So I joined a gym. For the love of God.
The thing is, it's getting kind of dangerous for me to walk outside. In addition to being an enormous klutz with the grace of a small plane crash? It's cold. And dark when I get home. And icy. And you know I fell and hurt my knee when it was TOTALLY LIGHT and TOTALLY DRY outside. And I can't risk another knee and/or ankle injury.
Thus, I hauled my rear down to the gym, haggled a good deal, refused personal training by telling the guy I hate everyone, and now have a little membership card on my keys.
This gym offers free childcare and so I took the Boy and Girl Child over and filled out the requisite paperwork for them to be "watched" while I work out.
As I was filling out the forms the girl behind the counter looked at them and said, "I have to ask you a question. Are you their mom?"
I was surprised. "Yes, I'm their mom".
"Well I had to ask," she told me. "You have different last names".
We have different last names.
And probably like, 1/2 the kids in America have a different last name than their parents. Right?
So why was she looking at me like I was a freak?
I stared at her.
The kids stared at her.
She was in no way, not even remotely, embarrassed by this.
And you know? Neither am I. Not really.
Because yes, I had a marriage that failed. I was really young when it failed. For a very long time I felt like a failure because of it.
But I don't now.
Now I have a husband who not only loves me, but is good and decent and kind and loves my kids. We have a pretty good thing going on here. Even if we have different names.
We left the gym and as we were walking to the car I heard Boy Child say to Girl Child, "Why was that girl acting like it was weird we have different names?"
"I don't know," she responded.
"She's a douchebag," he said.
"Agreed," said she.
So. You know. If there's any doubt. They are totally, totally my kids.