Superwoman Doesn't Live Here Anymore

I've always wondered how the rich and famous can end up in the hospital due to exhaustion. Yeah right, my cynical soul would mock, that's just another way to say they're addicted to some drug. Well, on Friday morning, I found out that maybe I can sympathize. 

I took the day off from work because I wanted to go to an assembly that my son's class was running. It was also the day of the school Halloween party, an event that I volunteer at every year. I got in the shower in the morning, feeling a little tired but not horribly so. As I stood under the spray, I got dizzy. Like never have I been so dizzy in all my life dizzy. I leaned against the shower wall, grasping the bar and thought, I really need to go lay down on the bed for a minute and then I'll be okay. The next thing I knew, I opened my eyes and I was lying on the floor of the shower with the water spraying down on me, shampoo and body wash bottles scattered around me. Did I just pass out? Nah, can't be. I must have just thought about going to the bed and couldn't make it so I laid on the floor. 

I got out of the shower weakly and stumbled to the bed, laying there for a few minutes. But time has a way of ticking along even when you don't want it to so I got up and woke the kids. While we were eating breakfast, I thought I had a bit of a headache and when I put my hand on my forehead, it made me wince a little. I went to look at myself in the bathroom mirror. There was a large egg on my forehead and my cheekbone was swollen and bruised. Apparently I had passed out in the shower and my face broke my fall. I also have bruises on my hip and high on my shoulder. Fainting gently and ladylike is obviously not a talent I possess. I would more liken it to a sack of potatoes falling off a shelf. 

This is a lesson to me. I don't have to be superwoman, it's not necessary to get everything done every single day. The six mile walk in the pre-dawn morning can be skipped; laundry can remain in the basket for a day; declining any more volunteer requests is fine; feeding the kids PB&J one evening is perfectly acceptable; and turning off my never ending fountain of worry is okay. I thank God that I didn't hit my head any harder when I fell. My shower has benches in it and I could have easily split my head open on one of those. My guardian angel must have caught me. 

I'll be taking better care of myself now because I know by doing that, I'll be taking better care of my kids as well. So the weekend consists of watching a movie, baking cookies and going to a pumpkin carving party. No running the roads and staying up late for us, a much needed break is here and my kids are delighted to just hang for a while. 

By the Numbers

1...the number of times I'll get married. One and done. Never again and you can quote me on that. 

2...the number of kids I have and I'd give my soul for them. 

3...the number of months I walked around like a zombie, feeling like I was having an out of body experience after Army Boy blew up my world 

4...table for four has become table for three and I can request that at a restaurant now without flinching

6...the number of miles I walk in the early morning hours before the sun rises. The divorce demons are still helping to keep me active.  

8...the number of months it's been since Army Boy dropped his bomb. I'm myself again, the fog has lifted. 

30-45...number of minutes in the evening I have to myself after the kids hit the hay and before I fall into bed. If anyone has any way to create more time, drop me a line. 

80...number of pounds I've lost since bomb drop day. Yup, I was a big girl, fat and happy. Now I'm a thinner girl and hopefully will end up even happier. 

A million...the number of times I've dreamed about hurting Army Boy like he hurt me. But those thoughts are dissipating now and hopefully 

will 

soon 

dwindle 

to 

ZERO...which is what Army Boy is to me now. 

Good Times

Parent/teacher conference time. Also known as the week I get a knot in my stomach thinking about hearing about my kids' academic achievements. I'm more nervous about their conferences than I ever was about my own. The afternoon began with my son's conference. Army Boy showed up at the tail end of it. He got the times mixed up and thought it started at the time it actually ended. I wonder how the firing of his personal secretary/wife is working out for him. 

In my son's conference I discovered that he accidentally broke another student's finger by closing a door on it. Yup, I said BROKE A KID'S FINGER. OMG. It wasn't malicious and was a total accident but still I wanted to crawl into a hole when I heard that. He never mentioned it to me when it happened. Maybe he blocked it out of his mind the teacher said. Good times. 

My daughter's conference centered around the very emotional day that she had today. One of her friends called her a cheater during a game and my daughter got really upset. I forced myself not to look at Army Boy each time the teacher said CHEATER. If it was a drinking game, I would have been intoxicated by the end of the conference. Cheater, cheater, cheater. Did Army Boy squirm each time the teacher said it? No clue, I was afraid to look at him in case the revulsion showed on my face. He probably didn't even flinch since he's so delusional about how he's really done nothing wrong through all this. Good times.

My daughter's conference was just about over and as we were standing up, the teacher said, 'Oh, I wanted to tell you something your daughter said. She told me that she really wants a stepmom or stepdad.' The sound that came next was my jaw hitting the floor. Why, why would the teacher mention that to a divorcing couple? Oh really?, I squeaked and now I'm visualizing Army Boy thinking that gives him license to introduce his whore to my kids. Yup, the teacher said, she must have a friend with a step parent and she wants one too. 'Well, she also wants me to have another baby,' I said, 'and that's not happening either.' I'm not sure why I felt I had to say something so personal, I wish I could manage an uncomfortable silence without filling it with diarrhea of the mouth. Good times. 

But I survived another round of parent teacher conferences and can pat my kids on the back and say 'Good job, Honey', well, except for that broken finger. 

Shove Your Email Where the Sun Doesn't Shine

I love when you're going about your day, almost forgetting that you're in the midst of a painful divorce and that your husband is a cheating POS dirtbag that you would like to punch in the face every time you see him and then you receive an email like this:

I'm embarrassed that we live in a society like this. People actually work for a company like Ashley Madison? A company that touts cheating and hooking up just for the sake of it? How low our society has sunk that things like this are out there and embraced by so many people. Where have all the values and decency gone?

I'd like to write to Ashley Madison and tell them to fucking vet their email distribution list a little more closely because I'm the last person on earth that should receive an email like this. But the wonders of web tracking exist and I'm sure from visiting sites like match.com (when I think, maybe, possibly, I might find a man attractive again), Ashley Madison hooks on to my online presence and sends me shit like this.

I'm going to print the email out and set it ablaze with the new candle that I bought last weekend. The scent of Autumn Mist will cover the stench nicely.

Thanksgivings Past and Thanksgivings Future… A Family Divided

Every year my mom hosts Thanksgiving. From the time I was little right up until now, she would cook for hours and hours and put on a food-induced coma of a feast. My uncle joins us and when my mother in law moved in to my parent’s apartment about 7 years ago, my mom began having my mother in law and Army Boy's sister and brother (and whomever they might be dating at the time) over along with Army Boy and my kids and I. My kids got a two for one deal; they were able to see both sides of the family, in one large gathering. The in law side of the family sometimes outnumbered my mom’s ‘real family’ but she still hosted the dinner every year, doing most of the work involved in having 10-12 people eat at your house. I think my mom enjoys it or she puts on a good show that she doesn't mind doing it, she’s never complained and we all devour a grand meal every time. 

A few days ago my mother in law was talking to my mom about my sister in law’s new boyfriend. My mother in law wondered out loud if my sister in law would be bringing her new boyfriend to Thanksgiving this year. My mom told me later that she didn't say anything because she wanted to speak to me first. My mom said that she has no intention of hosting Thanksgiving dinner for my in laws this year. She’ll still make a meal for my uncle and my kids and me but the invitation for the in laws has been revoked. 

I asked my mom if maybe my mother in law was planning on hosting her own Thanksgiving and that’s where my sister in law would bring her boyfriend. My mom said no, that family is a family of takers and not givers, and my mother in law definitely was not meaning that she was going to have her own meal. For my mom to say that about anyone is a little shocking. My mom sees the best in everyone, she rarely puts anyone down. She even defended Army Boy recently and said that it seems like he’s trying to be a more involved parent and that we need to give him the benefit of the doubt. (Yeah I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt right after I run him over a few times with my car.) My mom said she’s going to tell my mother in law that she can host her own Thanksgiving dinner and invite her own children (including Army Boy). She said that she'll make it clear that my Dad won’t kill Army Boy when he drives up to my mother in law’s apartment so Army Boy won't have a convenient excuse not to attend. 

What a strange Thanksgiving this one is going to be. Even if my mother in law has Thanksgiving at her apartment and Army Boy goes, it’s going to be so foreign to what the kids are used to. I have some doubts that Army Boy is going to dare to step foot in a house that my parents own plus he hasn't seen his mother since she had her surgery in May. To say he's not close to his family or interested in being with them in an understatement. I’m sure my kids will adjust, they are troopers and seem to be rolling with whatever changes come their way but it makes me sad that the years of combined family holidays are over. 

Pshaw, Says No One Ever in 2013

I'm feeling a bit like a heroine in a bad Lifetime TV movie. Sometimes I get caught up in my own story. I once read a word in an old Harlequin Victorian romance novel. I guess I thought if someone in the 1800's could say it so could I in the 1980's. So I wrote the word 'pshaw' in my diary (Pshaw, that boy doesn't like ME?!) and my sister read it and never let me live it down. 

'Uh Kay, people really don't talk like that.' 

'Yeah, they do.' 

'Maybe if they're attending balls and dancing with Dukes and Lords but you live in New England and are sitting in front of the Atari playing Pit Fall so never use that word again.' 

I'm a little of a wingnut sometimes. So while I'm feeling kind of melancholic, philosophical or maybe just plain ridiculous, I'm going to throw some quotes out there. 

The first two are ones for my kids and I to live our lives by. 

http://www.fuelyourwriting.com/files/beyourself.jpg

(I could say that my husband was taken too but that didn't stop his whore from banging him but I digress... This is supposed to be an inspirational quote.) 

http://practicebetterbusiness.files.wordpress.com/2013/08/inspirational-the-difference-between-who-you-are-and-who-you-want-to-be-is-what-you-do-love-quotes-quote-favim_com-554123.jpg

And one for Army Boy -

http://www.theindiepedant.com/?attachment_id=8608

Do What You Think Is Best, Mommy

This weekend I took my daughter to her semi-monthly counseling appointment. Bowel issues, divorce issues, school issues, yeah, I was concerned for her over the summer. Either the counseling is going well or she's just better at dealing with things, because she's turned back into the silly girl that she used to be. There's still a bit of an attitude there but I blame that on being nine years old going on fourteen. Since our lives are so busy now with sports and the kids going to their fucking stupid asshole of a father's place every other weekend (I know, I'm not too bitter, right?), I wondered if we should stop the counseling appointments for a while and see how things go. I asked my daughter, 'Do you still want to go talk to Poppy?' (Poppy is my name for her counselor. She reminds me of a free spirit with her aromatherapy bottles and her druid books on every available surface, her dogs milling around our feet, vying for a place on the couch.)

My daughter said, 'I don't know.'

'It's your choice,' I said, 'if you think you still want to go, you can or we can take a break for a while.'

My daughter said, 'Do whatever you think is best for me, Mommy.' My sweet girl. God, kids kill me with their innocence and their faith in people.

Today we received the soccer schedule for the weekend and the kids have to be in two different places at the same time. I'm used to this, for years, I've been doing it on my own as Army Boy was either deployed or disinterested in being part of our family or 'off riding his motorcycle'. I can figure things out, find a ride for one of the kids. Then about two minutes after I received the schedule, I get an email from Army Boy. 'How do you want to handle the weekend? Do you want me to pick up our daughter and take her to her game?' My first response is hate - 'Apparently you finally remembered that you have children. You have time for them again after writing them off for the whole summer? You don't have better things to do with your weekend days now, those same things that took you away from the kids for over a year?'

I want to slay him with words and start something. I'm spoiling for a fight. I want to tell him that it's too little, too late. But I know it won't matter because it will just be the buzzing of an annoying bug in his ear. What I say doesn't matter. It was so much easier when he was disinterested this summer, for me at least. Out of sight, out of mind. Now having to deal with him so much makes me want to scream. I really do not want to depend on him for rides for the kids. 

I can count on one hand the number of times he actually brought our children to an appointment or a sporting event on his own, and I can also count the number of times he was late and caused more stress because the kids are never his first priority. I don't want to depend on him for anything. But I don't know if my own feelings about his piece of shit-ness are taking over or if I'm thinking of the kids here. It's got to be confusing to them to have him be here, be gone, and now be around again. I guess it's better for them to have a father who actually wants to see them but I don't trust him at all. I'm trying to heed my daughter's words of 'Do whatever you think is best for me, Mommy' but it's hard when your own feelings provide a lens that you can't see through.

Is Disingenuous My Middle Name?

Another Saturday Soccer jamboree....another day of family togetherness...or as I like to call it, my own personal hell on earth. Army Boy was supposed to have to work this weekend but because our government can't seem to get its head out of its ass, his drill weekend was cancelled. Thanks Democrats and Republicans for bickering like a divorcing couple and giving me one more day of biting my tongue at a sporting event. I'll send you the bill when my bloody nub has to be sutured back on.

Actually it's almost getting too easy to put aside my disgust for Army Boy and just play pretend for a few hours. Wow, either I'm the world's best actress or I'm the most disingenuous person alive. I flip the switch, slap a smile on my face and play nice for the whole world to see. I wonder what the other parents would think if they knew what was going on. Would they applaud my 'putting the kids first' mentality or would they think what a fucking doormat to stand next to such a douchebag? If only Army Boy knew how many times I wanted to whip out my visual aids documenting his futile attempt to 'find his happiness'. Hello, local police officer and father of my son's closest friend, do you want to see why douchebag and I are divorcing or would you just say that's our personal business and avert your eyes from the spectacle of Army Boy's penis in my kitchen? If only people knew what goes on behind closed doors, but I bet everyone has a dirty secret and probably wouldn't take much notice of mine. It's only personal when you're living it. 

The long day of soccer went by quick. Army Boy was on his best behavior, playing Mr Personality and Father of the Year. He even stood by my daughter's team and helped coach. What a fucking change from last year when he was supposed to coach my son but he felt like he was being 'left out by the popular parents' so he walked off the field and wouldn't go back. I had to finish the season off and tell everyone that he hurt his back. I'm such a fricking liar when it comes to covering for him.

I got home tonight and gave myself a mental pat on the back for getting through the day and being the bigger person. Hell, I even shared my carrots with Army Boy at one point. (No, carrots aren't a euphuism for something, I actually shared a snack that I had brought with me.) Then I lay in bed, exhausted after another day of doing everything, and I read the comments on this post. HOLY SHIT, AM I AN ENABLER? Am I letting Army Boy off too easily? Am I serving myself the shit sandwich and gulping it down with ketchup? WTF, am I doing? I know I'm a people pleaser and conflict averse. I'm the baby of my family. I'm the one that tries to make people laugh and if that doesn't work, I plead 'Can't we all just get along?' But am I being too nice in this circumstance? Am I going for sainthood or will I be getting the gold medal for stupidity? A crown for being the biggest spineless pushover in the history of betrayed spouses? 

I'm not sure why I don't want to give Army Boy a hard time. For my kids' sake, for my own. I know I don't want to be raging all the time. It's too exhausting, too draining. Maybe I just want to pretend for a few hours that we are on okay terms, that we have an amicable divorce so I can hold on to my pride a little bit. Being the spouse left behind is pretty fucking demoralizing, it cuts you off at your knees and is akin to someone telling you 24/7 that you're too much of a loser to hold on to your husband. (I know if a friend was going through this instead of me, I certainly wouldn't think she was a loser but it's hard to be objective when it's yourself.) If I can put on the appearance that I don't give a shit about Army Boy, maybe I can make myself feel like I can retain some of my dignity. I'll use my favorite phrase again..'I don't know'. 

Hey Mom, Remember My 7th Birthday When You Almost Burned Our House Down?

Today is my precious son's seventh birthday. Six years old has shades of still being little. Seven years old is saying goodbye to a little kid and hello to a big kid. Seven years old makes me think of driver's licenses and shaving. I don't know why but I'm sort of sad over my sweet little man turning one year older.

I want my son to have the most special day ever, especially since this is his first birthday without Daddy living in the same house. Some of our old traditions will continue and this year I vowed to create some new ones as well. One of these new traditions is making a special birthday breakfast treat. My coworkers suggested Monkey bread, it's delicious and so easy, they claimed. I stayed up late last night wrapping my son's presents and then got up early this morning to make the Monkey bread. It's going to be a GREAT birthday, I thought. I even invited Army Boy over to supper so our son could see his dad on his birthday. (Yes, I'm a sucker for punishment, I guess. I hate Army Boy with an all consuming passion and disgust but I love my boy and he wanted to include Daddy.)

The monkey bread was easy to prepare but then I got to the part where it said I needed a bundt pan.... Hmmm, I don't have one of those but I do have a round cake pan. So, with a shrug, I dropped the ingredients into the pan and topped it off with the yummy looking butter and brown sugar concoction the recipe called for. I was feeling so efficient as I popped the pan in the oven just before I got in the shower. The timer was due to go off just as the kids were getting up. The house will smell delicious and the kids will be delighted, I thought as I skipped up the stairs. I was giddy with 'this is going to be a great birthday' fever.

When I got out of the shower, the scent of cinnamon is wafting in the air. The kids are going to LOVE monkey bread (they've never had it before), it's going to become their new favorite! I woke the kids up and went downstairs and checked on the bread. It wasn't done yet but looking at it was enough to make my stomach rumble. I can't wait to taste that and serve it up to the kids!

I did a little bit of cleaning and then I smelled something. Not cinnamon, not brown sugar, but something burning. Uh oh. I approached the oven and saw a little bit of smoke billowing out of it. Ooops, some of the sauce was running over the cake pan. Ah, that's why the recipe said to use a bundt pan, of course, dough rises. Good to know, I'll remember that next time. I popped a cookie sheet under the pan to catch the drippage. I'm feeling pretty good, I'm giving Martha Stewart a run for her money.  I continue with my cleaning. Then I smell more smoke and see it furiously pouring out of the top of the oven. OMG, I hope the fire alarm doesn't go off, our renter got home late last night and is sleeping. I opened all the windows and doors and then out of the corner of my eye, I see a bright flash of orange in the oven. What's that?

H.O.L.Y. SHIT the oven is on fire! I'm going to burn our Goddamn house down on my son's birthday. I stare blankly at the orange fireball behind the glass door. Then the smoke alarms go off and chaos erupts in the house. The kids come running downstairs yelling, the dog is going crazy. My daughter asks, 'Should we evacuate?' (I think she was excited to use the information taught to her by the firemen that visited school last year. I almost expected her to stop, drop and roll). I open the oven door to see WTF is going on and flames flash out towards me, the heat almost singeing my eyebrows. I turn the oven off but every time I open the oven door the flames get higher. My renter comes running downstairs and sees the fire and yells, "I have a fire extinguisher!" She races back upstairs. I envision spraying that fire extinguisher in my house and the mess it will create but then I envision my house going up in flames on my son's birthday. I need to put this fucking fire out, preferably without mounds of foam involved. I know there's something you can throw on a fire.. corn starch... nope, that makes it worse. Baking soda! Phew, that puts the flames out but the oven has now turned into a chimney and black smoke pours out of it.

Coughing and choking with eyes burning, I pull out the monkey bread which is still looking very doughy and I give my son a piece of it. Happy birthday, I say. He takes a bite and says, 'It's awful.' Really? Undercooked dough tasting of smoke doesn't dance on your palate? Shocking. I make my son his usual breakfast of French toast and as the smell of smoke hangs in the air and we shiver from the cold breeze rolling in every open window, my son states calmly, "This is the worst birthday ever."

At the bus stop, my neighbor comments on all of our windows and doors opened in the 50 degree weather. Yes, I made my son a special birthday breakfast, flaming monkey bread. My son walks towards the bus and says, 'Mommy, I'm going to tell everyone all about this at share time today!' Have a great birthday, I yell, as I think about spending the next two hours cleaning out the oven.

I might not have given my son a delicious treat for breakfast but I gave him a story that we can laugh over in ten years (probably around the time the smell of smoke dissipates from my house). Apparently my speciality is making memories, not culinary confections.