All the reasons why.

Childcare $600/month

Rent $880/month

Power $150/month

Gas $80/month

Water $60/month

Auto Insurance $125/month

Auto Gas $80/month

Comcast $60/month

Groceries $300+/month

$2335

Several hundreds maybe thousands in credit from accounts opened prior to our divorce being ignored because I can barely afford necessities on our current income.

You want to complain about how unhealthy we are, how lazy we must be... you drill this into the heads of our children. You belittle and demean them. You spend 36 hours with them every other week and it’s like pulling teeth for you to spend more time than that with them. You live less than 2 miles away.

Does your daughter threaten to kill herself in YOUR presence between both giggling hysterically and sobbing like she’s never done in the 9 years leading up to this past summer. Does your son throw punches and break things while exclaiming between choking cries that he hates the YOU in HIM? Does Lukas grasp your arm and scream “daddy” as you have to lock his door for his safety? Do you have holes in your walls where he’s dug the drywall out when he can’t sleep? Are you having to visit food pantries and humble yourself for assistance at Christmas because you just can’t do it this year?

This. All of this is why I filed to have you held accountable for the three children you assisted and nurtured alongside me for 10 years. It took my truck dying yet again just in time for the holidays, possibly losing Lou’s SSI for an unknown amount of time because I physically couldn’t make it to the social security office thanks to the truck dying the night before the schedules re-evaluation meeting, and having to beg for help from my family in clearing up debt accrued during the marriage so I could fall asleep knowing they weren’t going to take my paycheck.

I hope you lie awake at night aching the way I do, praying to any God that will listen that you don’t fail your children as much as you did the previous day. I hope she was worth the shit relationships you’re destined with your kids that you’re settling for. I pray that the pain and hurt you’ve filled our kids comes back to you tenfold.

I was done. I was so ready to just have you, the source of so much grief and anxiety out of our home. I was blinded by my anguish that I didn’t fill in one critical spot on the paperwork and it has shorted our kids. None of this is fair for them, but taking pity on their homeless, unemployed, “disabled” father was the worst injustice I could have served them. You went from a man who could barely leave bed to a man who can work 40 hours a week to support his bride and her children? 

Go. Fuck. Yourself.

At least then, you wouldn’t have to worry about bringing MORE children into the world that you’ll inevitably regret and ignore into their adult years.

Your actions speak louder than words...

I see your big brown doe eyes peering over the edge of my fleece comforter, questioning and yearning for the words you so desperately want to say. I'm sitting on the floor sorting laundry and I can still hear the voices coming from your iPad, discarded to the other side of the bed. You jump down with a remote in your fist, having only been able to turn the TV on and not knowing which buttons work the magic to get to your app. Your little hand clutches mine pulling me up towards the bed. Climbing up, the remote hits my palm and your eyes dart back and forth between my hand and the TV. "Do you want to watch the animals?" Your body tenses with excitement and you nod, "yes."

Your giggles erupt from your body from somewhere deep inside your little body. You leap up and zoom around the room, jumping from the bed, to the floor and up onto my reading chair just as the cats in the videos do. We have come so far, you and I. When we moved off the property, I had to leave nursing you full time and I felt like you began favoring your father over me. It was a selfish though that left me feeling dirty and guilty, but I did feel that way regardless. As the months passed, I saw your sweet fat baby thighs give way to meaty muscular little legs that ran and toddled from room to room. You advanced so fast from baby to toddler, from toddler to preschooler.

I still remember your father and I, sobbing in both relief and defeat. We had just got the documentation from the Marcus Autism Institute and didn't know which way was up, but we knew that everything changed for you and yet nothing changed ABOUT you. Some doors slammed so hard shut that you could almost hear others on the other side nailing them sealed. Other doors opened and their welcoming lights poured out onto you like answers to prayers we didn't know we had. Therapist after therapist came into our home offering their services and wisdom to you and you drank it up. Words didn't come, but your ways of communication did. And then you graduated from toddler to preschooler. I wasn't ready to put that enormous in comparison backpack on your tiny shoulders. I wasn't ready for 5:30 am wake up calls so I could create a rigid schedule with some semblance of comforting normalcy before getting you on the bus. Coffee made, lunch made, bag organized, zipped and ready to go, outfit with training pants, socks and shoes laid out on my bed. Every morning is the same with the exception of what "bee bee cat" you choose to bring to school with you. You love school, and they wrap you up in their arms while you wrap them around your fingers. I get notes about your curly surfer dude hair, or how you love to dance and sing, or even more recently how your belly laugh causes spontaneous giggles in them late at night as they remember you initiating tag with your peers on the playground. Outside of your siblings or myself, I never thought I'd see the day where I had to hold you down to swipe a kiss as you ran off to play with the babysitter's son. I never thought I'd hear how you used your words in class. I hear you screaming "NO!" to your siblings or to me when you just don't want to take orders. We've come SO far. I get to kiss your booboos now without getting shoved away, and you even smirk as you wipe my loving off as I gasp in horror. "How DARE you wipe my loving away!"

I feel your arms wrapped around my neck when you come back from Dad's weekend. I feel all the quietness and "alone" from the weekend. I feel how you had to rely on your siblings as nobody else spoke your "language." I love you sweet, boo. I love you I do and I HEAR YOU. I love everything about your loud silence and how your "voice" says loud and clear that you ARE capable, strong and independent. I love your spirit and your willingness to get creative to have yourself heard. You are my one and only boo-ba-Lou.

Bouncing back.

Once the decision to file for divorce was complete and all the paperwork was turned in, an amazing metamorphosis began. I laid everything out at His feet and reminded myself that He tells us over and over again to not be afraid. And so I stopped being afraid. I even made it a mantra whenever he would throw a "man-trum" to turn and tell him that I wasn't afraid of him.

I was, and still currently am, not afraid of him.

Last night when looking for a particular text message thread from my aunt, I realized I still had text threads from before the divorce. The biggest reminder of why the best choice I could have made was leaving him was a video text of my youngest sobbing hysterically while his daddy did nothing in the recliner next to him. Following up with a text that I needed to come home and "deal with my child." I'd only been at work for an hour when I had to share that message with my boss when she asked why I needed to leave for the day. I kept scrolling through messages and seeing my words, begging him to get help for him, for us... begging him to stay and not hurt himself. Always begging and exclaiming my love for him. I worshiped him, and now I realize that when I replaced the image of him with God I am finally fulfilled. I am not afraid of him or Him, but I am in awe of my God.

When I stopped requiring my happiness to be a direct reflection of my ability to make my ex-happy or even comfortable, my load lightened exponentially. I can only be held responsible for my own actions, my own experiences... So now? Now I'm "happy" in a sense. I'm not perfect. I'm a work in progress. Everything, EVERYTHING, is temporary. No amount of setbacks, moments of grief, panic attacks, disappointments can take away the all fulfilling love of knowing I'm exactly who He made me to be. That this life is exactly how He'd planned for me. That every struggle is a test of my faith. My babies are the most important legacy and testament I'll leave behind. Their lives ARE a direct reflection of how they were nurtured and cultivated into the people they will become.

I can't truly say I've "bounced back" to who I was when I both am and are not that person. I am a better person that I was a few days, weeks, months, decades ago. I've learned and I'm wiser now. Do I know everything? FUCK. NO. I'll never stop learning. But mentally, yes... I have bounced back. I don't need anyone's approval to be 100% myself and if they don't like who I am, then that's a reflection of their own issues.

Irreconcilable Differences

I'm in love with a man who would never vote for the same government officials as I would. I'm in love with a man who has worked hard to get the title he wants in his work place, but he's not paid to reflect that title while I've never wanted the title I have, and yet here I am... probably the highest paid assistant property manager in my company or maybe at least in our local market.

I'm in love with a man who smells delicious, tells me I'm beautiful in such a way I really and truly believe it, and yet... the "strong, independent woman" my mother raised me to be is being driven into a corner surrounded by "codependent instability" induced panic.

For the past week I've woken up determined to do what's best for me and my babies, to set him free to make his own decisions regarding work and moving without any more of my input. All of this is going somewhere, I promise.

I hate being alone. I love my children, but sometimes I need adult conversation. Face to face, hand in hand, the warmth of someone within reach. And I know that right now, that exact situation is an impossible "want." I know that to better my situation and to give me and the kids the advantages we need financially involve moving back onto the property I work for. Giving up my "mama" freedom by sharing a room with my daughter makes my stomach hurt and overwhelms me with the realization that my already threadbare "me time" will only happen for real when they are with their father.

It's already overwhelming knowing that the lawyer is paid off and now I've got a house to purge, downsize, pack and move. By myself. And while I ain't to proud to beg, I don't even know where to begin as far as what to box up first, hosting an estate sale or just donating the whole lot of "extras" we've accumulated, what should and shouldn't be cleaned since the landlord will be making repairs and detailing prior to placing the house on the market... I don't know which way is up right now and I honestly wish I could just get the keys to our next place and figure this all out after the fact. With three kids in the home, it's already so chaotic scheduling wise that I'm going to have to take a week off just to pack and then another week JUST to move. Where's a magic wand when you need it?

I don't want to be two grown ass adults with him living with his parents and me sharing a room with my daughter and then "playing house" during our down time. I don't want to be under a microscope by being back on the property either.

I feel so depleted by all these questions hanging over my head. I just want to get to the next part in this journey and be settled already.

I can't fit in your shoes.

I've been told that my concerns for others are often a waste of time. That these people wouldn't be concerned for me, so why should I worry for them?

I stayed up on the phone with 911 dispatch for hours when my ex brother in law threatened to kill himself and was out in the world waiting on a bottle's worth of tramadol to take over. He sent cryptic messages between me, the ex husband, and their parents all night while my insides ate me alive. His son, not much older than mine, lay sleeping mere feet from my own boys... at that time I couldn't imagine what their lives would be like without their fathers. As the sun crept over the horizon, my stomach was still in knots that morning after an unsuccessful search for my then brother in law. I watched the minutes pass with every glance at the screen of my phone. When I knew he should be walking into work to start prep for the days lunch crowd, I stepped outside, lit a cigarette, took a giant swig of my coffee and called the restaurant and asked for the morning manager. When I asked her if he showed up for work that day, she told me he looked like death but that he was present. I said, "good," and hung up on her... mad at myself for caring. I was mad at myself for caring, for knowing there's always that teeny tiny seed of truth in every argument or statement made in hate.

Today he's in prison. He's still a human, a father, a brother and a son. But he's also a felon convicted of terrible crimes against others. My heart hurts for his child and for the memories of good times, but also for the unimaginably scary memories that only time will soften and hopefully erase. I can't fit in my nephews shoes, and especially not the shoes of his father. But they're human and they bleed and hurt no less than I do.

I think about you. I think about what has brought you to this point. I think about how hurt your heart must have been for you to do what you did, at least twice from what I could see. I think about your children and what their lives have been like up until this point. I worry about them from a mother's point of view. I worry about you as a fellow woman, from ex wife to current wife. Has your need to help him, heal him, to see him happy... has it isolated you from family and friends yet? Have you turned off certain personal responses so you can sleep at night without questioning your own sanity? Has he broken your belongings or your heart yet, made your own beliefs and experiences seem petty and unimportant in comparison to what he wants? I worry he'll shove your babies, put them down "sarcastically" as if they are too ignorant to understand that regardless of sarcasm his words still cut deep. My heart BREAKS for your children because I prayed that his vicious cycle would stop with our children. I wanted so badly for it to stop at OUR children. I want you to research for yourself both of his ex wives, both me and her... I want you to know that he always said she was an amazing mother and he knew how to pick them. I want you to know that in the same breath he'd say he'd never hit a woman but if a woman wants to buck up to a man, she'll get what she deserves... that she would have been the first woman he'd hit. I want you to know I've heard both sides and now that he's yours, I hope you're already questioning... that you are already doing your own research on me and the lie we lived. And that wasn't a typo, it was all a lie according to him in his own words to me.

I want you to run, to not be another statistic, to get out before he breaks your babies or you. I want to also be angry with you, but now more than ever I don't want any woman to feel like she earned this or that she "begged" for it. I don't want to be bitter or a terrible person. I want to be the woman that's seen straitening the crowns of other women. I want you to know that I'd testify my truth to help you get out. I may not like you, I may never wish to be friends, but I also don't know you nor have I ever wanted to fit in your shoes.

Irretrievably Broken

A marriage is irretrievably broken "where either or both parties are unable or refuse to cohabit and there are no prospects for reconciliation." Harwell v. Harwell, 233 Ga. 89, 91(1974).

I stared at those words on the divorce paperwork. They shone hard into my eyes, blinding me. The cry that came out of me was a sound I'd never made before outside of seeing his words to her two weeks before. "Is this what we are? Are we irretrievably broken?" It's definitely how my heart and head felt. I just didn't understand how he could waltz about in seemingly fine spirits, like none of this was actually happening. We had spent over 10 years together, made three beautiful babies together... I had thought up until THAT day that he was my best friend. I had zero clue that he'd been seeing someone else. Irretrievably broken. While I didn't want to reconcile at this point, I didn't want to lose my friend. The person I thought knew me as well as I thought I knew myself.

My Husband died that day. I grieved for what seems like years in the matter of a few weeks. My chest hurt like it would cave in on itself night after night. Wine glass in one hand, cigarette in the other, my head propped up in the crook of my own arm... tears and sharp jagged sobs would rip through me. The feeling like the rug had been completely ripped out from under me and I could no longer trust whether I was up or down consumed me. Neighbors would stop me in the grocery store and ask me what the Hell happened. Nobody stopped him. Nobody stood up to him in my defense except for me.

This shell of a man, this imposter dressed as the man I loved for so long... I finally pulled myself up from the heap of flesh and bones I'd become and stared him straight in the face for the first time in weeks and handed him the completed documents to look over and contest if he needed to. As I stood up off the stoop of the front porch and brushed myself off I said, "I'm not afraid of you. MY children are not afraid of you. I don't know who you are, but I want you out of MY house. You are the ghost of my Husband, the man I loved and trusted and I cannot have his ghost haunting my house."

My Husband was dead. And this man, this person dressed in his flesh, was an imposter. He was a liar and a thief. He was a self proclaimed "healer" and fully believed in this black magic he'd turned his heart away from God for.

My Husband was dead. My Husband was dead and the two months it took to exorcise him from MY home felt like an eternity.

Why?

I write. I write because if I don't, the words in my head that I can't find the muscles in my mouth to say out loud will jam up and spill out as tears. As awkward silence because I assume the other person can read my body language. As panicked gasps because I didn't exercise my right to say "no."

I write because one day my kids will want to know why I was like this. The internet remembers everything unfortunately.

The internet remembers the confessions made like I was madly bargaining with the universe to bring my then Husband back to me, back to his children and God. The internet remembers the excitement and overwhelming joy from each baby's "first." The internet will never ever forget the humbling acknowledgment of both Logan's heart defect and Lou's autism diagnosis.

The internet remembers my truth and sometimes it shines truth just as hard as it lies.

Stroking the ego of my inner Gypsy.

We came into the neighborhood to visit my mother and slowed down as we came up over the hill to see a white house with green trim on the corner lot, "FOR RENT BY OWNER" scrawled across a sign hanging from the garage door. I veered off the main road and down the driveway to get a better look and write down the number written beneath.

Lou was only 3 months old. His baby gear, two bigger children's worth of stuff, an 80 pound black lab, and nearly 10 years of marriage's worth of stuff were crammed into a 3 bedroom apartment on the property I work at. We were busting at the seams and I was getting more and more desperate to find somewhere, anywhere, I wouldn't be noticed while trying to drink my coffee and walk the dog in the mornings. When I received the call back from the home owner, I about lost my mind at how little he wanted for rent in comparison to what others were paying for the same layout I was living in. The home had an enclosed "bonus room" built from the skeleton of the garage, 2 1/2 baths, gas stove, formal dining room, an enormous master bedroom... I was barely able to get the approval from my then Husband before I rushed back to the property to meet with the Home Owner. We decided in seconds that this was the home we'd be raising children in. With security deposits paid and utilities transferred, we were jingling keys before the month ended.

Now... nearly 4 years later, I sent a text off to the Home Owner telling him I'd like to sign a 9 month lease renewal as opposed to the 24 month I'd been signing as I thought maybe it was time for a change. I feel the change coming and regardless of whether or not I want it mentally, it's happening. He countered with an offer of 6 months as he'd been meaning to talk to me about it going on the market next Spring. My brain went to TV static. I stared at the text for a second and reread it multiple times to see if I'd read it right. Knowing that he'd need the home accessible to make necessary repairs before placing it on the market, knowing that we would possibly need to be out before school finishes... That changes things. I went to bed a few nights ago thinking of moving boxes, purging all the rooms, removing pictures and curtains I had LITERALLY just unpacked and hung post divorce... it's overwhelming and yet my OCD cannot wait to get started.

There's something comforting in compartmentalizing the shit you've accumulated both mentally and physically over your adult life and packing it away to be opened in your "future" home. I used to "drunk file" before kids ever came into the picture. I'd sit with my margarita, licking salty condensation off my fingers while having to close one eye just to focus on the tabs of the files clicking against each other in the cabinet. The metal on metal "whoosh" of the hangers nearly as intoxicating as the alcohol itself. And yes, I've always been this domestically lame. I wouldn't know how to drunk dial if my life depended on it.

So now I'm on the prowl for a new home, our home... a home to fill with laughter and love and light and peace and honesty. I'm still not sure if I'll ever own a home, being a single mother with three kids to provide for can cause mountains of debt and right now I'm trying to manage just the foothills in the hopes I can keep the mountain range from forming when I have my back turned to it. I want to own a home, one day. But for now I'd just like to know where that home will be and if we will make some sort of crazy leap of faith that is unlike me to all that know me.

Motivational Speaking for the Hard of Hearing

There was a monster inside me this morning. I woke up feeling seasonal junk creeping up coppery out of my lungs and I just wasn't in the mood to survive the day. I brewed a fresh pot of coffee, dinked around on solitaire for a bit, checked the clock every 5 minutes... 5:15... 5:20... 5:25... Loud thumping shook the ceiling above the couch I was on. Lou had woken up. He crashed around and sang a joyful noise as he does every morning he gets a solid 10 hours rest. It must be nice to sleep 10 hours and then crash again for a good 2-4 hours every afternoon. I'd gladly exchange a day at the office to have someone shuttle me around and tuck me in twice a day.

I've been "free ranging" him in the mornings he's in a good mood to keep him in good spirits until I can successfully get him on the bus. This morning went amazing until it, well, no longer did. He cooperated through changing out of his wet pants and into school clothes, he went to the kitchen and retrieved his cereal choice for the morning, and he even helped me to get his backpack together. But then he showed me he knew how to unlock the front door. I told him he couldn't go outside without socks and shoes on, and he unlocked the door again... and again... and again... Each time becoming more and more hysterical to the point we both ended up on the stairs with snot, sweat and tears smeared between the both of us, carpet burns on our arms and knees, him having a massive meltdown upside down on the bottom landing with his legs up the wall or kicking into my arms. Socks were slid on sideways while I cursed between my teeth. Shoes were consistently flung out and down the stairs by legs that were determined to avoid anything being secured to his feet. I could hear my alarm going off on top of the organ by the front door signalling for us to be OUT. THE. DOOR. I finally snapped and the monster rose up out of my belly in a growl, "DAMMIT, I NEED YOUR HELP! YOU NEED TO HELP MAMA SO SHE CAN HELP YOU! THE BUS IS COMING AND I NEED YOUR HELP!" I broke. I don't ever raise my voice to Lou unless he's putting himself or others in danger. I don't ever CURSE at Lou ever, NEVER ever. His cries went from manic and hysterical to subdued and sad. My mama heart broke.

Things calmed down some between crocodile tears and less passionate flailing of limbs. His meltdown was slowing down. I opened the front door and slung his backpack across my shoulder, sweeping my hand dramatically overhead and pointing out the door. "Time to go, kid." I could hear the bus's air brakes and back up alarm as it turned around the next street down. He walked up to me and wiped his tears; patting my stomach as a signal that he wanted me to pick him up. His hot damp face snuggled into my neck and my guilt ate me up. I shushed him and rubbed his back while I hoofed it up the driveway, all the while whispering how much I love him and how sorry I was that I had to be loud. I whispered that I knew he was upset, but sometimes mommy's get upset too... that even mommy's need help. As if he knew that he wasn't the only one who had a hard time this morning, he took the initiative once plopped on the bottom step of the bus to keep climbing the steps and walking back to his seat by himself. I shoved his backpack into the hands of the driver and bolted, feeling guilty for fussing at Lou just moments earlier and not having the ability to receive my normal bus stop cuddles due to our setback.

What awaited me on the other side of the door was yet another child eager to hear a "Motivational Speech for the Hard of Hearing." Lillie came to me complaining that none of her clothes fit/matched/were clean. She shoved a pair of pants somewhere close to my retina and told me to match something to it. I felt like I was being set up, and I was of course. Nothing I picked out made her happy, leading to a grand finale of a roar from yours truly, "YOUR DISRESPECTFUL LITTLE ATTITUDE CAN GO TAKE A HIKE IN ANYTHING BUT THE CLOTHING I'VE PROVIDED FOR YOU!" Everything she decided to put on I nixed with the explanation that because I apparently don't care or provide for her like her Grandmother's do, she can't wear anything I bought her. Needless to say, her attitude didn't change much, but she did walk out of the house in quite possibly the world's most ridiculously thrown together outfit screaming that she knows I don't love her or care about her. I yelled for her to have an amazing day and that I loved her to infinity and beyond... despite the fact I wanted to strangle her sweet little neck because my patience was beyond gone at that point.

The one bonus to all my "motivational speeches" of the morning was that child number 3, number 1?, Logan... in an effort to not get spoken to himself was up, dressed and out the door before I even had to ask. There's always the one kid that gets it and I wish I could say he got spared the impatient allergy crud monster living in my lungs, but he got an earful himself last night after calling me a liar and telling me what he was and wasn't going to do and what I wasn't and wasn't going to do as his mother. Wrong time wrong place, kiddo... he was told he'd be lucky to come home from his dad's with everything packed up with the exception of his mattress and a few outfits to get him through each week.

Y'all... I'm just so done. I'm so exhausted from having had shingles and now this junk that's attempting to invade all my breathing related organs. Yeah, BY THE WAY. I totally woke up last week and realized I wasn't getting bit by fleas courtesy of our newly treated once a fleabag kitten, but an illness that typically only plagues those double my age. Thanks to an insane amount of stress, my immune system has completely tanked. Shingles were just the white flag my body waved as an SOS/we give up method. I need a week unplugged, in the Keys, beer in my hand and no one disagreeing with me or literally kicking me with their little foot. I need 10 hour hibernation sessions with 4 hour naps. Maybe I should answer one of the Nigerian Prince's who email me 2-3 times a week. They seem to be rolling in the dough.

Words I wrote for Mammaw Summer 2009

He started off his day mowing down the garden. He just doesn't have the passion or energy anymore when it comes to growing anything. He's got a few buckets out this year of tomatoes and cucumbers, but not much more. He couldn't see me from where I was standing, but his movements were so fluid I could understand why he needed to be out there so early this morning. His arms moved like that of a swimmer lost in the moment, simply concentrating on the task at hand. We lost you six months ago today, and out of all of us who mourn your passing it's he who suffers the most. Two days ago he had to celebrate what was probably the toughest day since you left before now. Two days ago he had to celebrate not just his first father's day without the woman who gave him the gift of fatherhood, but his 56th wedding anniversary without his bride.

Today, with tears in his eyes and a lump in his throat he spoke to my mother softly and slowly. He wanted one more hour, just one more hour with you to tell you he was sorry. To apologize for all the times he was mean, to tell you what you meant to him, to thank you for what you gave him... just one more hour.

Soon we will have a memorial for you... soon there will be dozens of people with your name on their lips... soon there will be talk of all you did, all those you touched, and all the good that's lived on in the generations you've helped raise and loved. While we may not get that hour back in our lives to tell you face to face what sits heavy on our hearts, I know that you will be there and whether we realize it or not, it's our chance at an hour. As I write this I'm imagining your kind face, I'm imagining you rocking my princess - your princess number 8 as my mother and I realized today. I'm remembering you holding my screaming, squirming boy and being so patient. I was obviously jealous and at a loss for words as there are mother's out there who would give up and walk out after so many hours of earsplitting screams. You never would have walked out on him and you taught me to love him more than I thought I could ever possibly love another human being, to be patient and the reward would follow in it's wake. Love is patient, love is kind, and you were the embodiment of love.

1 Corinthians 13:1-8 and 13

If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
Love never fails... And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

First loves are the hardest to recover from.

My years in High School were a funny place for me in my life. I'm sure they were for a lot of people, and I'm sure I could write dozens upon dozens of blog posts regarding the shenanigans I got into and survived.

One evening during the first week of High School I got up the nerve to talk to a boy on my bus. I had spent my summer dodging confrontation with a boy that a friend of mine had introduced me to and I did NOT want to date because we had the same last name. That same friend had taken me on a wild adventure with a boy she met online (and I've written about previously). This boy on the bus lived one neighborhood away down the street from my grandfather. He was freckle faced with dark reddish brown hair and bright blue eyes. He wore the same green Adidas sweatshirt nearly every day and he lived, breathed and obsessed about soccer. As we left the High School lot, my hands started to sweat and butterflies crept up my chest; he was seated across the aisle from me. I noticed the neon green of his cast from beneath the wrist of his sweatshirt and asked what happened. Apparently during soccer practice he had tumbled into a drainage ditch in an attempt to retrieve a ball and broken his arm. We made some small talk about freshman jitters and how he had an older sibling that was a senior that year. It was typical awkward conversation between two kids that never talked to anyone on the bus. Bumping along as we turned into the neighborhood ahead of mine, I turned to him and asked if I could sign his cast. Surprisingly he said yes and slipped a permanent marker out of the pouch of his hoodie. I scrawled my name in an arch above his thumb... and then added my phone number right above it. It was a private line that my mother had gifted me for my 15th birthday. That's how my next 7 years started.

I spent the majority of those 4 years cuddled up in that green Adidas sweatshirt or with his arm around my waist. We broke up periodically for a few weeks/months at a time, but I was always at his soccer practices and games. At one point, we were teammates on an indoor league that our friends and I had formed one winter. Nights were spent drinking (underage) and playing Grand Theft Auto in a mutual friends basement or around a bonfire in the woods of a different on again off again boyfriend's house. When they all went to College or signed up for the Air Force, I was right on their heels as always.

When the military said they wouldn't have me; he said he would. At the time he was based in Great Falls, Montana. I took off after him. We spent the week I was there researching military housing, picking out rings and partying off base... once again I found myself in his sweatshirt, in the crook of his arm, slightly inebriated and playing video games. He'd run his thumb along the silhouette of my ear and ask his buddies if they'd ever seen such tiny ears before. ((Side note, I do have some of the tiniest ears known to man, almost small enough to question whether they're deformed.)) He'd kiss my neck and pull me in closer... I was that last bit of High School he had... the last memento of home. I was comforting like his sweatshirts were to me. I can still smell him in my memory, tucked into the collar of those sweatshirts zipped up to my nose. I can still see his intensely straight hair tickling his eyelids as he would lay kicked back against my bedroom wall sketching ideas for murals. His freckled nose scrunched up, bottom lip bit between his front teeth, The Cranberries playing in the background.

It was a month or two post visit to Montana that he came home for Christmas leave. We had planned on meeting up with our guys at a chain Italian restaurant for a few drinks and to announce our engagement. The next day I was scheduled to fly out to Chicago for my first month of work as a Flight Attendant. I remember dinner was full of laughter, practical jokes, and glasses of the house red wine being slid across the table to me as my current glass would empty. It wasn't until a friend was driving us back to his parents house that I realized the dinner flew by and we had yet to announce our engagement. Actually, he'd been home for a day and a half and I hadn't yet seen the ring he said he'd picked up the week prior. I laid my head on his chest and breathed him in. Eyes closed in the backseat of our friend's car, Radiohead's Idioteque on loop and vibrating in my bones with each drop of the bass. I looped my fingers through his and my heart became overwhelmed with dread. Tears dropped down my cheeks. I refused to get out of the car when we pulled into the driveway. I looked him in the eye and asked what happened, why was he avoiding the conversation? Why was he refusing to talk about our plans to OUR friends? He asked if we could talk outside the car and I sat up against the door and refused. I was sobering up enough to realize there was a reason he pushed the wine so hard. He helped me out of the car and I could barely walk, seven years of love. Seven years bounced back and forth, I knew where the ball was going before he even kicked it. I could read his body better than the rest of our team. I knew by the way his arm guarded me and walked me into the guest bedroom this was the last time, this was it. He couldn't love me, he said. He couldn't love me in any way other than his best friend or like a family member. I placed his hands on his chest begging this to not be real, that this can't really be happening. I was choking on my sobs. Seven years. Seven years. He went to leave the room and I grabbed at his wrist, please don't do this to us. Please don't let this be how it ends. I grabbed for my keys and he swat them out of my hand. He couldn't keep me there. I wanted to come up out of my skin.

I vaguely remember quite a few of our friends trying to talk to me and console me in an effort to keep me from leaving; I was a good 40 minutes from home even with taking back roads and not even close to being sober. I am not an advocate for driving under the influence and I was very much not in my right mind on that cold December night 15 years ago. I wish someone, an adultier adult maybe, had come to me and walked me inside or taken me home. But that's not the case in this story. I drove home, hysterical, hyperventilating and sobbing uncontrollably all the way home. I don't even remember unlocking my mom's door and going inside. I remember walking around to her side of the bed and crying for my mama to hold me. I remember hearing her voice on the phone rearranging my flight into Chicago, hearing her talk to the woman who had been referring to me as her daughter in law for a few years and the anger in her voice as they threw their proverbial hands up on how this could have happened.

The ache from that night still lingers. I can still feel it squeeze my heart even now.

He showed up on my doorstep in 2007. My then Husband was at work and I could hear my grandparents greeting him out on the front porch. My blood ran cold. I wasn't prepared to see him and I was trying to feed Logan in his high chair. I saw his feet walking down the sidewalk to my entry on the side of my grandparents house followed by a knock on the door. What greeted me on the other side of the door was the hollowed reflection of a man that had been my best friend and sweetest love for seven years of my life. So much had happened in the five years since that Christmas. We caught up for a few minutes with small talk, and then he apologized. He didn't have to. At that point I thought I was happily married with a beautiful baby boy and soon to be another baby on the way. At that point, I thought my life was THE American Dream. I did not know how to respond other than to forgive him. Maybe he needed to hear he was forgiven to move on. Maybe he had shown up thinking I'd be the same me, which technically I was just with a child and a different, wiser perspective.

That was the very last time I ever saw him.

Stubborn is as Stubborn does.

I don't like change.

Change shuts me down and closes up for business.

Change, regardless of good or bad, puts my brain in survival mode auto pilot and I can't move.

Because of all of this, I am stupid stubborn. Like, even if I was wrong (and 99.9% of the time I'll admit it), I will dig my own grave swearing up and down that I'm right. I make every effort to not change if it means that there will even be the slightest chance that I'll have to meet extraordinary levels of stress along the way. I mean... C'MON... I have 3 kids; one has special needs, another has a congenital heart defect and the other has varying degrees of mental illness. I am a single mother in a single adult household AND I have my own quirks and setbacks that I forge through to overcome on a daily basis. I don't need more stress. Stress can suck it.

I was so damn determined to get my High School diploma (after I inadvertently withdrew myself by accident, whoops!) that I paid thousands of dollars for night school and summer school. Just to end up getting my GED because I was too damn busy even then to focus on classes. Looking back now, I couldn't tell you what kept me busy outside of work. But I can tell you that if something seems redundant or bores me to death, it will never hold my interest. Thousands of dollars down the drain because I was too stubborn to suck up my pride and just get my GED already.

I was so stubborn when I went into labor with Lou, that had I not already been out with my dad that night, I might not have gone to the hospital until it was too late. I walked all day in the Georgia July heat; my stomach cramping and my back KILLING me to the point it was taking my breath every few minutes. I was still determined to waddle all over the grocery store and pharmacy, clenching the door handle and "yoga" breathing every time a contraction hit sending my dad basically into hysterics. ((Side note, my mother never technically went into labor with me OR my sister as they were both scheduled medically necessary c-sections.)) My stubbornness could have easily cost the life of Lou, and I will never be able to repay my father for his determination to get me to labor and delivery regardless of how resistant I was.

When people ask for my Horoscope sign (Taurus, BTW) they breathe a sigh of relief and nod their heads in true belief because they've more than likely seen my bullheadedness in action.

Between my dislike of change and my stubbornness, I will more than likely never leave the house I'm living in now. I don't want to push change on my children. I don't want to even THINK about having to pack when I'm still mentally and physically settling into the house as just the 4 of us. The absolute only thing I could think of that could force me out is the landlord deciding to sell the house or the financial opportunity to buy my forever home. I love to hate the house I'm in. From the creaky subfloor in Logan's room (an addition to the garage done 30 years ago), to the stupid small master shower area that requires you to get INTO the shower in order to shut the door... unless you're into peeing in public or in my case, peeing with the opportunity for three children to bust into your bedroom and "HEY MOM, YOU DON'T HAVE TO STAND? WHY DON'T YOU STAND TO PEE? WHY DIDN'T YOU SHUT THE DOOR, DON'T YOU KNOW WE CAN SEE YOU??" Or in Lou's non-verbal way, he'll just storm into the shower, strip naked and help himself to some cleanliness. The house has it's quirks... and while I dream of a garden tub, a stand alone shower, a master bedroom on the main floor, gourmet kitchen and a daylight basement with an inlaw suite... my dislike of change and sheer stubbornness when it comes to taking that leap into new and uncharted territory is unwelcome here. I'll daydream all day on real estate apps and websites, but actually MOVING? I'm good.

I can see this lovely trait of mine rubbing off on my kids with Lou's issues are more genetic than environmental. Lo and Lillie test me though. Lots of questioning my reasoning, putting their OWN foot down and losing every last privilege in the process.... stubborn is as stubborn does in my household. It's not my way or the highway, it's my way or you better have a 5 paragraph essay, a power point presentation and a million dollars to change my mind.

Survivor benefits.

You did it!

You've survived yourself, your kids, every last bad day you've ever had... you've lived through it all.

Logan's teenage years, Lillie's dramatics, sweet Lou... the years pass so quickly. I know your house is empty and cleaner than it's ever been. There's no more peanut butter and jelly paste built up on Lou's side of the dinner table. You won't find socks stuffed in the couch crevices tonight when you get home from work. There will be no more FEMA sized natural (and mostly unnatural) disasters taking space in Lillie's room. There will be no one to fuss at when the dishes haven't unloaded themselves.

They won't be there, and the silence will be deafening.

Future you... I can guarantee that 10, 20, 30 years from now you won't be sticky with sweat and soap remnants, physically exhausted yet faking pure disgust as Lou sticks his feet in your face during his post bath massage. Well, I would at least hope you're not doing this still when he's 14... 24... 34... maybe he'll still be there needing your assistance while you guide his way. Maybe  you'll even need an assistant to help you monitor him. Or maybe... as your biggest challenge of cultivating independence in your children, he will be on his own. It's scary to think about now, but anything and everything is possible.

Maybe you'll have a partner to come home to at night. Maybe when you open the door, the smell of dinner will invite you inside. Perhaps you'll both plop down on the couch after a long day at work and just stare at each other while you shovel noodles in your face from whatever Chinese place is delivering these days. Future you, I pray that your life will be filled with travel and love and light. I know that you never thought it would happen, but the days of struggling to make ends meet and hustling to get ahead for yourself and them... they'll be over. You won't have to work to play the part of mom AND dad. I hope you do have a partner who lets you sit back and relax, that does their part and loves you despite your crazy Irish hair that sticks straight up and does what it wants. I hope the days of anxiety and depression are somewhere far far in the distance of your rear view mirror. I know how hard you worked to be free of that darkness and how much of it lifted when you were free of their father. I know it scared you when you went nearly a year without fear before it began to creep back. I know you scratched and clawed your way out of it's grip. I know also that you'll survive. Wherever there is light, darkness cannot hide inside of you. You are a strong warrior, mama. You're a fighter and capable of anything you put your mind to.

So... future you? Hats off to YOU. You'll read this and maybe shake your head at how silly your words from 36 year old you sound. Maybe you'll even say, "but what about the time when..." GIRL. C'mon, girl... You have survived 110% of every single bad day you've ever had. You survived and no matter what happens next? You'll plow through it headfirst knowing that even if you're feeling alone, you're not. Between all the family and friends you've had support you up until this point and God on your side, what do you have to be afraid of?

I love you, future you. I love you and I'm so proud of you. Those words are heard few and far between, but they're true. You built babies, ran marathons, pushed galley carts and climbed ALL THE STAIRS with that body. Those lips kissed babies till they were chapped. Those arms held onto parents and grandparents. You're incredible and beautiful and smart and more loved than you'll ever be willing to admit. Take time for you, future you... Take time to fall in love with yourself again and hug those babies tighter and remember the smell of their sweet baby skin while you pat yourself on the back. You did this... you got this... you're incredible.

Love,
The you of years past...

Thanks.

I don't know why people bother pro-creating. I truly don't. It is a thankless job that, providing you've done it correctly, doesn't really payoff until you're too senile to see the results.

I'm 36 years old and while I know I've thanked my mother a multitude of times, I've just as equally hated on her and disrespected her. Yes, both as an adolescent AND as an adult. Not something I'm proud of, but it is what it is.

She has been supportive of my hair brained schemes. She's held her own eyelid down to keep the twitching at bay while I flung television remotes, Tupperware sugar storage bins, telephones, books, and so much more in her direction. Her ears have heard some terribly awful accusations and shrieks of teenage angst. Her eyes have read words that cut through her to the core or sent chills down her spine. I know she's stayed up nights worried about me, my babies, or me and my babies...

Thank you, mama. Thank you for all the terrible things I've put you through, for standing beside me when I had nothing to give you in return. Thank you for not answering "yes" when the obstetrician asked if you were there for a full term abortion (yay 1982!) Thank you for giving me someone to roll my eyes to when you go from calm to manic in 6 seconds or less. Thank you for playing the devil on their shoulder to my children and then sending them home to wreak havoc.

Thank you for being my mama.

I was wrong.

I am not worthless.

I am not disgusting or ugly.

I am irreplaceable. I am priceless. I am beautiful and every last "disgusting or ugly" quirk I have seen in myself, I see as gorgeous when they appear as quirks in my children. Logic therefore tells me that because they are gorgeous when I look at my children, I am gorgeous by default.

I have flaws. I am not a finished product. I am an ever changing project of the man who made no mistakes when he breathed life into me and filled this body with soul.

I am not a problem. I am well worth the wait and so glad he waited for me to evolve into this curvy, snarky, silly creature I've become. It is bittersweet to know that he and I have reached a point in our lives as adults that it is illogical to create life together outside of the lives we are living together. It took God seven days to create Heaven and Earth just to get some well needed rest. Now we rest together, seven children and too many years later.

When he and I are together, I don't see stretch marks and rolls and imperfections. I see myself as the woman God created me to be for him. I want to outlive all my expectations for myself beside him. He is not the father of my children, but I see a fatherly concern and love for them that makes my heart burst. He takes the time to speak to them, sheds a tear or two when Lou says his name or talks to him unexpectedly... He listens to them and HEARS them when they speak.

I am a work in progress, but I was wrong.

For so many years I was wrong. I was wrong to believe that my partner's happiness is a direct result of my role as their wife. We are only responsible for our own happiness, and our attitude and outlook are a direct result of our own actions. I was wrong to believe that marrying someone who's lifestyle and ethics were so different than my own would change with time as hope in the knowledge that people change over time. People don't always change for the better. I was wrong that believing "for better or worse" meant that there would be a "better." I was wrong.

The "us" that has blossomed over the past year is an "us" that explodes with future. Future travels, future responsibilities, future companionship and passion. It means compromise and understanding. It means acceptance and cultivating the dreams and goals to make them realities for one another. It means trust beyond measure, as you can't fully love based on a relationship full of crumbly hit or miss trust... something else I was wrong to believe in so many years ago. It means research and discussions and late night rambling. Studying each other, our love and our friendship so we can be better for ourselves and for one another.

I was so wrong, but in being wrong I learned how to look for the love and light in life.

Writing from the wings.

"I'm going to need for you to give me my keys."

He walked up the sidewalk leading towards the house, and I repeated myself, "I'm going to need for you to give me ALL my keys."

His face held no remorse. He knew what he'd done. He knew he'd been caught.

I'd sent the older kids to their grandmother's house the moment they got off the bus.

He wanted to go inside to get some things. I told him the clothes on his back were enough, we'd sort shit out once I could catch my breath.

"Yeah... I may have inadvertently made it happen without meaning to. Relax it isn't you and me. She doesn't know. She tried to hug me last night and I couldn't reciprocate what she was searching for." 

For weeks, months leading up the discovery, things had been going south fast. He would deny my touch, but then I would find him inebriated or high on top of me as I slept or exposing me enough to take pictures. I was only wanted when he was numb enough to tolerate me which left me disgusted by any and all advances. That is not love. That is not what our marriage had been built on. This was not going to work.

I tried so hard. For the babies... for him... for myself. When he walked away, I wanted him to leave everything behind. All of it. He had chosen to close his heart to me so he could open it for someone else. He had betrayed our marriage, the vows made before God, and the promises he made our children. Promises that would make my heart swell and cheeks flush to hear the words drip from his mouth like honey. These false promises gave me hope that it was going to be ok. I never in a million years saw this coming. Being so naive, so gullible even, it's why I get sick to my stomach and nervous knowing that not everyone is truthful. Not everyone is thinking of your best interest. Sometimes it's easier for others to lie than to attempt the truth.

I don't want to go into a new relationship, a new marriage even, with fear of the unknown sour and unwelcome on my tongue. My partner has not given me any reason to doubt him or his love for me. He's not given me any reason to question his stability or devotion. Which of course leads me to feel like something's just not right. Because that's how my brain works. Because for over 11 years I kept a letter in my wallet from the man I called my Husband, vowing to never stop loving me and working for me well into our old age... imagining our children and how we'd be the best parents to them, better than what we grew up with in regards to split homes and broken dreams. But that's now how things worked out and I despise the unknown.

Despite the fact that I find it insanely easy to get my words out through my fingertips, I am TERRIBLE at speaking. When it comes to conversation, it is so much easier for me to write you a letter or type out a blog post. When it comes to debate or argument, I'm better at constructive friendly debate than emotional brawls. I can't find my words or purpose in the situation. My brain turns to fog and evaporates out my eyes in the form of tears. Confrontation robs me of my speaking voice and it takes a ton of prep work or practice to utilize my voice. A blank screen, like a canvas, allows me to paint my inner words into air. The divorce was hard because I was already deafened by silence from the other party. Relationships are hard because the silence is awkward with expectation and anticipation, of which the words build up inside my chest like bricks waiting to fall at any moment.

I want to apologize. I want to say I'm so sorry to the people I love. I want to beg them to read me, read these accounts and inner workings of my mind. Understand me for the words that can't come out and fill the spaces between us. Know that I love with my whole heart even when my face can't express it. Know that I'm scared to death every last person is lying to me while I can't even fake a good poker face, that it's not because I think I'm surrounded by compulsive liars but because the one person I committed myself to and devoted my whole heart and more to robbed me of any ability to believe what I see and hear anymore. That because I've heard my heart scream, "He's the one I love, he's the one I need to wake up to every morning, and giggle myself to sleep beside every night," that I'm having to reassess my head and heart and really confront my fears while washing myself in truth.

I want to be able to hold his hand, hear his vows to me whether it's in front of a priest, the world, or just pillow talk and know that this is the truth. This is real and amazing and there's not a doubt in my mind that I am worthy after years and years of me judging and gently whispering to myself that not a single girl he brought into my presence was ever worthy of him and his goodness.

And I can say I am worthy all day long, but as the emptiness and hollowness of my heart is filled up with the golden light of his love, that last little bit of darkness wants to question and pick before it's gone forever.

I won't give up.

In the interim from date of enlightenment to the date of court for the divorce proceedings, I lost a bit of weight. It was hard to eat when you were grieving the man you thought you were married to. It was hard to breathe between the gut wrenching sobs and the need to sleep life away. In moments of clarity and light, I found myself opening my heart through yoga and reading.

In discovering love and acceptance, I've kind of let those things slip. When I feel my body crumpling in on itself, I stretch it out and take a few moments for myself to realign my spine and breathe. I know I need to get back on that saddle. I KNOW that my body will thank me. I know that the softness won't go away by making time to return to my breath and my body.

I shouldn't lose my attention to my body and breath when my focus is on the glittery, awe inspiring love that has washed over me this past year. I want to keep my health on the incline. I want to keep my mind sharp for both my present and for my future years to help defer any memory loss or issues with my cognition.

I want to spend the rest of my life feeling like this is the BEST of my life, that I can go on adventures... I can join in on last minute 5k's... or even stop, drop and yoga without killing myself or putting any bystanders in danger.

I want to know that my kids and partner are in it to win it with me as well, but first and foremost, I can only worry about my own motivation.

Just a little breaking and entering.

I've heard the story so many times of our first home, the home my sister and I grew up in, that there are bits and pieces of my memory that I can no longer tell if they are made up or real.

I was barely 5 when my parents toured the neighborhood next to my grandparents house. We must have pulled onto either before the agents on duty started their shift or after they'd all gone home. My parents parked in the driveway of the house I would spend my entire childhood. I can feel myself on my father's hip, smell his cologne on his button up... My mother, forever nosy, peered through each screen as best as she could to catch a glimpse of the layout. They were in love. They were in love with each other and smitten beyond reason with this little 3 bedroom 2 bath ranch home with a great big backyard. I can see my parents waving their hands over the yard, dreaming out loud of garden space, where a shed could go, how big a clothesline they should have, where my swing set would go...

Although they tried each door, nothing would budge as they'd all been locked tight. Despite the doors being locked, my dad was determined to get my mother and I inside to dream some more. He placed set me down and began looking for unlatched windows along the backside of the house. Once he reached the master bedroom window, he began prying the screen off gently so as to not damage it in the process. This was my first lesson in breaking and entering and I learned everything I knew from my father. He was able to shimmy the window open and picked me up again. He let me look through the window before placing me inside. He and my mother walked me step by step how to go from the bedroom to the front door and what I needed to do to unlock the deadbolt and let them in.

I like to imagine, as I can't distinctly remember doing this, that once I was inside I explored on my own first. That my little voice would call out that I was working on opening the door or that I'd accidentally gone into the wrong room. Little me would be so innocent, walking into my soon to be bedroom... maybe my hands would brush along the wall where I got my first real kiss, how my back would be pressed up against my bedroom door to listen to footsteps as we would kiss again... and again... and again... all in between painting murals on my bedroom wall located conveniently behind that bedroom door. Little me might even curl up in the same place on the closet floor as I'd done over and over again over the timeline of my adolescence. I had laid on that floor many times when overwhelmed, specifically after my sister was born, wondering if anyone would miss me if I disappeared.

I know that I succeeded in opening the door for them eventually. I can barely recall the details of the original wallpaper and flooring. The trim is all the same still, but we've lost a bay window over the years and replaced it with a standard window. I remember the strawberries on blue gingham wallpaper in our kitchen, or maybe that was the Corning ware my mother was obsessed with at that point in the mid to late 80's. How many Disney movies did we watch together as a family on Friday nights? My mother would swing by the Disney Store at the mall on her lunch breaks when she worked in downtown Atlanta and pick up the latest "fresh from the vault" flick and all four of us would make a huge deal out of it. I remember my sister being so small and so tired during our first watch of The Jungle Book that my mother signaled for my father to look while Jenna's little foot would twitch in an attempt to keep herself awake, meanwhile her eyes would flutter and roll telling a completely different story of alertness.

I walked that house alone for who knows how long before letting them in... looking back now I joke that I was an accomplice to my father's breaking and entering crime. He claims that it wasn't breaking and entering as nothing got broken and the front door was unlocked for him.

What memories will my children have of the home/homes they grew up in when they're my age. Will they remember the dreams their father and I held for them as we walked the empty bedrooms, will they remember me nursing their brother while I signed the paperwork in the middle of the stairway as Lou was hungry RIGHT THEN? I write all this knowing that I have to renew my lease within the next two months. Knowing that I want to run away from this town that their father has discolored over the past few years. Knowing that I want to be able to see a "home" that hasn't experienced negativity and intense sage smudging just to change the vibe. What will they remember? Will their childhood home hold as much potential in their minds?

Not forgotten.

I've lost many things in my life. I once lost a $20 bill inside my car door. Just recently, Lou lost one of his cats at the beach as it was sucked from his hand by the current and sent to Africa... or at least that's the story I told him as I tried to comfort his grieving heart. I've lost family, friends...

One of the more heartbreaking and more noticeable losses in my life is the years I lost getting to know and forming a relationship with my little cousins. And they aren't exactly so little anymore. When I was pregnant with Logan, the younger two cousins were only 3 years old. To help my Grandmother out as she watched them, I led them downstairs to watch movies and help me assemble baby gear. When one of their mothers fell ill with cancer, I was there watching them in their home every day I wasn't on a plane. Once their mother passed, they spent many nights at my grandparents home despite the fact that my grandmother had passed at that point as well. The biggest difference being they didn't dare go downstairs to where I lived with my then husband and two kids.

Their fear of my ex-husband kept them from visiting, I brushed it off as silliness and would beg my aunt and uncle to let them come play video games or hang out... promises made by them would be long forgotten until I would bring it up again. They were afraid of him, afraid of his outbursts as they'd heard him beneath their feet yelling at myself or the children. They had heard the way he'd talked to their parents or my grandfather. They didn't feel comfortable in his presence. Children and dogs have uncanny abilities of knowing good from bad and I dismissed them. I dismissed my cousins in a way that I can only regret and attempt to make up for now.

Now they're High Schoolers and they couldn't care less about their snot nosed second cousins that they have in my children. They're too old and too cool to be in their presence. The sting of personal time loss with family because I felt THEIR view of HIM was ridiculous will never leave me. I haven't forgotten the pride I felt when I'd hear of Cello concerts and baseball games and chorus concerts and every other event they would shine in. I haven't forgotten their silly toddler ways. I haven't forgotten all the hours I would spend with them when they were tiny even though they'll never remember those moments as I do. If I could have them know anything, it's that I'm so proud of them. So proud of what they've managed to overcome after one set of cousins lost their father to suicide and the other set's mother lost her battle to cancer. I'm so proud of the strides they've made in life, how their motivation to move forward is inspiring. I'm so proud of them, and I wish I'd been allowed that time despite knowing I can't ever get that time back.

My door is always open for them and maybe one day they'll remember my voice and hear me calling for them.

The monsters under my bed.

Most nights I fall asleep right at 11. I'll tell the mister goodnight, turn out the light and that's all she wrote.

At least once a week though, and often leading to a 2-3 day stretch, I fall off that routine and find myself sitting at the top of the steps watching the front door and listening to my babies snore softly until closer to 1 AM.

Will Logan's aneurysm burst in his sleep and I won't hear him cry out? I sleep through everything. I've slept through earthquakes.

What if Lou gets out of his room by some Houdini type magic act and get lost out in the world?

Who's going to take care of Lou when I'm old? Will he be a higher functioning, self sufficient adult?

How am I going to pay for the kids college costs if they decide to go?

How am I going to pay for a new car?

What if their father "loses his job" conveniently when I file for modification?

What did I do wrong as a wife that he felt he didn't need to work or put forth any effort towards anything of importance?

Was I a bad wife?

Will I be a bad wife again if I ever get married?

Am I a bad person???




Why yes, as a matter of fact I *do* suffer from depression and generalized anxiety disorder, why do you ask?

A morning in the life.

5:15 AM

A series of complicated math problems scroll across the screen, the phone screaming at me and vibrating increasingly with each passing second. I wipe the crud from my eyes and tunnel my vision towards the flashing lights and I attempt to focus on the numbers in front of me. I can't see the screen no matter how hard I rub my eyes. Glasses, I need my glasses. The countdown starts at the top of the screen threatening to punish me with more math problems than I feel I've signed up for. Once the screaming is over, it takes everything inside of me to NOT fall back onto the bed and go back to sleep. Before I can slip my feet into my flip flops the screen starts flashing and screaming at me again. "Run, Bitch, Run!" Emojis of running woman flit across underneath the time. Looks like I'm going to need to put socks on instead.

5:40 AM

Beads of sweat drip down into my ear, down the wire of my earbuds. My heart is pounding. The smell of coffee? Intoxicating. I stumble off the elliptical and into the kitchen. Ice falls to the floor as I unsuccessfully scoop cup after cup full into my insulated tumbler. Coffee melts the ice as I pour it over, the creamer swirls and takes it from intolerable to tolerable. Lou's lunch and snacks are assembled and tucked away into his backpack, vitamins and bagels are lined up on the counter.

5:45 AM

"HELLO, SWEET BOY, GOOOOOOOD MORNING!" I slide through his door with arms spread wide. Lou rolls over on his bed to all fours and meows loudly at me. He tucks his kitty of the day up under his arm and climbs up my body to snuggle his sweet face into my neck. He's still drowsy, but every day is exactly the same. I'm so happy to see him, and he is equally as happy to be in mama's arms. But just as quickly as the moment comes to be, it passes and he leaps off the bed and dashes out of the room.

6:05 AM

I tell Siri to set an alarm for 20 minutes. This gives me just enough time to refill my coffee and snuggle with Lou who is now crabby and sweaty from fighting getting dressed. His least favorite part of the morning is putting socks and shoes on; Lou would much rather run around on all fours or tip toe around the house than suffocate his toes. I leave him to his tablet and begin gently waking Lillie up who is my bear. I turn on her bedside light and she hisses between her teeth that she doesn't want to get dressed. I tell her she has 30 minutes to get downstairs and if she's not downstairs by the time I come back inside from getting Lou on the bus, there'll be hell to pay. I say this lovingly, of course. Threats are best issued in a hush hush whisper voice whilst crouched down on their level.

6:25 AM

I sling Lou's backpack over my shoulder and reach my hand out with the other hand on the front door. "Time to go, buddy! Let's go ride the bus with Mr. Wayne!" He throws his head back and chucks his iPad across the living room. He is suddenly possessed by the wave of "NO NO NO NO NO NOT YET," monster. He storms upstairs to grab a different cat and slaps my tummy signalling a need to be held. It is a long, sweaty wait with a 4 year old at the bus stop during August in Georgia. I can feel gnats and no-see-ums nibbling at my flesh as Lou hums "the wheels on the bus" and laughs hysterically when he begins slipping in my arms. My back doesn't think any of this is hilarious. A big mischievous grin crosses his face as the blinking lights echo off the surrounding trees as the bus crests the hill into our neighborhood. When the doors open I place him on the second step and hand the bus assistant his backpack. It is in this 2 second window of time that he, without fail, leaps into my arms again and I have to hoist him over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Every. Single. Day. I plop him into his seat and wish him a great day and tell the bus driver I'm praying for an easy week.

6:35 AM

I brace myself as my hand twists the door handle going back into the house. Seeing that Lillie is not downstairs I scream her full government name and refill my coffee again. I can see Logan's mouth hung open through the doorway of his room from the kitchen. His hair is floofed up with the longer portions flapping in the wind created from the fan by his bed. I can't understand how he can be comfortable with his legs at such an angle while sleeping. Nor can I understand how he can sleep through the insanity of getting his sister on the bus each morning. I poke my head around the wall to look into the living room and she's still not downstairs. I've learned from the house we're in that stairs are very much overrated, this fact is reiterated every time I have to vacuum them. It's worse when you have a daughter who is the VERY opposite of a morning person. I can hear her thumping overhead of me. I'm sure there are clothes being flung far and wide; the outfit we agreed to the night before long discarded. She officially has less than 15 minutes to be dressed, brushed in all the places needing brushing, medicated and out the door. I hold my coffee tumbler to my eye in hopes the twitching will stop with the pressure. News flash, not so much. She finally descends down the stairs. Her hair is wild as if she'd slept with a pack of rabid raccoons, yet another eclectically pieced together outfit consisting of a NASA tee shirt, black leggings, and a black sweatshirt with gold foil stars. At full volume she screams that she hates me and she knows I don't care about her or I'd actually take care of her. How she doesn't want me as her mother and she wishes she never had this family. She screams that she wishes her brother was dead and she's going to call DFCS herself because nobody in this house loves her. I hand her her vitamins and she slaps them out of my hand. She screams to not talk to her and stomps out of the house with her backpack unzipped, papers dropping one by one with each step she takes. I wonder to myself how she doesn't break a leg with the amount of aggression used to walk so hard. I wave to the neighbors as they walk up the street with their child and make sure to yell loud and proud, "I LOVE YOU, LILLIE!! MAKE IT A GREAT DAY!!"

7:00 AM

I create a rave effect with the lights in the small pantry hallway leading towards Logan's room and bang on the wall. "CONGRATULATIONS, YOU'VE SLEPT THROUGH ALL YOUR ALARMS! YOU HAVE 15 MINUTES BEFORE THE BUS ARRIVES!!" He groans and begs me to stop with the lights already as he rolls over and plops both feet onto the floor. I can hear his drawers opening and closing with increasing agitation. Lord Jesus no... HE'S WORN ALL OF HIS TRACK PANTS AND THERE ARE NO CLEAN ONES LEFT. The world has come to an end. His life is over. He pulls out the least stinky from the pile near his door and dances into them one leg at a time. Once his hair is thoroughly soaked in the sink and brushed to the side just right, he shoves a bagel into his mouth and bolts out the door while I chase him down with vitamins and his heart meds.

7:20 AM

The house is officially quiet again and the cat and I are left to stare at each other while I contemplate whether I need to wash my hair now or later and if I should do dishes or laundry. Pick up the floor or play makeup. Just kidding, the cat and I both know I don't wear makeup unless I'm required by law to be fancy.

8:30 AM

I'm in full on panic mode. How did an hour pass? Did I doze off? Did I stroke out or fall into a black hole? I'm blending my breakfast smoothie and chasing my meds with watered down coffee. I'm throwing random snacks, fruits and veg into my lunch bag and making sure I don't leave the house without my coffee... my keys... my phone... aforementioned lunch bag... it's always just ONE thing that I forget. I slide behind the steering wheel of the truck and toss my bags in the passenger seat. I can't tell if I'm wet from my shower still or if I've actually sweat THAT MUCH in the 10 minutes I hustled out the door. I check the rear view mirror, if it weren't for the sudden patches of sweat on my shirt I'd say I pulled off a cute outfit today. Meanwhile there's no saving my hair as it's already 80+ degrees outside, my hair is ALL THE IRISH and I have no A/C in my truck meaning I'm having to drive with my windows down. Another day another dollar dollar bill, y'all...

Undone.

Headlights bounced off the trees surrounding the developing neighborhood. Signs posted up on stumps lining the gravel blueprints of roads yet to be notated no loitering. They pulled off onto a dark cul-de-sac and turned off the headlights.

"Spinning on that dizzy edge, kissed her face and kissed her head. Dreamed of all the different ways, I had to make her glow."

They talked about the differences of Freshman year versus Senior year... about friends they had in common... about the movie they just saw. Their hearts were begging for this to go well, that this could actually be categorized a date and not just another night as "friends who see movies together." She spoke of concerts with stars in her eyes and with enthusiasm she rarely allowed anyone else to see unless she'd been friends with someone for years. She's not one to let people see this uninhibited, relaxed side of her, but he's different in a way she can't place her finger on. He talks to her in a way that's respectful of her, he takes genuine interest in her and what she has to say. He makes the move to touch her hand and she can feel the heat radiate from her spine up her neck to her ears. Her fingers slip effortlessly into his and they keep talking as if nothing happened despite the awkwardness tickling on the tail edge of her voice.

"Why are you so far away, she said, why won't you ever know that I'm in love with you?"

The heat from their breath fogs the windows creating a muffled water color of darkness surrounding them. She knows this conversation between them could happen just as well in the driveway of her mother's house, and yet it's not. She slides her hand back into her possession and begins to pull it back off her neck in an effort to distract herself from the newness of the situation. He's so many years ahead of her, going to college soon, he's done all of this before she's sure. She hasn't done any of THIS before. He notices her ears are red and reaches out to stroke the lobe with his thumb. Alarmed, she jerks her hand up to grab his. She's suddenly stuck in a place where she doesn't know whether to let go of his hand or guide it... elsewhere. This is it, she thinks, this is actually happening. She leans over the gearshift and guides him to the backseat. With the heater off she is freezing and glad she decided to wear at least a sweater while out with him.

"Dancing in the deepest oceans, twisting in the water. You're just like a dream."

Their lips met awkwardly after fumbling around not knowing where hands went, where their bodies belonged. Lips met, tongues met and she pulled her head back wiping his saliva off her face wondering if this was how it was supposed to happen. Was this much "swapping of spit" natural? People like this? People continue to do this even after they drown to death or suffocate on the other person's tongue? This can't be natural. She leaned into his neck and breathed him in. Kissing him along his jawline up to the lower length of his earlobe. His hands traced the straps and latches of her bra against her sweater. She was heating up, her hair was wild, she locked eyes with him and thought THIS she can most certainly do. Her torso leaned into his, chest pressed against his neck as he kissed along her neckline with his hands all but begging to make their way through the sweater. They slip beneath the hemline and trace their way inch by inch up her back. She can feel his hands warm and rough so close to her... but also so close to the latch of her bra. Momentarily panicked and glad the sweater is snug against her, her heart bubbles up through her throat, "This is not a good idea! My mother would KILL me and my father would kill YOU if they ever knew." She just wasn't ready and she just wasn't as into it after the flood of saliva between them both. She didn't want them to not be friends and she cared for him so fiercely, she didn't want this to be how it began or simply ended. And she was good, she knew she was good, her parents knew she was good... this wasn't how her story needed to twist just yet.

"You, soft and only. You, lost and lonely. You, just like heaven."

"I respect that, let's go." His voice cut through the thickness of body heat and anticipation. She didn't understand. She thought there'd be more of a fight, that it would get awkward or she'd have to walk the 2 miles through the dark back to her home. Her embarrassment overpowered any voice she had left as she plopped back into the front seat, the clicks of their seat belt buckles were deafening. His hand reached out across the gearshift and grabbed hers. "Hey," he said, "it's ok, I get it and I respect your decision. Maybe we'll try again some time." She was still mortified but agreed. Maybe one day.

Hocus Pocus

A week ago DFCS showed up in my driveway. Not because of anything I'd done, but because of an apparent investigation that has been placed upon their father. I was lucky in that I wasn't home yet from work when it happened. Lucky in that my mother and stepfather are honest people and were truthful and passed on the caseworker's number to me when I got home.

It took me the entire weekend to get up the nerve to call her. I had no idea going into the call what this was about, how it even came about, or what landed her in my driveway Friday. As I pulled into the office I decided to just leave a message for her verifying I was the ex-wife and my children are in his custody for 36ish hours every other weekend. The end. Just confirming what my mother had told her. Most sane people don't go into work at 8:30. She answered her phone. For a solid 27 minutes my Fitbit registered as if I was running a marathon.

It was a tense call.

I decided to strictly answer to the best of my ability and not to prompt.

I don't drag beliefs into arguments regarding the kids unless I feel that they're getting confused in a harmful way. Regardless of whether he believes in worshiping donkeys and making hot dog sacrifices to their donkey lord or Jesus Christ himself, religion can't be used as a determining factor UNLESS it puts the children in harm's way. Even if the other parent sees it as psychologically harmful. I was raised to question everything. And so I do, and what I believe in and what the kids have been raised to believe I want them to question as I do. If you don't understand, question your elders and your heart and the book itself. Research, meditate on it and research some more. Right now I have one kid that is so disturbed by their father's belief system that it brings him to tears of frustration. And I agree with him 100%. How could a man who openly spoke about philosophy and theology and other logical and intriguing debates now believe he's among wizards and witches, that he's an actual "healer." How can a man who spent years of his life in the emergency medical field witnessing the power of miracles and modern medicine turn to crystals and energy fields...

In the months leading up to the divorce proceeding I stumbled across so many strange finds that it broke my heart. Cans upon cans of salt emptied along the perimeter of the garage where he slept after I discovered the infidelity. What had I ignored or been oblivious to in my marriage? He claimed to have an alter ego that he and his family referred to as Hector. I scoffed at this and blamed a lot of bad behavior on Hector and the mess he would make in the family. I would become embarrassed and increasingly appalled or concerned when "Hector" would make him overdose on his ADD medication leaving him hanging from our bedroom closet sweaty and belligerent. I silenced my screams of fear and paranoia when he would touch me at night claiming he was allowing me to say goodbye to my "Husband," explaining to me that my tears were from grief. I justified reading and copying to PDF pages from his journals and sketchbooks after he used my own words against me from my journal. I can't unsee the darkness and acidic heartbreaking hatred spewed upon those pages. Pages from my own writing used against me that were cries to God for help, to help me let go of this man who had stolen my Husband in order to help me release the fear and chaos for the benefit of our children. Words I'd written detailing his addictions and choices he'd made to justify the illegal activity he'd favored over his wife and children.

I kept all these words to myself when I talked to the caseworker. I held them in my heart like a smoldering coal.

What I did answer? She asked...

Was I aware of any pagan or "dark magic" being practiced by him or the both of them while the children were present.
Was I aware of any verbal abuse towards each other or the children.
Was I concerned about my children's well being while in his care.
Did I know if her children were in therapy or counseling.

I told the truth, loud and proud, I will go down protecting my children from the darkness in him.

C.P.

Marriage Material

What is a marriage made out of?

Is it two people passionately in love? Is it a bond formed over similar interests? Is it something settled upon because at night you fit like puzzle pieces?

Is it a fabric of sorts that despite holes and tears, discoloration or stains, still manages to withstand the tests of time to shelter those beneath it from the elements?

What makes GOOD marriage material?

I'm not thinking about marriage for myself... much. There's too much in my life at this very moment that all planets and stars and galaxies and eyes would have to cross JUST RIGHT for that process to even fall into place and become a thought worth entertaining. But it IS entertaining to play with that thought, tossing it back and forth between us and letting it lay wherever it lands; leaving hearts a flutter and last thoughts of the nights filled with puffy creamy dreamy pink princess daydreams like cotton candy colored clouds during a psychedelic sunset.

First step would be to live in the same city, same region of the same state even... where job descriptions don't change too much and following one's dreams doesn't mean standing in the middle of a spaghetti junction filled with dreams and knowing you can only choose one.

Responsibilities would have to be stacked and managed. Three little people would need to be prepared beforehand as they are the most important part of this package deal. I'd want them to be asked if he could have their mom's hand and if he could hold their hand also into adulthood. I want that for them. I want them to have someone structured and stable. I want them to have a good role model, not just on what it means to love and how to love, but someone who they could turn to for good moral advice and to talk to when they're too scared to ask their mama (because mama might have a stroke or call a priest.)

I do have my "Princess Moments" where I Pinterest and double tap on Instagram... when I get googly eyed over sparkly things... and dream of days where the Princess meets her Prince at the end of that aisle and they live happily (and realistically) ever after.

Wishes.

Wishing. I’m done wishing. I’m done waiting. I am mentally depleted and I’m just done.

It’s not fair that I’ve done everything that I can do right by my kids. That I’ve provided and exhausted myself in the process. It’s not fair that I’m the only adult here for them. I’m done waiting, wishing. I’m done being the only financially responsible party. Utility companies, landlords, daycare providers, doctors and grocery stores don’t wait and they don’t answer to wishes. Tears don’t dry themselves with wishes in an empty tissue box. Diapers don’t appear out of nowhere when I open the cabinet after wishing they would magically resupply themselves.

The world doesn’t thrive on unanswered wishes.

I wish the world were fair. That unfaithful spouses were the ones sitting alone sobbing into their pillows at 2 am. That absent parents were sat at tables in dark rooms with a single bulb dangling over their guilty heads as the questions the present parents are assaulted with are piped into the room at full volume.

It’s not FAIR. It’s inhumane and torturous to be the ones left behind. Yes, we are better off without that toxicity but we’re also left answering questions and wiping tears doing our best to not push our anger onto these babies.

Every fucking morning is Groundhog Day. Wake up, be responsible, sign the documents, sell my soul for groceries and other necessities, hold out some sort of hope that boyfriends will have perfect opportunities fall in their lap, that karma will sideswipe the guilty parties, bite my tongue, lather rinse and repeat.

I don’t get the opportunities to take mental breaks, so mental breakdowns steal perfectly sunny days instead. I don’t get to take much needed vacations, so I take an extra second to watch other families allow 5 more minutes of pool time while the days get shorter as does my patience.

I’m better off alone in a world where the children don’t know what betrayal is. Where they don’t know their father or anyone associated with him. That her and her children and their own fucked up daddy issues don’t exist. That space and time, distance and days are irrelevant. I’d like a penny for every wish, want and need that come to pass under this roof and a dollar for every year that falls.

I’m in a bad brain place. I’ll blame it on the moon since everyone else is.