Fat Bottom Girl Said What

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Archive for the tag “family”

Bird Song

The cardinal visits me in my backyard
I know he’s my grandma, reincarnated
he sings his tune, but they are her words
calling me Stephie
wishing me Happy Birthday
we talk about recipes
and peanut butter and pickle sandwiches
and the popcorn made in an Atom Pop,
washed down with grape juice mixed with 7-Up
we speak of my son,
who she never met,
and how he’s taller than grandpa already,
at only 15
I smell her talcum powder,
and the earthy scent of the geraniums she grew on the glassed-in side porch
I remember the picnic lunches packed in the hamper
and tell her I bought one just like it at an auction
and how I like to look at all her little glass bottles of extracts in her pantry, hoping I would have the same one day
and we laugh over her frustration at my inability to learn crocheting after numerous lessons
and I tell her I miss her and wish
I had spent more time with her
when she was still here in human form
‘I love you’ I tell her
and she says the same as she flies away
but I know she’ll be back to visit me again

To My Son On His 15th Birthday


Today is your 15th birthday, and I’m very proud of the young man you’re becoming, but it doesn’t make me miss the little boy any less.

I miss your questions and your belief that I still had things to tell you, because it’s been replaced by you thinking you know it all and you have nothing left to learn from me, or the world.

I miss your smiles and your genuine joy at seeing me when I’d been away for short periods of time, because it’s been replaced by your seemingly nonchalant demeanor about us now being separated by miles.

I miss your little hand in mine and your excitement and readiness to go anywhere with me, as everything was always an adventure, because it’s been replaced by your attitude that nothing is ever much fun and you’d rather sit home and play video games or read.

I miss your snuggles and hugs and little boy smooches, because even now when you hug me you never squeeze me as tight as you did when you were little and uninhibited about showing affection.

But most of all, today I miss you because you’re halfway across the country and I can’t run into your room this morning yelling Happy Birthday and telling you once again about the day you were born and how it was the best day of my life.

Just so you know, I’ll always see that little boy every time I look in your face, even when you’re 40.

I love you!!!





Last Sunday I stepped on to a plane mourning being separated from my son once again.  I stepped off the plane to a different kind of mourning–the death of my step-brother.

Step-families are a totally other dimension.  I can’t say I’m overly close to any of my step-siblings, even after 30 years, but my step-brother was by far, my favorite.

He was more like a cool party buddy.  I tried to avoid family functions if he wasn’t going to be there, because he was the only thing that made them fun.  He and my brother and I would sit around and talk about his youngest sister, because none of us liked her.  She’s a bossy busybody, who thinks the world should revolve around her.  Which, she has once again proven by sending out a group text asking everyone to bring birthday cards for her 26 year old son because obviously, her brother had the gall to die and have his funeral on her son’s birthday. What. The. Ever. Loving. Fuck.

I told my step-brother in my head that he will have to help me bite my tongue when I’m around her.  And my brother and I joked that it was just the sort of bullshit that all of us would be laughing about if we were sitting around drinking together on another occasion.

But none of this changes the fact my step-mother has lost her son, and my niece has lost her father, and her children have lost their grandpa. On Monday, I will lift my glass to him because he’s the only one who ever made me feel like I was ever a part of that family. And I will miss him, and I will thank the universe I still have my brother.



A Melancholy Mother’s Day

I wrote to my daughter’s mother today to tell her Happy Mother’s Day. Yes, you heard me correctly. I have a daughter, but I am not her mother. It pained me for years to say this, but it is the truth.

You see, I got pregnant and had a baby at 16. I wasn’t equipped to be a mom. I considered abortion, but by the time my mind really allowed me to realize I was pregnant, it was too late, and I don’t think I could’ve gone through with it anyway. So I did what numerous teen girls have done before me, and I put her up for adoption.

It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life.

I felt like a piece of my soul had been torn out of my very being. I felt incomplete most days, because I knew she was out there but she wasn’t a part of my life.

Some days I wanted to die it hurt so bad. Other days I thought her being gone was like a death, but worse because I didn’t know where she was or what was happening in her life.

I wanted to be a part of her life, but knew that I had to wait. I had to wait until she was at least 18 to start looking for her.

It didn’t take 18 years. Around her 10th birthday, her mother contacted me and she and I started a regular correspondence. She would send pictures and letters occasionally, and I would send gifts to my daughter. Her mother and I developed a friendship, born out of heartbreak – hers for not being able to conceive, and mine for giving away my child. Her mother was very appreciative of my sacrifice and knew what I had done hadn’t been easy.

When my daughter was 24 I decided I couldn’t wait any longer. I wanted to extend a hand in case she was interested in getting to know each other, or I wanted to find some closure so I wasn’t sitting around wondering for the rest of my life.

I wrote my daughter a letter, telling her that if she was interested, I would like to get to know her, and if not, I understood and wouldn’t contact her again.

About a week later, I received a Facebook friend request from her and was elated! She and I began corresponding and getting to know each other. She wanted to know about my son, her half-brother, and was interested in some family medical history also.

We arranged to meet. She was so much like me it was scary. Nature wins out over nurture obviously.

I found out she was getting married within a few months, and she invited me, and my family to the wedding. It was bittersweet. I had to leave the venue and go outside to get a grip on my emotions.

It’s the oddest feeling to share DNA with someone, yet be on the periphery of their life.

I would say my daughter and I became friends of sorts. She came and stayed with me a couple of times, and my son and I would visit her.

Even though I knew that I wasn’t her mother–I wasn’t the woman who had raised her, who comforted her when she cried, who reveled in her achievements, who waited up to make sure she came home safely–I was the woman who had given birth to her. I was the one who carried her in me for 9 months. I was the one who held her, and fed her, and changed her diaper for 4 days before she left the hospital to go be with her new family.

Because of that, I wanted her to just one time, acknowledge to me that I had done those things. That I mattered because I gave her life. That I mattered because I let her go to parents who adored her and gave her an amazing life.

The last time I saw her she acknowledged me, but not like I had hoped.

“I wish you’d never had me!”

“Why didn’t you just abort me?”

“I wished I’d never met you!”

“I hate you and you’ve ruined my life twice!”

She walked away and never looked back. She and I have no contact now.

I won’t reach out again.

You might think that’s selfish, or immature. You can think what you like. You don’t know my heart or the hell I went through for years while missing my daughter.

Children break our hearts. Maybe your child broke your heart today, as my son did, with no “Happy Mother’s Day” utterance, no “You’re the greatest mom and I love you”.

He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be a parent and have a piece of your soul walking around in this world–knowing that as much as you love them, they are their own beings, and they will think, and do, exactly as they please regardless.

Maybe he will understand one day if he has children of his own.

Maybe my daughter will understand one day if she has children of her own.

Maybe, just maybe, she will be able to forgive a 16 year old girl, who was scared shitless, and felt like she had no other options.

But maybe she won’t. And that’s okay. Because I love her anyway. And I love my son too.

And because I love them, I forgive them.

We’re moms, we’re dads, we’re parents. It’s what we do.

You Say It’s Your Birthday?

It’s my birthday too. So sayeth the Beatles.

I just realized this morning while putting makeup over laugh lines, and skin that’s not so taut anymore, that in about a week, I will be 45.

Throughout the day I contemplated. I didn’t contemplate my entire life up to this point, just this last year. It’s been a doozie.

What did Dickens say? They were the best of times. They were the worst of times. Or something similar. A year of extremes. A study in contrasts. That’s what my 44th year has been.

The worst of times because I found myself in a physically abusive relationship.

The best of times because I decided I was worth more than I thought and I deserved better than being someone’s punching bag.

The worst of times because my son decided he wanted to try living with his dad, after I’d had him with me for his first 12 years.

The best of times because my son returned home to me only a few shorts months after moving in with his dad, albeit with some painful lessons under his belt.

The worst of times because I found myself alone, and quite lonely, and thinking that possibly, I should come to terms with the fact I might spend the rest of my life that way. But, also figuring out that being alone, was better than being beat or emotionally abused.

The best of times because I met a wonderful man. I had sent wishes out to the universe for this man for years. I had hoped in vain for this man for years. But I now believe that it wasn’t until I decided, until I truly believed inside of me, that I deserved better for myself, that the universe sent him. Strange how that works, huh?

Life is yin and yang, and a whole lot of other shit in between. And as I stand poised, ready to slide into my 45th year, do I think it’s going to change? Do I think it’s going to get any easier? No. I’ve learned enough to know that anything worth having doesn’t usually come easy. Plus, I’m kind of one of those girls who has to learn things the hard way. Some lessons it took me 44 years to learn.

I know there are more grey hairs and more wrinkles and tears and frustration in store for me. But there’s also more laughter and love and adventure in store for me too. You need the dark and the light, both sides of the coin, the rain and the sun. You have to have one in order to truly appreciate the other. I’ve figured that out in my 44 years too.

So 45 is only a few days away I told him, and My Man reminded me it’s only a number.

And I in turn reminded myself I have a hot, younger man. 45 can kiss my fat bottom!

Photo Credit: deviantart.com

Photo Credit: deviantart.com

Tweet, Tweet

My family believes in tradition. Every holiday after a wonderful dinner, we all draw straws to see who gets to shave my brother’s back.

It’s Only Make-Believe

Photo Credit:  123rf.com

Photo Credit: 123rf.com

Shit just got real. I just got the papers for switching residential custody of my son to his dad. I knew they were coming, and I thought I was prepared to deal with it, but guess what? I’m not. I was fooling myself. I was trying to play make-believe, and dress-up, and pretend I was a big girl that could handle this shit. It feels like I am giving him up. I know that’s not what’s happening, but it reminds me of a day 28 years ago, when I gave up my other child. Why do I have to give up another one?? It’s not fair, and I know life isn’t fair, but god dammit!! I don’t want to do it. I want to change my mind. I want him to come home, and be here with me until he’s 18. I don’t want to let him go.

There is Fun in DysFUNctional

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.

Fucking Thankful

That’s right, I’m not just thankful, I’m fucking thankful!  All these people on my FB are doing the how ever many days of November thankful shit.  You know, where you’re suppposed to post about something you’re thankful for every day?  It’s all that kind of sappy shit you put on there to make people think you’re a great person.  Well, maybe they are actually good people, and I’m just the screwed up one that thinks about sarcastic shit all the time.  I decided I should try doing my own list of shit I’m thankful for, so here goes.

1.  Expletives – I fucking love to cuss.  I used to try to curb my cussing, but thankfully, I have had a job the last 5 1/2 years where I cannot only cuss, but it’s almost encouraged!  Can you get any better than that?

2.  Job – yes, I’m thankful for my job, because I can go there and cuss, and, I happen to work with a bunch of funny motherfuckers.  I think I get extra thankful points for working in the word motherfuckers.

3. Family – I am almost certain this should have been #1, but really, this isn’t a ranking, it’s just a list, and my family is damn important to me.  Where else can I go where they know me and still love me?  Plus, some of my family members happen to be funny motherfuckers too.  Once again, worked in the MFer word!

4.  Friends – mostly likely, if you’re not a funny motherfucker, you’re not my friend.  And while I firmly believe true humor requires intelligence, you’re probably a smart motherfucker too.  Lucky me, I have funny, smart motherfuckers for friends!

5.  House – yes, the damn thing isn’t falling down, and it’s in pretty decent shape after the blood, sweat, tears, and expletives, I’ve put into it.  Some days I do wonder what possessed me to buy a house, and then I remember–because I get to paint the walls any damn color I want to!!  May not seem like an important thing to you, but it means a lot to me.

6.  Car – I need it get to the fucking job, and to take care of my kid, and to get to the liquor store.  Wait, scratch that last one, because I just happened to buy a house that has a liquor store within walking distance.  Sometimes I’m smarter than I think!

7.  Bloggers – Thankfully, there are hundreds of you out there, and I can go read posts from other people and figure out there’s people more fucked up than me, and on the down side, funnier than me too.  Fuck you people that are funnier than me!  And actually, fuck you people that are more fucked up than me too!  Can’t I ever be the best at something???

Fuck you and Happy Thanksgiving!  Be a little fucking grateful, why don’t ya?




What About Me?

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.

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