Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Every now and then I get a pang of longing when I see a baby, but mostly? It's not bad. Infertility is a part of me, just like having green eyes or the scar I have on my face from where I ran into a barbed wire fence when I was a child. Just a part of who I am. Inconsequential.
Today? My infertility, my issue, my problem hits me in the face like a ton of bricks.
I feel empty inside. Hollow. Achy.
I also feel guilty. I have children. I'm "fortunate" enough to have secondary infertility. Plenty of infertile women don't get that chance at all and I am sorry for them.
But today? I'm sorry for me too.
Because I may suck at most things in my life, but I am one hell of a mother.
When my children were babies I was just trying to survive. I was just trying to make sure they had food and diapers. I was just trying to keep my head on straight. I was just trying to heal myself and my broken heart.
I wish I would have known that I would never get a second chance. I can't imagine being any more grateful for the children I have, but maybe I would have taken more moments to go to the park or bake cookies or catch fireflies. Now, I find myself with two children who are almost done with the fourth grade.
I find myself wondering where all the time has gone.
I can't change anything about this. I know that. Most of the time, I have resigned myself to the fact that being a mother again just isn't in the cards for me. That, for whatever reason, it's not meant to be. That there are a great many blessings in my life, but another child is just not ever going to be one of them.
But tonight I grieve a little bit. For what might have been.
And a little bit for me. For Jason. And for Boy and Girl Child.
Because the baby that I can't have?
Would have had one hell of a family.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
"Do you know how many people hate you?"
Me, pondering, "I don't know. How many people work here? About 150?"
It's sometimes good to be hated, you know?
Think about it.
I would have to be more worried if they DID like me.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Something I really want to happen is happening. I can't give all the deets right now, but soon I can.
But it's pretty cool.
And no, no one has offered me a book deal. Yet.
But still,the other thing? It's pretty cool.
And I? Am terrified.
I guess Big Jim would say that I'm so terrified because I don't expect good things to happen to me. That I am so used to things being craptacular that when something good happens? It freaks me right out.
Putting yourself out there like I try to do? It's not easy. In fact, it's pretty darn hard. When I started blogging I had absolutely no expectation that anything would happen or that anyone, ever, would read this nonsense.
But people do. And my "real" life is coming closer and closer to crashing into all of this.
And a huge part of me thinks, "WHO CARES". Because I'm honest, you know? I don't make stuff up. Sadly, this crazy stuff? It really happens to me. I am who I am and I don't know how to be anything else. And people seem to like me (with some obvious exceptions) when I am honest and when I am who I am. Because this blog? It's about as "me" as it can be. Most of the people I know in "real" life? Are not privy to this side of me.
And then? I read about Dooce who got fired. And then? I read recently about this chick who blogged about her ex-husband and never said his name or anything and he SUED HER. And it freaks me right out again. Not that my ex-husband is smart enough to brush his teeth, much less SUE anyone, but still.
It's out there.
Part of me wants to just throw it all out there, say the hell with it, and let the chips fall where they may. What's the worst that can happen?
And the other part of me? Knows exactly what the worst that can happen is. It keeps me up at night.
So that's my dilemma. And people who have normal families and things like parents who would be proud of them for fulfilling their dreams and stuff probably won't understand this, at all. And good for them, you know? I'm so glad that people aren't nearly as messed up as I am. It's not healthy to have this level of f'd upedness in your daily life.
I don't know why I'm writing this. I'm not really looking for help or answers or sympathy or hell, anything really. I just felt like getting this out today.
Just because it is what it is? Doesn't make it any easier.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
I have a pretty jaded view of interoffice relationships, for a number of reasons. That being said, I would be okay if they would happen for other people I work with. Everybody needs somebody, right? So what if that somebody is overweight and unattractive and have lots of paper cuts from all the shredding and collating and stapling they do? They have a job. And that's more than you can say for the majority of people on Match.com or whatever.
The men at my work who are single are mostly in their 40's. There are a lot of women in their 40's and maybe above who are also single. But the men seem to want to date the single girls. You know, the ones in their twenties.
And I? Think this is the direct result of watching reality television.
See, they see these dudes like Bret Michaels and Flavor Flav and think, "Oh. That's how it works. These guys in their forties have women in their twenties falling all over themselves to be with them. Clearly, this should work with me also."
But they are forgetting that a lot of those women will do anything to be on television.
And that those famous guys? Also have money.
And mansions. Which are probably supplied by Vh1, but whatever.
Oh and, you know, charm.
Okay, maybe Flavor Flav doesn't have charm. But he does have money. And fame, sort of. And apparently really potent sperm because he has like, 200 kids.
Maybe someday they will get that the lady who makes the coffee in the morning can be just as interesting as the girl with the boobies that are a bit more firm. The lady who makes the coffee in the morning has probably had a much more interesting life. She's been places, she's done stuff. And not just made coffee either...real stuff. She's probably traveled. She's loved and lost. She's probably even made grown men cry. And real grown men, not just drunken frat boys wearing hats that say, "Rock out with your Cock out".
They'd probably be happier with the coffee lady, at the end of the day.
But they'll just screw around and end up with no one.
And I will laugh at them behind their backs.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
I know. Amazing.
Do you have suggestions for good cooking blogs? I'd love to read some.
Friday, April 25, 2008
I've been keeping my schedule on track. It is important to me that I do so.
Earlier this week, a new unwiped anus was hired and he's been annoying the crap out of me. Because of his constant interuptions, I had fear that I would not be able to complete the schedule items which were due today.
Today, he came in and began his load of crap. "Do you have a minute?"
Well, a minute in his time is like a minute during professional football. It's actually like, six and a half hours and then John Madden starts talking and you just want to shoot yourself in the ears before it's all over with.
So I said, firmly, "I have ONE minute. I'm busy working on this. Which is due TODAY. So I can stay on SCHEDULE."
He then sat down and began to QUIZ ME ON WHAT I WOULD SAY TO AN AUDITOR.
After five minutes of his rambling, I said, "I wouldn't say anything to an auditor. I'm not the manager and I don't get paid to deal with that. And, not to be rude, but didn't I mention to you already that I have to do this TODAY? And I'm right in the middle of this and I'm not going to get it done if you don't stop quizzing me."
And holy crap you guys. He stopped talking! He stopped quizzing me! It totally worked.
I hit the send button at 3:20pm, safely delivering my scheduled items to the appropriate individuals.
I'm cool like that.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
A while back I had applied to this Craiglist posting which said it was looking for bloggers who could write about parenting and family and relationships and whatnot. I responded to the Craiglist ad and then forgot about it. If memory serves (and it may not because I check every single Craiglist board for the entire country and apply to anything I might be remotely qualified for in relation to writing) this particular ad asked you to list your blog or blogs, if you currently had one.
So I did.
I'll spare you the entire letter, but this gem just screams to be posted:
"Unfortunatley in today's society everyone with an blog thinks they are a writer. Ma'am, you are many things, but you are not a writer."
I wonder what those things are? They can't even SEE my hot ass on this blog, so that can't be it.
I responded, "Thank you for your consideration" and the email bounced back.
Seriously? Didn't I say I was going to write a book of all my rejection letters? Because this one is so LOLtastic, it's going to have to go into the book.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
We only saw two other people the whole time. One was a shirtless man who was running, but did manage a friendly, "Hello!" as he passed. Another was a girl on a bike who not only managed a hello, also commented on what a cute dog I have.
It was much better.
Also? Even though it's on a trail, it's a greenway and there are paths that go many different ways. We took a tough path and climbed up a hill. It was hard, but it made me feel good. Like maybe I can do something. Like there ain't no mountain high enough to keep me from...I don't know. You.
Boy Child said, when we were almost done, "Remember that woman yesterday, mom? Who was talking about your a-s-s?"
So he had heard. Hmm.
"Yep," I said.
"Here's how she was," he jutted his stomach out so he looked about sixteen months pregnant and then began dragging his feet as he trudged along.
"Ooh! Look at me!" he mocked. "I'm feelin' the burn! I've burned one carb! Now I'm going to Taco Bell and get a Nacho platter!"
I suppose I should have told him that it's not nice to make fun of people. That even if people are bitches to us, we should be a bigger person and suck it up and not let it bother us. That, clearly, those women had some self-esteem issues.
But I didn't do any of that.
I laughed until my sides hurt.
I'm probably going to hell.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
It was crowded. Lots of walkers. Lots of kids playing ultimate Frisbee. Lots of kids on scooters although huge signs clearly stated, "NO SCOOTERS OR SKATEBOARDS". Whatever. If their parents are standing right there watching them not turn out? Nothing I can do about it.
Boy Child and Girl Child and I started around the track. Already walking on the track were two ladies walking together. Okay, "walking" might be a strong word. Basically, they were trudging.
But, okay, fine. That does not bother me. Actually, I thought it was pretty darn great. Because they were larger women. And I? Am a larger woman. And I think it's important to get out there and exercise no matter how fat you are. You know? Because you might lose weight if you exercise. And even if you don't? Well, you can be healthy. And that's good. Right? Okay!
So I'm feeling good. Like, "Yay! Fat people are exercising! We're all in this together! We're working our bodies so that we can all be healthier and fit!"
Then, I lapped them. I knew it would happen because I was, you know, walking. And they? Were trudging.
I smiled as I passed them and said the standard thing I say, "How are y'all?"
They said nothing.
Until I was about 30 steps ahead of them and then one said to the other,
"DID YOU SEE HER ASS JIGGLE?"
Clearly, I thought, I must have something crazy in my ear. Because, you know, I have a big ass. I know this. It's not a secret or a surprise. But these ladies? Well, they had about the equivalent of five asses. And I could not BELIEVE that someone with the equivalent of five asses would talk smack about me and my jiggly ass.
So I kept walking.
And then the other one said,
"I KNOW! IT'S BOUNCING EVERYWHERE!"
They were talking. About my ass.
I turned around and gave them a look which clearly said, "Oh no you DID NOT just talk smack about my booty."
And they? Smirked at me.
SMIRKED AT ME.
The only thing that kept me from yelling, "HEY FIVE-ASS EUNICE! YOU ARE ONE TO TALK!" was because I had the children with me. And I'm a Girl Scout and we don't do crap like that.
I mean, I know women can be bitches to each other. I see this all the time in my own life. But really? I mean, REALLY? It makes them feel better to call me fat? Honestly?
I finished my walk, got my gas, and went home. Five-ass Eunice was still trudging along.
I hope it works for her. Really I do. Maybe if she loses weight and gains some self-confidence she won't be such an unmitigated anus.
Monday, April 21, 2008
I had to review this book.
No, no one forced me. I read the description and I absolutely HAD TO REVIEW THIS BOOK. Because just based upon the description? Mama Rock was not only going to be my best friend forever, she was going to be a mentor, an inspiration, and the type of mother I aspire to be.
Rose Rock, the book's author, might have a familiar last name. She is the mother of Chris Rock, the comedian. And a whole lot of other children who are equally mentioned throughout this book. Ten kids. Seventeen foster children. For that reason alone? The woman is a hero.
Then? I read the book. And oh my gravy. I love her.
Rose Rock's advice is very simple. None of it groundbreaking. None of it is amazing. And perhaps? That's the most amazing part of it. Because it IS so simple. Because it IS common sense. And because it IS WHAT A LOT OF PEOPLE NEED TO HEAR.
There are ten lessons that Rock gives for raising a household of successful children. I won't tell them all, because I really think you should buy this book, but some of my favorites were:
-Don't Lie Down with Anything You Don't Want to Live with Forever.
I mean, how simple can it get? Don't freaking sleep around!
-Feed them and They Will Tell you Anything.
Eat with your kids! All together! At the table! It's not rocket science!
I love how the book was woven with personal stories. Rock relates a story of not having the money for a special Thanksgiving lunch at school and how her teacher shamed her for it. I felt tears coming to my eyes for this proud little girl, who became a wonderful woman and teacher. I, also, believe strongly that shame is not a motivator.
I loved the special recipes she gave for biscuits (I make them the same way!) and Smothered Chicken. She talked about her late husband with respect and love. The recounting of his memories? Absolutely beautiful. A true love story, within a book about motherhood.
I really wish I could give a copy of this book to numerous friends of mine, who are new mothers. And some who have been mothers for a while. And heck, some people I see at the park who's children are clearly on the path to not turning out. I think often we get caught up in trying so hard to be friends with our children and respect our children's feelings and all to often we see the children on Maury Povich and those crap shows being disrespectful and acting out because we as parents are afraid to hurt their feelings or we want them to have more than we had when we were children. No one can guarantee how any child will come out, but we can certainly have dinner with them. We can know their friends. We can make sure they know they are loved and cared for, and we can redirect them when they are wrong.
I love this book. I. Love. This. Book.
I would highly recommend this book to anyone you know who is a mother or who wants to be a mother. Maybe they aren't a new mother. Maybe, like me, they've been practicing this for a while. It never hurts to have a refresher. This book is so worth reading.
You can buy the book here. It would make an excellent Mother's Day gift.
And see what other mom's are saying at MotherTalk.
New post is up at Scrivel today!
Don't call CPS on me y'all after you read it, okay? Thanks much.
I'll have an actual post later today, because I reviewed this really awesome book and I can't wait to tell you all about it. But for now? You get this.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
No one had a blog in 1998. Sure, there were lots of websites and I had one. And it? Sucked. It was dreadful. It's no longer in existence, anywhere, and if it were? I would not link to it now. Because it was that bad.
Because really? At that time? All I could define myself as was a single mother of twins.
Don't get me wrong. I'm glad that I was that. Being a mother is the best, best thing I've ever done or ever will do. I am glad now, though, that I don't define myself entirely as a mother. Or a wife. Or as someone who had premature babies. I am all of those things and I'm damn proud of all of it. But I'm other things too. And starting the blog when I did? Let me focus on the other things sometimes.
It would have been helpful to have the blog then, though. Because my memory completely sucks butt.
I mean, certain days I can look at pictures and easily tell when it was.
Clearly, this was Passover.
But other days? I mean, I have a vague idea, but I'm not sure.
Take this photograph, for example.
I am fairly certain there is an absolutely hysterical reason he was doing this. But can I remember what it was? Of course not.
And look how hilarious Senorita Sassypants looks here. And I don't even know why.
Sometimes I wish I could remember. How it was then. Just the three of us, trying to make our way in the world.
No use looking back, I suppose.
Except every now and then.
It reminds me of how far we've come.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Because I couldn't remember if I posted yesterday.
No. I'm not kidding.
I read somewhere recently that people who are serious bloggers eventually stop blogging because they want to. Somehow it crosses the line and becomes something they need to do. Like they carry notepads with them to jot down ideas and think about it all the time and probably wake up in a panic because they can't remember if they posted yesterday.
I'm so screwed y'all.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Me: No. Not next month.
Boy Child: Next time we go? I'm going to ride Space Mountain until I totally hurl.
Me: Yeah, me too.
Boy Child: And then? I'm going to get on the teacups and spin around really fast until I hurl!
Me: Well, you can do that yourself.
Boy Child: And then? I'm going to go to the hall of Presidents and yell, "Hey Andrew Jackson! WHATEVER!"
Me: How about hurling? Are you going to hurl on him?
Boy Child: Maybe.
Me: I was just sensing a theme.
Boy Child: I can't wait until we go again!
Me: Yeah. I know. Next time I think we should fly though.
Boy Child: Fly? Why?
Me: Well, it took us about twelve hours in the car because of all the stupid, horrible drivers. In the plane? It would take an hour and a half.
Boy Child: Aww. I'd rather drive.
Me: Boy Child. You'd rather spend twelve hours in a car instead of an hour and a half on a plane? Are you on crack?
Boy Child: No. It's just...when we go on long trips? You talk and sing and laugh the whole time. It's so fun.
He won't think so when he's fourteen, I'm afraid. But for now? I'll take it.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
I want to teach my children right and wrong and that gray area in-between. I want them to grow up and one day say, "My mom? She kicked ass and took names and while now, I am a successful, self-sufficient individual? I am really pleased with the time I got to spend with her."
Or something. I don't know.
That being said, when my husband behaves in a boneheaded manner? I think it is my personal responsibility to politely point it out to my son, so that he does not think it is acceptable to behave in a boneheaded manner.
Take this weekend. Jason wanted to go out to eat. I was fine with this, surprisingly. Normally, I don't like to eat out. I hate crowds and, well, people. I don't like to not wear pajamas if it's the weekend. I just feel like my weeks suck so freaking bad that it is not only my right, but my responsibility, to lay around like third base all weekend long.
But I agreed. Because frankly? I didn't feel like cooking. Or deciding what to cook.
So he wanted to go to a pizza buffet. One that is somewhat known for having three hundred unruly children running amok and parents who could give a crap. But, okay, fine. We hadn't been there in seriously about a year, and the kids like it, and they have a salad bar, so I was sure it would be fine.
It is instead? A madhouse.
We managed to find a table and had to ask someone to clean it off for us. It's crammed in the back corner of the place and a woman with a child who appears to be two years old and two young men who appear to be about fourteen come and sit next to us.
I mean, literally. Right. Next. To. Us.
And the woman? Has a really bad staring problem.
People stare at me. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because I'm a big fat-ass. But I kind of doubt that because that lady wasn't exactly thin or anything. Maybe it's because my hair rocks. But I kind of doubt that too, because she obviously did not have an appreciation for good hair based on the pubic-looking nightmare which was all over her head.
I really think it's because I...get ready, this is groundbreaking...actually talk to my kids like they are people.
I know, right? Shocking.
I think she was pretty jealous that those two fourteen year old boys were ugly and rude and ignored everything she said and my kids do things like, you know, act right.
So anyway. This is a self-serve place and the cups are really freaking small. I ran out of drink pretty quickly.
So did Jason. And he went and got himself another drink, but did not get me any.
I know. I know. Not earth shattering. He's not awful. He's not terrible. He's not the WORST HUSBAND EVER!
He's fine. But he should have gotten me, his wife, a drink. Or at least offered.
So this is a teaching opportunity for the Boy Child, clearly. I waited until Jason came back to the table and I said,
"Boy Child? Do you see that your mother is out of soda?"
"What would be the polite response to your mother if she was out of soda?"
"Mom? Can I get you another soda?" asked Boy Child. Meanwhile, Starey McMoronPants next to us watched. Mouth agape.
"Certainly," I said. "And Boy Child? If you were having dinner with your grandmother and she ran out of soda, what would you say?"
"Imaginary Grandma," he said. "Would you like another soda?"
"Good," I said. "And if your sister ran out of soda?"
"Girl Child, since I am getting more soda, can I get you another one too?"
"Good," I said. "Basically, anytime you are dining with a lady and she runs out of drink, you should always, always, always offer to get her some more. ESPECIALLY if you are getting yourself some."
Then, noticing that the woman next to us was COMPLETELY NOT MINDING HER OWN BUSINESS I added,
"Unless it's a lady of the night. You shouldn't be dining with them. Not here anyway. They only like Shoney's."
Because, frankly? Stare-Ann Starepants looked like she could use some education too.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
3) Eleven! I SAID ELEVEN!
4) I'm telling you, I didn't say that.
5) I think she was a showgirl.
And? My personal favorite:
6) We didn't even dance at our own wedding!
I have no idea what the boy dreams about. But it's pretty amazing, clearly.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Seriously. If you have something going on in your life which is vexing you considerably? Just stop caring about it. It's great.
Like me? I want to be a writer. So I wrote a novel.
I've been trying to get my work published before I finished the novel. I write articles and columns and short stories and just, everything. And people just reject it all the time. Like, everyday. Constantly.
So now, I have this novel and I'm going to try to get it published. And some people I know told me that I have ovaries of steel or whatever for doing that and I you know what I realized?
I. Just. Don't. Care.
If twenty people reject it, I'll send it to twenty-one more.
If it's good enough, someone will want it. It might take ten years, but someone will want it.
If it's not good enough, I'll write something else. Know why?
BECAUSE I DON'T CARE!
Maybe the ragweed and pollen is making me high today, but seriously? I feel good. I don't care about rejection. I know I'll get rejected! I totally know it.
All I care about is that I'M FINISHED WITH THE FREAKING NOVEL and I'm sending it.
I'm sending it y'all.
And it feels good!
Monday, April 14, 2008
Typically, I enjoy various incarnations of the Celebrity Fit Club theme. Largely because none of them are really celebrities (I had never, ever heard of one of them) and also, it's about one of the topics that is always on my mind: weight loss.
Okay, not really. It's about people being crazy and crying and acting a fool.
Either way. I still like it.
Until this weekend? Joanie? From Happy Days? Who is like, maybe 125 pounds TOPS so I have no clue why she's even ON this show? Faked an orgasm on the bus. Because she was drunk off her hiney and possibly on smack. I'm not sure, but is now burned into my memory forever. And not in a good way, like your wedding day or whatever. In a really, really bad soul-sucking horrific kind of way.
So, I have to ask.
What the damn hell?
You've said a million, billion times that you grew up in a really strict household. You were punished for trick-or-treating. Your family was weird. They were mean. They sucked.
So what do you do? You, at nearly FIFTY YEARS OLD, get on the "Celebrity Fit Club" bus, drunk off your skinny-ass and FAKE AN ORGASM.
And, bless her heart, she didn't even do a good job faking. I totally didn't buy into it, at all.
I swear. I think she's on some sort of illegal substances. I really hope they get her onto the next edition of "Celebrity Rehab".
Because that's what she needs. I bet even Scott Baio thinks so.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
It's really nice.
So the other day I was at the market and I had a coupon for tampons. Girls need tampons. So even though I didn't need them THAT DAY, I went ahead and bought them. It turned out that the best value was the SUPER AMAZING MEGA-LARGE LOOK-AT-ME-I'M-BUYING-SANITARY-PROTECTION package.
Of which, I bought two.
I brought them home, set the bag down, and forgot about them.
Until today when I went into the bedroom to hang up some laundry? And I kind of thought to myself, "It's dark in here"? So I went and opened up the curtains in the bedroom to let a little light in and what did I see?
Yep. That's my tampons. On top of my scrapbooking supplies.
I didn't even ask him why. I didn't say, "Jason? Are you under the mistaken impression that I make tampon crafts?" I just left them there.
Because, frankly? He probably has a reason that made complete sense in his head. And I'm not sure I'm old enough to handle it.
New post up at Scrivel today! Go show me some love!
Saturday, April 12, 2008
1) Several lovely people have emailed asking how the cooking is going.
Well. Let me just tell you. Fabulous.
In fact! Even! Boy Child, has brought his reading grade up to a "B". Because he reads cookbooks every night to figure out what we can try next.
Oh and the fried chicken?
2) Recently I took a bunch of girls to Dollywood.
4) I love this dog:
But you knew that already, right? If not, here's proof:
My daughter is a brilliant writer. She writes amazing stories and tells funny, funny jokes. Helpful little thing too. She often writes grocery lists for me. She's really just a delightful child and does really, really well in school with the exception of one thing.
Can you guess what the one thing is?
I bought apples. But I totally knew what she was getting at.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Thursday, April 10, 2008
I can't talk about my blog. Jason mentions it from time to time ("How's that blog thing going? Still enjoying that, hon?" Yeah). I can't talk about it at work, for reasons which are probably apparent. It took me forever to even mention it on an MSN board to which I have belonged for five years (and they already knew anyway). My sister knows, and reads, but no one else in real life. No one. That I know of anyway.
So I'm talking to Big Jim on Tuesday and he says, "I cannot imagine someone knowing you, really knowing you, and not knowing that you write."
And that was all it took, you know? I was crying. Because that? Hurts like hell.
Because it's so true.
Imagine the best thing in your life. The thing you love. The thing that makes you happy. The thing that brings you peace and joy and fulfilment. And then imagine you can't share it with anyone, because you know they will be critical and negative and ruin it for you.
It sucks just as much as you might imagine.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
It used to be a trailer, but my dad built around it and made it into a house. It was on crawl space. It was a yellow house. The screen door on the front was brown. There was a deck on the back of the house. It went all the way around from the back door to the sliding glass door in the living room. It wrapped around the house like a hug. My dad built that deck one summer.
In the backyard we had a creek and woods. We had blackberry bushes that bloomed in the summertime. When I was about nine or ten we had a pool. Above ground, but we were still the most fancy of all of our neighbors and relatives.
I lived in that house when I was a little girl.
I went to Elementary school with a bunch of kids who were about the same as me. Every year, kindergarten through fifth grade, it was the same group of kids. We would be shuffled around a bit, sometimes, as there were three teachers in each grade. But it was the same group of kids, always.
I went to Middle school with the same group of kids. A new group of kids came in too, from another Elementary school. They became part of our group of kids. We all went to school together from sixth through eighth grade.
I went to High school with the same kids. All of us, now, and then another school came together. We moved in and out of groups and made friends with the kids from the rich school, but we were all in it together. We went to school together, a lot of us, for thirteen years.
I don’t see any of those kids anymore. I’m sure they have kids of their own now…families, lives, jobs. In my mind they are still all eight years old and we are on the playground. I am saying to Jason Lawson, “Do you know it says piss in the Bible?” Andy Edison is bringing his E.T. toy out of his locker to show us what he got for Christmas. Elizabeth Williams has those long, beautiful braids just like Laura Ingalls in Little House on the Prairie. She eats Pepperoni bread for lunch, though. She tells me to name my new doll Lucy.
Most of them would not remember me, I’m sure. I’m a non-entity to most of the people I know currently, much less people who knew me more than twenty years ago. But I remember them. And mostly? I remember us. The wonderful feeling of having a group of people who know all about you and think you are nice or good or kind.
My children went to kindergarten in North Carolina. They went to first grade in one school in Tennessee and second, third, and fourth grade in another. I am contemplating, now, taking them to another state for fifth grade.
I don’t know what it’s like to move a lot. I never moved as a child, with the exception of moving on our own land when I was fourteen. We built a house but we didn’t really move. My children have comfortably settled into a routine here. They have friends. They have their after-school program. They are “the twins” at school and I think they like that. That identity. That feeling like they belong.
Now, as an adult, I am aware of how the people I grew up with don’t technically matter anymore. I don’t think of them and I’m sure they don’t think of me. We’ve all moved on. We have our lives. We have kids. We probably never think of that little school…well, hardly ever. We hardly ever think of those people anymore. The fact that we had a bond and we had the same people we could count on, love or hate, for thirteen years doesn’t seem very important now, at the age of thirty-two.
But it was very, very important when I was a little girl, on the jungle gym with Wendy and Elizabeth and Andy and Chris. I never realized how much so, until now.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Monday, April 07, 2008
Why? I don’t know. Maybe because I realized I was kind of lazy and needed to do something about it. Maybe because I finally stopped betting on the Prince to show up on his white horse and pay all my bills and buy me copious amounts of gifts and just generally take care of my fat ass while I lay around like third base and had a baby every year. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s the Lexapro.
Whatever it is, it works. I am an extremely motivated person. As much as I love sleep, I hardly ever do it, because I’m so busy, busy, busy. I like television, but while I’m watching it I’m doing other things; writing budgets, clipping coupons, searching online for more work to take on, writing my book. I never, ever stop.
As my to-do list for the day spilled over into tomorrow, I started thinking.
Why in the hell am I doing this?
Because really? I’m failing pretty spectacularly at almost everything these days.
I get through the day, you know. I walk around with my head held up. I make it to work, on time. I’m usually smiling, even. Sometimes, I even do the right thing, like when I tell a little girl she’s not fat or I laugh when my kid does something insane instead of getting mad and yelling and making both of us miserable.
Inside, though? I’m a big fat mess.
I become more of a mess every day when I get another rejection letter in my email or my mailbox. Sometimes I write something and I think, you know, this is actually good. This is okay. If someone else wrote this, I would read it and laugh. Sometimes I get really nice comments and really nice emails from really nice people and it makes me feel like maybe this isn’t outside of the realm of possibility.
And then? I get smacked back down to reality. Rejection letters are arriving. Almost daily now. Every day I get reminded that I’m not good enough.
Really. What's the point?
Sunday, April 06, 2008
He thought that was kind of funny. I figured she probably couldn't remember my name. (Which is fine...she's kind of old)
But...am I still a bride? We've been married almost five years.
Maybe I want to still be a bride. Especially if it means people will send me gifts. Oh, and cake. Definately cake.
Saturday, April 05, 2008
Like, sometimes? It's the side of your little face. Your dimples. Your lips.
Sometimes it's the way you laugh.
Honestly? Sometimes it's the way you struggle with certain things.
And how dark...how black your hair is.
Most of the time, it's nothing at all. Most of the time, for real, I don't even remember that he ever existed. It's like he was never there, was never a part of our life. I can't, even while trying, remember what he looks like.
But then sometimes? It all comes back to me.
Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it hurts really, really bad. Sometimes I think back and I wonder what might have been.
I'd do it all again. Because the broken road led me to this life.
Friday, April 04, 2008
Boy Child, agreeing: "It's true mom! They say crap almost as much as you."
Chick: "I'll totally have to step up my game!"
Girl Child: "Know what else? They say LARD-ASS."
Chick, being wildly inappropriate as usual: *hysterical laughter*
Boy Child: "So?"
Girl Child: "It's a BOOK. You aren't allowed to curse in books, brother. It's against the law."
Chick: "It's not against the law, Girl Child."
Boy Child, in wonder: "Ass is a curse word?"
Thursday, April 03, 2008
a The homeworks is stupid.
e Them homeworks is stupid.
l Our homework are stupid.
b The homework is stupid.
So he would pick "b". Because the Boy Child? Are not stupid.
Anyhoodle, the final sentence:
"Grin and bear it"
(There was a bear on the page. That's probably important)
Boy Child looked confused.
"What does that mean...grin and bear it?" he asked.
"Oh, you know," I said, "Like, smile even though you think it's bad or wrong or dumb or whatever."
His entire face lit up with recognition.
"Yes! Yes! Grizzly bears do that all the time!"
"No," I said. "This isn't really about bears son-"
"Sure it is! Grin and BEAR it! Get it? And those grizzly bears...or maybe it's black bears? Black bears, mom, they are smiling ALL the time!"
"Really son? REALLY?"
He nodded, wisely and asked:
"Wouldn't you smile if you got to rip people up for a living?"
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Good to know.
When I gave birth to Boy and Girl Child their sperm donor was long gone. But we were still legally married and I was so dreadfully ashamed of having been left by my husband while I was pregnant and whatnot so Boy and Girl Child have that asshats last name.
I didn't change my name after I got divorced either. I wanted the three of us to have the same name. I figured it would cut down on the questions like, "You have two infants. Where the hell is your husband?"
(It didn't. It was just what I thought)
I was glad to change my last name when I married Jason. Our last name is pretty unusual but it's a nice name. I like it.
I do not like my children's last name. I did not like it when I married that douchewad and I don't like it even more now.
When I was in Kindergarten there was a little boy named Jamie in our class. He was an unmitigated ass. As an adult, I can look back on this person and realize that he probably had a really horrible family life and home and that's what made him act out in the ways he did. At the time, though, at age 4-5? I just thought he was so horrible.
One day Jamie came in to school and announced that his mother had married a man named Willis McCooterface (not really, I can't remember the man's name). Jamie further informed us that we were all to immediately begin referring to him as Jamie McCooterface.
The teacher insisted on calling him Jamie Vonbadboy. She refused to call him Jamie McCooterface.
I don't remember everything that was said. It was nearly thirty years ago. But I do remember, vividly, that they were shouting at one another. The teacher kept insisting that was NOT HIS NAME. He was sobbing, shrieking, flailing about on the floor, SCREAMING that she MUST CALL HIM JAMIE MCCOOTERFACE.
He had to go to the Principal's office. I remember that too.
Perhaps teacher's now are a bit more tolerant of blended families than they were in 1980. I don't know.
We've talked a lot about changing Boy and Girl Child's names. They insist they are part of the Ourlastname family. We don't do it because it would require contact with the sperm donor. I do not want contact with the sperm donor. My husband does not want contact with the sperm donor. Most importantly? My children do not want contact with the sperm donor.
They insist they will change their names legally at age 18. If they do, they will graduate under Ourlastname. It will be like they never had the sperm donor's last name at all, in terms of education.
But there will be other things.
Is a name that important? I just don't know.