I am officially divorced. Those four words elicit different responses. You are either treated like a leper or a temptress. Some people apologize as if they had something to do with the demise of your union. Others look at you with immense pity or won’t look you in the eye at all. Many are afraid to talk about the “D word.” There is a sense of shame associated with saying you have an ex-husband or ex-wife. I’m surprised I haven’t been brought into the town square and made to stand on a stage while everyone laughs and points. Perhaps, we should celebrate when one leaves an unhealthy or unhappy relationship. Isn’t that what we should be teaching our children; that you shouldn’t sacrifice your happiness, health, or safety because of any social stigma? We need to make divorce showers a thing; complete with gifts, cake and even the cheesy games that everybody dreads. Did I mention I want gifts.
There are men who equate divorce with desperation. One gentleman said he would be willing to let me take him out for a drink, another wanted to put me in a position that may be borderline illegal and one guy even offered to lick my face. Many of these men wouldn’t normally have the confidence to be this bold, but apparently, they are doing the divorcee a favor. Plus, keyboard warriors are alive and well. Here is a fun fact: I’m not on the clearance rack because the finger on my left hand is bare. In fact, my stock is rising. I have raised my standards.
I started this blog years ago to write about the darker and funnier side of motherhood nobody talked about. From the mesh underwear you don after the birth of a child, to the hell that is Walt Disney World, to wasting money on coats your children refuse to wear. Now, I’m going to document another phase of my life. I will write again because it is my first love. The romance began in a high school English class with Mrs. Gurrant. She was a curvaceous woman with wavy dark hair that sat at the base of her neck. She had skin like a porcelain doll. She walked with such grace and spoke softly, almost to the point of a whisper, emphasizing each syllable of every word. One of her assignments was to write about something nobody knows about you. I wrote about having an eating disorder. I hadn’t found the courage to tell anyone until my pen touched that paper. It was cathartic. I stopped blogging after my self-esteem took crushing blow after blow. If you are told long enough that you’re not good enough you start to believe it. You lose yourself. Well, I have been found. Maybe something I say will inspire you. Maybe not. Either way, it does wonders for me.
This story is just awesome!
Meet the Olivet Eagles, a middle-school football team from Olivet, Mich., who with the help of a learning disabled teammate, executed what may be one of the most successful plays of all time.
My glass is always half empty. It’s a lousy way to live. I need to start focusing on the positives. There are so many in my life. Perhaps, that will be my New Year’s Resolution since the ‘I’m going to do a million sit ups to lose this kangaroo pouch’ resolution didn’t pan out. Don’t worry, I will still point out the negatives. Life isn’t all rainbows and unicorns. Did I tell you my daughter recently became obsessed with unicorns? I got her a small stuffed unicorn for her birthday. She demanded everyone’s attention in the room and said, “I am going to name my new stuffed unicorn, “Unicorn.” (Cue fake enthusiasm for her “creative” name.) I’m going to call his doughnut a “Doughnut.” I’m going to call this car a “Car.” Positive, think positive. The positive is she didn’t name her pet unicorn “Vagina.” See, I can do this. Anyway, watch this video. It turns out I am not alone.
It seems like just yesterday I was 9-months pregnant with my daughter, hemorrhaging in the delivery room. My husband ran frantically from one side of the bed to the other searching for the call button. “That is for popsicles!” I calmly explained. “Please get the nurse!” Okay, my memory may be a little off. I may have been shouting something along the lines of, “I don’t want to die” over and over and over.
My little diva is celebrating her 4th birthday today. I still have a few more years before I can give the “I almost died giving birth to you” speech when she misbehaves. It will definitely come in handy during the teenage years. (I should know. I was a complete ass when puberty hit. My mother is a saint.)
My daughter is smart and funny. She is my best friend. In fact, she pinkie swears that we will be BFF’s forever. (Any good lawyer will tell you a pinkie swear is a rock solid contract.) Sure, she will occasionally wish for a new mother because she couldn’t have a second cupcake, had to go to bed, etc. I tried calling her bluff during the last tantrum. “Okay, I will find you one.” She told me to make sure her new mom liked cupcakes, too. Of course, minutes later she decided packing all of her princess gowns, Barbies and Polly Pocket dolls would be too much work. Well, that and she loves me too much to leave. You have to be careful with Polly Pocket. I learned that the hard way, decapitating one with the vacuum cleaner. It is one of many stories my daughter will be sharing with the therapist. Then, after each appointment I will remind her that I nearly lost my life giving her life and all will be forgiven.
If I were writing a Facebook status I would choose the annoyed emoticon. Then, I would post a picture of dinner and a candid shot of my kids. After an hour I would check back and question why more people haven’t “liked” my status. What the hell! That’s a cute picture.
I am annoyed with myself for caring what someone thinks about my house. I don’t live in a shack, but it’s not a mansion. There are scratches, dents and dings on the walls, evidence that three children live here. We have picnics and tea parties on the carpet. Matchbox cars and toy trains race on the hardwood floors. I don’t own expensive artwork. The framed paintings hanging on our walls were created by my kids.
I suppose if you consider the co-pay for labor and delivery it was expensive. Their creations have more meaning to me than a reproduced photograph from
There’s a good chance you will step on a Lego or find Barbie in the couch cushion. Well, when she isn’t whoring herself out to Ken. Our entryway floor dates back to the 1980’s. Man, they loved light blue in the 80’s! Hearts and paneling were also hot. At one point our house had all of the above. It even had carpet on the bathtub. I am not kidding. Some David Hasselhoff wannabe impressed the ladies with plush pink carpet up the side on the tub. We made a few renovations, but used the money to replace the entryway floor on a trip to Walt Disney World. I would rather create memories than have a house that looks like the Pottery Barn catalog. (Although I do love Pottery Barn and, much like Barbie,I would whore myself out for free stuff.) I don’t think I have ever walked into someone’s house and judged their decor. I am too busy judging your clothing. (I’m kidding, I’m kidding)
My kitchen counter is outdated, but the photograph of my husband and I standing beside the President of the United States at the White House Christmas party, yeah, that’s pretty modern. (Two snaps in z formation) Seriously, I am 34-years-old (or something like that) and don’t want friends that I have to impress.
Being a mom means you are “in the weeds” 90% of the day. I’m not talking about the dangerous Hogweed newscasters warn you about year after year. Nothing is scarier than a reporter without a story idea. That is when you get the annual pothole, overgrown grass or Hogweed stories. Depending on who wrote the script Hogweed can be a small nuisance or Godzilla. I wasn’t in actual weeds. It’s a term used in the restaurant industry when you are so busy that you fall behind. A bleach blonde hostess, who can barely count to ten let alone divide customers, is usually to blame. My career as a waitress ended when a college student complained about the whipped cream on her milkshake. I told her to quit bitching, scrape it off herself and handed in my apron.
I was “in the weeds” all day. Before I could finish one task a whiny child would make a new demand. I was really looking forward to bedtime, but first my daughter wanted to watch her favorite show.
She snuggled under the blanket and squealed with excitement when I grabbed the remote. Unfortunately, the cable company hates me and decided to rearrange stations on the dial. (Public Service Announcement for the YOLO generation: back in the day there were actual knobs on Televisions to change the station or turn up the volume. Thus, the phrase “on the dial.” Yes, we actually had to get off the couch. So, don’t complain to me about how long it takes to load a web page on your cell phone.)
It’s some kind of sick joke. Who the hell thought this was a good idea? It will be hysterical! They will try to watch their favorite show, but it won’t be there. It will be on a different station. Get it? “ Do you know what’s not funny? It’s not funny when you press three numbers anticipating a cartoon, but your toddler sees a woman gobbled up by a dinosaur. Then, because you couldn’t change the channel fast enough, your daughter has a meltdown because her favorite princess is dead. That wasn’t a princess honey. It was a dumb girl who wouldn’t listen and refused to stay with the group. She sort of deserved to die.
The company claims they sent out a letter. Let’s pretend I didn’t throw it away without opening it. Do you think I can memorize the placement of a dozen or so stations? I can’t remember if I washed my hair in the shower seconds after I washed my hair in the shower. I will be cursing your name for months Mr. Cable Company Decision Maker Guy. I hope you can sleep at night knowing what you’ve done.
A month into school and we have already been convicted of a crime. There was no formal indictment or a trail before a jury of our peers. We were accused of losing a library book. A librarian was in complete control of our lives. We spent day and night looking for a book that was not at our house. I may not remember important milestones in my child’s life. I also forgot about my son’s first field trip in preschool, but I know my son brought his books back to school. Did she really forget her son’s field trip? Yes, I sent him to a farm on a cold, rainy autumn day in a light coat and sneakers. He was the only child without a parent accompanying him. In my defense, my husband is the one who dropped my 4-year-old off to school and failed to notice the class was getting ready for a field trip. It wasn’t unusual that all of the other parents had gathered in the classroom, holding brown bagged lunches? It did not seem odd that the rest of the children were dressed in warm coats, hats and boots? When I went back to the school another teacher looked at me like I had been chugging Jack Daniels, “They won’t be back from the field trip for a few hours.” My heart sank. No, my heart fell out of my chest and dropped on the floor.
I drove 90 mph, crying like a redneck who missed the season premiere of Duck Dynasty. By the time I got to the farm the children were eating lunch. My son looked like a homeless child, being fed scraps from other parents. I was sobbing inside a barn. So, I was not only a negligent mother, but looked crazy.
I am not perfect, but I respect the Dewey Decimal System. I did not misplace a library book. I vividly recall my son placing both library books in his backpack. Unfortunately, there is no justice in the library system. It’s their word against yours. How do I know the librarian isn’t selling Superman books on the black market? Teachers are extremely underpaid. Can you wear tight pants and throw a ball? Great! You will be famous and earn millions of dollars. Can you spend hours nurturing my child teaching him important life skills like reading, counting, etc. while dodging germs and disciplining a student who carved F**k in the bathroom stall? Awesome, your paycheck will be on par with a Walmart cashier.
I wrote a check to pay for the book and get my son off library probation. He can continue borrowing books I have to force him to read and taking out movies that went straight to DVD. Perhaps, I will wind up eating crow when the book turns up in the minivan. Or, maybe, just maybe the librarian is meeting a guy with long fingernails, who attended Comic Con in the back alley behind the school.
My daughter turns 4 in a few weeks. I set a date, but have yet to plan her party. With my first child I planned a grand soirée every year. He doesn’t remember a single birthday party before age 5, but I threw down a chunk of change at Chuck E. Cheese. Oh yeah, I am a high roller. I walk into the Dollar Store waving bills shouting, “I got money to spend here.” My middle child had his first birthday party with friends in kindergarten. Someday, he will vent to a therapist about how he got the shaft.
I don’t bake homemade cakes anymore either. Of course, by homemade I mean adding water, oil and eggs to boxed cake. I made a very scary Elmo cake for my first born when he turned one. It looked like Elmo had been partying all night with Molly. Here are some cakes that are even scarier.
Lightening McQueen has run out of gas. A for effort.
What kid doesn’t want a fuzzy monster sitting on his cake
Mom should separate career and family.
This girl is on fire.
Much respect to this Mom who said f-it!
My 13-year-old devoured his breakfast, carried his plate to the sink and said, “You’re welcome.” I looked around to see who he was talking to. I was the only person left sitting in the room. I was the one who just made him pancakes. Why was he passive aggressively demanding a thank-you from me? “I put my plate in the sink for you,” he said. Pour Moi? Oh honey, you didn’t put that plate in the sink for me. You did it because it was your dirty plate. Does my name tag say Benson? After a brief lecture he washed that plate.
This encounter inspired me to write an open letter to mothers worldwide. Well, except those living in countries where women aren’t even allowed to show skin. You have a whole other battle to fight. I was sweating today wearing a t-shirt. I would die in a Burka. Is it too much to ask for a little brisk air in October? I live in New York State. If I wanted frizzy hair year round I would move to Orlando. Autumn is usually peri menopausal- friendly. What the hell is happening? To quote a friend, “We’ll tell our grandkids: In my day fall was for sippin’ hot cocoa not skipping over hot lava.” Anyway, here is my letter to mothers everywhere. Fingers crossed that Sinead O’Connor responds.
Please teach your son to change a toilet paper roll. There is nothing worse than going to the bathroom only to discover there is no paper to wipe. No woman should ever have to shuffle across a room, muscles tightened, to get a new roll. While you’re at it, show your son the difference between a decoration and a toiletry. Which one of these is photographed in a Pottery Barn catalog? A vase, candle holder or bottle of Right Guard? Deodorant, mouthwash, toothpaste, etc. may be returned to the appropriate drawer after each use. Force your son to put his dirty socks in a clothes hamper. It is in their nature to do the complete opposite. They will want to take off a pair of filthy socks and throw them to the ground. Without your guidance he will step over the dirty socks in the morning as if invisible. It is your mission to train him. Teach your son how to do laundry, dishes and vacuum. If you do everything for him now the
hussy woman he marries will suffer. Do you really want your future daughter-in-law to go through this, too? The tramp woman who steals marries your son deserves better.
A dying father who always hoped to see his daughter marry has been granted this final wish after a special ceremony was held in his hospital room. It is beautiful, yet heartbreaking. Watch the video. Then, read the full story here.