be having a big fucking wedding in a venue that I am sure costs at least a couple thousand just to rent a small room in. I am sure your wedding is costing more than our son’s braces are going to cost, so I think you can pony up some fucking cash up front. Don’t forget that your share of this whole bill is 78% you sorry son-of-a-bitch.
You do this to me every time. . .just when I start to trust you, and think maybe you are a stand-up guy, you turn around and start acting like an asshole. It’s no wonder I have a hard time trusting men.
What is it he tastes like in that movie? Orange tic-tacs? That has absolutely nothing to do with this post. What this post has to do with is teen pregnancy–me being the pregnant teen. Well, being the pregnant teen 27 years ago. First of all, if you’ve never been a parent, biological or otherwise, or never wanted children, you might not relate to this post at all. But, it has to be written. It has to be written because of what happened last night between me and my biological daughter.
Let me give you a little background, hopefully a short synopsis so you will kind of understand where I am coming from. I got pregnant in high school, considered abortion but just couldn’t bring myself to do it, so after much soul-searching, decided to put my baby up for adoption. There were many reasons I made this choice, but just a couple of them were the fact I was only 16 and still had two years of high school left and wanted to go to college, and the fact that it’s extremely difficult to raise a child with a two parent family, let alone being a single teenage mom. I mean really, they have that dumbass program on MTV now about teen mothers, and most of those chicks don’t do so great at it. Plus, I had seen a couple of girls from my high school try it, and it didn’t seem to work so well. I also knew the last thing I ever wanted to do was to resent this little human I was carrying around inside of me. And last but not least, money. . .where in the fuck was the money going to come from?
Let me just say, hands down, one of the hardest things I will ever have to do in my life. I have lived through some other hard things, and they were a piece of cake compared to this. You don’t realize the agony, the depth of soul pain, that went along with this decision. The day she left the hospital was one of the worst days of my life thus far. A piece of my soul left that day, and a couple of years ago I thought I might finally be getting it back. Either that, or I was determined to finally get some closure on it. It’s pretty hard to walk around with a piece of your soul missing for 24 years. I know most of you haven’t done it, or maybe you have, just not in this sense.
She and I had very limited contact over the years. I would send gifts for her birthdays after she turned 10, and receive letters from her mom updating me on how she was and what was going on in her life. About 3 1/2 years ago, I decided it was time for some closure on the whole thing. I knew I wanted to meet her and possibly have her be a part of my life, but Ihad no idea if she felt the same. I sat down and wrote her a letter. Yes, I put pen to paper and wrote an actual fucking letter. I mailed it off to her mother and waited for a reply. I didn’t get a letter in return, but I did get a Facebook friend request. We chatted a bit, and coordinated a meeting. Everything went great, saw her mom who really seems to be a kindred spirit, and even met her dad that day too. It was all very casual and comfortable. Was invited to her wedding a few months later, and the whole family went. All seemed well, and we continued to keep in contact and see each other periodically.
Fast forward to 2012. She came to see me yesterday. We shopped, we dined, we got our shit-kickers on and went to the country bar for some beers and dancing. We came home and ate a bite, and while sitting here discussing some things that were going on in her family, she got really pissed off at me. I guess she felt like I was trying to say her parents didn’t know what they were doing regarding a situation with her brother. That wasn’t what I was saying, but she didn’t understand that, and wouldn’t listen when I tried to explain to her. So she threw all her shit in a bag, threw on her tennis shoes, and took off to drive 2 hours home at 3 in the morning. . . .oh, but not before she told me exactly what she thought of me. Don’t you love how alcohol acts like truth serum?
Prepare yourself. . .I wasn’t prepared for it, and it was like a punch to the gut. She told me I was irresponsible to get pregnant in the first place, and that along with that, I totally fucked her life up by sending her presents through the years, which confused her, and that I don’t really care about her, and that she never should have met me because it has just made everything worse for her. Wow. . . .just wow. . . I was actually speechless for a short period of time, which almost never happens. I tried to tell her some things about how I felt, but what’s the point. She doesn’t get it, and I don’t know if she ever will. I don’t know that she wants to get it. She is so ungrateful. Does she not understand that if I hadn’t been that irresponsible teenager, she wouldn’t be here?
I do know one thing. I know I love her. I have loved her since the day she was born, and even before. She is my child, just like my son is my child. But I will not stand for disrespect from my son, and I refuse to suffer it from my daughter. I did the best I could at the time, and I am still doing the best I can. But if my best isn’t good enough for her, I will have to let go.
It came to me all of a sudden this morning while drying my hair. I know why I don’t really like Christmas. It’s because of divorce. First it was my parent’s divorce, and then my divorce, and now my brother’s divorce. Now don’t get me wrong–I don’t want to be married to my ex-husband anymore. That isn’t what this is about. It’s about scheduling. Christmas is lost among figuring out who needs to be where, at what time, with which parent, or which parent’s new spouse’s family. There’s only so many days during the holiday season. How many Christmases should a kid have to participate in??
My slow descent into my own personal hell has begun. After I deliver my son to his dad on Christmas morning I will most likely return home to spend the rest of the day with my mother and brother. Then it will be onto my couch and back to back Glee DVR’s. And when I run out of those I will hope that I can watch White Christmas numerous times. It’s possible I won’t move off the couch until it’s time to go back to work.
Isn’t Christmas great?
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