People You May Know

Originally written on April 29, 2015-

Yesterday, I was browsing Facebook from my phone.  Skimming posts containing updates of riots in Baltimore, what everyone was having for lunch, crochet patterns and clever memes with The Most Interesting Man in the World, when my eyes met her face.  There she was – smiling with her mouth partly open, some bearded guy at her side  - under the title of “People You May Know” – my ex husband’s mistress. 

It’s been close to 5 years since I first encountered her name.  It’s been a good long time since I gave her a thought.  I have been happily rid of her and the object of her desires for quite a while.  There was the time she followed me on Pinterest.  Then the time when I was pitching my ex’s leftover possessions from my new home and some things she had given him were in the boxes.  Fortunately, most of her memory has been eliminated from the minds of my children as well.  (Unless we are talking about why The Middle Son despises his father and his plans to change his last name when he is old enough and why he doesn’t want me to fix his birth certificate to reflect his “father”.)  The Youngest Boy was too young to retain many of those memories.  Mini-Me was just an infant.  The Oldest remembers, but she’s one of those things that is only of negative significance and has long since been healed. Like the blank spot left after a tooth has been pulled. You can run your tongue across it and remember the sensation but the pain is gone. 

Years ago, the simple sight of her brought me to tears.  She was the last in a long line of side dishes my then husband sampled.  The torment she brought to my soul and to our family was unspeakable.  Though, the responsibility lies solely on the shoulders of her boyfriend who was supposed to be faithful and put his family first.  Instead, he used her.  He played games with her.  He’d bounce in and out of our marital home while she was away at school and none the wiser.  I was the wife.  I was the pregnant wife.  She was the intruder.  I didn’t and don’t owe her a damned thing.  And he picked her.  I did make an attempt to warn her of what she was getting into.  I tried to spare her the shit storm that she was about to enter.  But, being all of 18 – she already knew more than my 33 year old self did. 

That’s a hard blow to take when you are pregnant and watching your 3 children cry on a daily basis over the loss of their father for reasons they were too young to comprehend.  Until you have walked that path, you don’t know.  You don’t understand what that pain drives you to do.  You have no idea how you will react.  You just know that you have a hand that you don’t know how to play.  It’s a feeling of repudiation.  I was good enough to create a child with but she was the one good enough to run to afterwards.  In my mind at the time, this was the most difficult fact to absorb.  It took a lot of growth and thought to come to the realization that this was not rejection.  This was taking the easy way out.  She was a child.  A teenager – and too immature to see what she was doing.  She thought she was being chosen, she thought she was adored, she thought she was loved.  She was just easier.  They could live in this little fantasy world of song lyrics and dreams of Paris vacations, comparing their relationship with The Notebook and Hollywood promises.  But reality was that he was a broke, married guy that abandoned his family for the first piece of ass that bought his lines.  She was just too inexperienced to see it.  I felt bad for her.  How low is your self esteem when you will accept this as a “prize” that you “won”? 

She went for my children.  She made my unborn daughter the butt end of some joke.  She sent a fake email to my ex, knowing I had his email password, where she stated how excited she was that he was going to take care of their baby, planning a nursery, and picking out baby names.  She wasn't pregnant. What kind of person does that?  If that was my daughter behaving that way – I’d be mortified.  It would probably play out similarly to the #MomOfTheYear in the current riots.  Being with the right person is supposed to make you want to be a better human.  Was that better?  I’ll never understand.  But I fought back the best way you can when you are losing a battle for what is rightfully supposed to be yours.  Eventually, he came crawling back home with his tail between in legs and in the most cowardly way possible.  He left her a note and was gone before she came home one night.  He ignored her texts.  He declined her calls.  And nothing about it felt like a win.  Nothing about it was right and I told him so. 

In spite of the wretched behavior she exhibited – coming to my home, telling my children to call her “mom”, playing mind games that only children play – I have come to owe her my most sincere thanks.  Thank you, Katie, for the sleepless nights, for the awful things you did, for the part you played in the crashing burn of my marriage, for the hits to my self esteem,  for convincing Ex Douchebag to stay gone, for convincing him to file the divorce papers, for all of the parts you played.  Boy, did it hurt at the time.  But in retrospect – It was the greatest gift you could have ever given someone.  It was so easy for him to go, it was so easy for him to choose you, it was so easy to keep him away – you showed us what he was really made of.  You exposed him for the person that he was.  I became stronger than I ever thought possible in the process.  I saw through my sham of a marriage.  My backbone was already pretty solid but this experience strengthened it more than I realized.  I learned not to settle for anything less than the best.  I learned that I don’t need help to raise kids or even give birth.  I found out what I was made of.  I grew patience and understanding that I didn’t know I was capable of.  I discovered who my true friends were.  And, the door opened between Darling Husband and me. We reconnected after 15 years during that time. That, in and of itself, made all of those painful things worthwhile. 

I offer my most gracious and sincere extension of gratitude to her, and her family.  From it came so much positivity and happiness that I almost can’t even express it with words.  Ex Douchebag and his terrible family moved back to Texas.  My children have the most incredible step-father that loves them, takes care of them, sets an example for, teaches them, and is always there for them.  I have the husband that I deserve – he works hard, he’s loyal, he’s loving, he puts family first, he’s honest, he’s trustworthy, and he makes me laugh every single day.  He is talented, sweet, thoughtful, and gorgeous.  From a terrible act came such tremendous love.  I’m not bitter or angry anymore (I will still tell it like it is).  I’m just grateful.  I hope that she grows up, finds real love, and never has to experience what she helped do to my children and me.  I hope that she loves herself more now than she did then.  I hope that she develops camaraderie with other women and never wants to compete against another one for the affections of a man (or for any other reason).  I hope that she does something good with this experience.  I forgive her.   

So, Facebook, I’ll pass on the suggestion.  We’re already familiar and that’s enough for me.  

Double Edged Sword

2 months ago exactly, The Youngest Boy got another trip to the ER.

This time it was different.

This time his status card moved from a Level 3 (reserved for such afflictions as the common cold and Nursemaid's Elbow) to a Level 1 (indicating something serious) in less than 10 minutes.

This time, he almost didn't get to come home.

But, in true The Youngest Boy-style, and a whole lotta good doctoring - He bounced back.

Parents - do yourselves a hugantic favor and learn the signs of an appendicitis.  Err on the side of caution and take your kiddos in.  My little guy wouldn't be on the couch crying every time he laughed if I had just listened to him.  At some point in the 5 days of complaints of pain with fever, vomiting, and diarrhea his appendix swelled so largely that it burst and then became infected.  That infection then filled his body and damn near killed him.  After 5 days in the hospital, he came home on a picc line.  Prior to the hospital trip, he couldn't stand, eat, or drink and looked like death.  I've been scared in my life.  I've been terrified in my life.  Nothing I've ever been through has ever held a candle to this moment.  The infection was very tough but my little The Youngest Boy is pretty tough too.  He fought back while ordering every item on the room service menu and cracking hilarious jokes in an uncomfortable hospital bed.  Making the best of every second and finding the joy in every moment.

Darling Husband and I were bedside for the first 48 hours.  Then, the remaining days , it was just me.  We did our best to calm fear, provide assurance, and comfort.  We couldn't afford to both take time off, so Darling Husband had to go.  The Youngest Boy remained in good spirits for most of it.  Though, there was a lot of pain and a lot of uncomfortable procedures.  I can't imagine a second away from him.  I would have felt like a failure.  Darling Husband and The Oldest held the fort down at home.  They cared for The Middle Son and Mini-Me and did grocery shopping and managed a visit that lifted our spirits high.  For Darling Husband, it was never a question.  He came through and didn't let us down.  Some incredible friends brought food and boredom busters.  The Youngest Boy's class made him cards that his best friend brought over to him.

On the first morning of The Youngest Boy's' admittance, I did the legally obligated thing and I notified his "father" (a term I will permanently use loosely and with aversion and contempt).  I tried his number.  Of course, no answer.  Texts to no fruition.  Then, I messaged his niece.  An hour later, he called back.  I explained what all was going on.

 "Well, keep me posted."

Seriously?  Keep yourself posted, asshole.  It's your son.  Make the effort.  But no.  This is how he works.  Always has been.  It's someone else's fault that he can't be here.  Everyone gets the blame but him.  Usually me.  And you know what?  I WILL OWN IT.  Damn straight we're divorced.  Damn straight I wouldn't let him use me.  Damn straight I wanted better for myself and my kids.  And we got it.

 I honestly don't care what his side is.  He doesn't get one.  The Youngest Boy is the only one who has a side in this.  He was scared and things were touch and go for a while.  And where was his "father"?  1,312 miles away. He only knows that he loves his daddy.  He just knows that he wanted all of us next to him knowing that we care.  He is just an innocent little boy that can only see the light and goodness in other people.  He is so pure hearted and loving that he doesn't see what an astronomical  piece of shit he is.  He has called a few times to talk to The Youngest Boy and Mini-Me.  He knows better than to ask for The Oldest or The Middle Son as they have felt the inevitable burn of his irresponsibility.

Yesterday, he finally was well enough to have the appendix removed.  We spent another night in another hospital room and my little guy starts another recovery.  Again, spirits high and jokes plentiful.  He's currently watching another YouTube video and playing Minecraft with his little sister.  And another night that the phone doesn't ring.  This time, it went unnoticed.

At 8 years old, he has suffered so much monumental disappointment with his "father" that he didn't even ask for him. He didn't notice the omitted phone call.  I just can't imagine being able to live with myself after letting this marvelous blonde haired, blue eyed cherub down in such a profound way.  Let alone having the audacity of making my Facebook cover a photograph of myself with my abandoned children.  And to have the grit to accept compliments on my parenthood skills?

Tonight, I got out the thesaurus - literally - to see if I could unearth the term for this unwordable word.  Notwithstanding my diligence - I am left empty handed.

My Adventures In Home Repair

Recently, I took a trip to the library to procure some literature on DIY Home Repair & Improvement.  My goal is to purchase this home in the next year and make it my own.  Home ownership comes with interesting challenges and the opportunity for a whole world of new experiences.  Being a newly single woman I've never done some of this stuff before and so I'm learning as I go.  I'm going to share with you some of the highlights of my "entertaining" moments.

1.  I opted to paint my 8 & 4 year old sons bedroom while they were with their father over winter break.  I'm the type of woman that needs to keep my hands busy when I'm upset.  I clean a lot when I'm angry or have something on my mind. My projects are equal to the magnitude of what's going on in life.  6 days away from 2 of my kids resulted in a 12 x 11 bedroom painted "Aruba" blue (2 coats), new posters purchased and hung, the set up of a play table & chairs as well as laundry sorted, folded and hung (for both boys).  And I did it by myself.  When painting anything, especially a bedroom, there are essential things that you need to know.  First, paint tape is a life saver.  It's pretty and blue and helps cover things you don't want to paint.  And it's the biggest pain in the ass.  Almost not even worth the hassle.  I do the trim, the light sockets/outlets, ceiling, around the door.  It would have been more effective if I'd have used regular masking tape.  The only difference was about $2 a roll.  I bought this nifty edge paintbrush that basically eliminated my need for this nonsense.  I discover this AFTER I'm done with the tape.  Ugh.  Second - Brushes are muy importante (hey, if I am going to be in the hardware section of any major chain hardware store as a Mexican I should be speaking the language!)  I chose some sponge pad type brushes as they cover a larger area more evenly.  Third - a paint stick.  FYI - An old spatula works just as good in a pinch.  And of course - PAINT!  Finally I suggest ventilation.  Sure, it says so on the side of the paint bucket.  But damn!  I was angry and I needed to paint and it's winter.  So I glossed over this little tidbit.  Boy did I pay the price.  For a week I sounded like Marge Schott.  New Kids on the Block and the Backstreet Boys are also critical to the process.  You must dance, step in paint and not realize it, and track your smooth moves ALL over your children's bedroom floor.  ;-)  I give it a simplicity rating of 4. 

2.  Toilets/drains.  I understand the purpose of a plunger.  Clogs happen and fortunately I know how to combat this problem!  So when I walked by the toilet in the bathroom in my bedroom and saw that the water was gone from the bowl I knew that there was a clog.  Can someone explain to me why I flushed it anyway?  Like somehow I was going to magically fix it with a flush.  HAHA!  The Oldest (my sarcastic 14 year old son) and I (holding my 4 month old daughter) watch helplessly as the toilet starts to overflow.  Calmly I ask the water to stop.  I said "Please".  I even used my sweet "give me what I want" voice.  But the water continued to flow.  Soon my bathroom was under an inch of freezing cold toilet water.  Then it ventured into the adjoining rooms - the other bathroom and my BEDROOM.  It even made it into my closet, under my dresser and bed... It wouldn't stop.  What the hell?  How much water is going to flow?  Seriously, doesn't it normally stop at some point?  Oh yeah - this toilet runs every once in a while.  So I take the lid off the back and go to jiggle the handle and some chain breaks.  Something tells me that this really isn't good.  It surely did not stop the water from continuing to flow in places it shouldn't.  At this point I just start getting acquainted with the inner workings of my toilet's guts.  Suddenly, as if to mock my feeble attempt at repair, a hose comes loose and goes into double time to continue to drench me in water.  By this time I have quite an audience - all 4 children are now in awe of the river that is taking over our home.  The Youngest Boy starts a dance.  The Middle Son begins the barrage of questioning the origins of the water, the timeframe in which the water is going to cease it's relentless flow and if I can make dinner now.  I love kids.  I am arbitrarily pulling and pushing thingamajiggy's in the tank and swearing at each one of them when they do not result in the immediate end of the flow.  Finally I found a whatsit that actually got the water to stop.  Trouble is - I have to hold it.  But I need to start soaking up the water.  And hold the baby.  And call someone.  I managed to wedge a small clothes hanger into the whateveritwasIwasholding and was able to call my landlord.  After using the words "sumthinerother", "thingy" and "hoogeemawhutsit" he determined that he was unable to walk me thru it over the phone.  A few minutes later his wife was at the door with their teenage daughter.  She contacted her husband and I was relieved to learn that she didn't know what the heck she was talking about either.  So she then called her brother in law who just gutted a toilet himself.  And a half an hour later he and his wife joined us in my teeny tiny bathroom.  For good measure the landlord himself came to help as well.  If we would have had a beer in our hands it looked much like a scene from King of the Hill complete with "Yep".  A short time later I was informed the the toilet was clogged.  In seconds the toilet was unclogged.  It was explained to me that this one thing came off this other thing and there's a trick to it if it happens again.  My intelligence quotient suffered several hits.  Difficulty rating of 714. 

3.  Doorhandles and the value of percussive maintenance.  The Oldest's bedroom doorhandle has been sticking as of late.  Sometimes it takes him several minutes to get out of his room.  I'd been meaning to repair that but I haven't gotten to this particular chapter in my Do It Herself handbook.  In the interim I ask him to just not shut his door.  So of course he closes it!  No screws on the outside of the door or handle.  Fortunately, the cat was NOT in his room leaving him free to shit on the hallway floor.  In a moment of not knowing what the hell else to do I just hit the knob with a hammer until it's head fell off.  It rolled to the floor and ceased to exist.  This may come as a shock to you but it didn't help.  Actually, it seemed to make matters worse.  The door really wasn't opening.  What's a girl to do?  You hit it again!  And again.  And again.  Take my advice - all the pent up aggression you have towards your vile, venomous soon to be former mother in law and give it to that dastardly doorknob that is obviously in cahoots with her.  Smash it.  It helps.  Okay - what it helps is NOT the doorhandle.  Sure, you *feel* better but the door is still not opening.  Compose yourself for just a minute and realize the humor of the situation.  You would have thought that the contents of the room were pivotal to the second coming of Christ with the way The Oldest acted.  My STB ex (who has been a complete doll lately) offers to walk me thru the process to get the door open.  I sent some pictures of my stellar accomplishment with my hammer and he responded with suggesting I put the hammer down.  And leave it there.  He offered to come by and fix it for me.  Sure, I should probably learn how to do this on my own.  But again, I'm not to the chapter that covers what to do with a doorknob after you've knocked the piss out of it.  However, The Oldest has other ideas.  Until about 4:30 a.m.  He chiseled at the doorknob.  I wake up to find a pen sized screwdriver, a kitchen knife, a phillips head screwdriver, a Nintendo DSi stylus, a pencil, the knife sharpener and my (now) bent hammer littering my hallway along with chunks & bits of the doorknob.  The door is still tightly closed with a smug look on its face as if waving a middle finger.  In between relentless hammering and stabbing of the doorknob The Oldest breaks for rounds on the Wii and Facebook and to bitch at me about the door.  And he hates living here.  Our old house didn't have broken doorknobs.  He never got locked out before!  Ugh.  I resigned to let Ex Douchebag fix the doorknob (which has evolved to a metaphor for his relationship with The Oldest) but The Oldest was determined.  26 hours later the doorknob succumbed to The Oldest's violence.  It was pronounced dead at about 3:00 p.m.  Decorative duct tape has replaced the doorknob.  Moral of the story: Don't get all medieval on a doorknobs buttocks.  Difficulty rating: 8 - mainly because I missed with the hammer a few times and got straight air and it made me look stupid. 

I'm sure more home improvement nightmares will fall into my lap.  Of course I will share.  Remind me to tell you the one about The Youngest Boy & the On Star.  :-)

It's Just Like Starting Over

Last Thanksgiving I spent with Ex Douchebag.  Boy was it a doozy.  I had received a call from his mistress' father informing me of his 18 year old daughter's affair with my husband just the day before.  I was still a little shaken up and hurt.  I had already known but hearing from the girls dad was just a little more than I was expecting.  But I spent the holiday with this gut feeling that it would be our last.  We conceived our daughter that night though.

Fast forward to a year later, 2010.  This was my first holiday feast prepared for on my own, without my husband.  Don't get me wrong - I had help if I wanted it.  My sister, my friends and the few slivers of family I have left all offered to help.  This was something that I just had to do myself.  It was empowering.  Little by little I have been taking back the control of my life.  Owning Thanksgiving was therapeutic.  I needed it for me.

After a struggle to get The Middle Son & The Youngest Boy to their dads (as in I struggled to get him to actually take them) I made a quick run to the store. After that I made it home to watch the parade and prepare the kitchen and the feast. The Oldest kept a watchful eye on a snoozing Mini-Me while I prepped the 22# bird we nicknamed "Evil Dr. Porkchop".  Naming the turkey has been a tradition of ours for years.  I feel that we should become acquainted prior to me shoving a hand up its carcass.  Sometimes we give him a back story too.  This year I made the mistake of purchasing an aluminum roasting pan from the Dollar Store.  A mistake that would prove to be near devastating later.  I plopped Evil Dr. Porkchop into the pan and gingerly placed his mass into the oven. As I slide the pan back onto the grate the cheap pan rips and I failed to notice until AFTER I started pouring in the water.  Well shit.  Water all over the inside of the oven.  Go me!  Here comes trip #2 to the store.  I purchased some oven roasting bags as a solution to the pan problem.  In my head I just figured I would throw the turkey in the bag and place it in the ripped pan.  It's not like the bag would explode or anything, right?  HA!

The Oldest and I watched his idol, Alton Brown, atop the turkey float dressed as a pilgrim.  It was fantastic.  I was a bit off schedule.  Normally, I would cook the turkey over night.  Unfortunately (or fortunately) I shut my alarm off at 1 a.m. and opted to wait til morning.  We did the veggie prep, made the deviled eggs and started working on the house cleaning as well.  I knock at the door revealed my biological mother (a paranoid schizophrenic) and her boyfriend, (a Romanian refugee) had arrived early to assist.  After several hours of prep and another trip to the grocery store it was time to poke Evil Dr. Porkchop.  I explained to BM's BF the joys and wonders of a roasting bag as he had never seen one before and he was intrigued.  The bag appeared to be full of juice and Evil Dr. Porkchop was smelling tasty!  The bag was so full that it was hanging over the side of the pan.  As I shut the oven door it happened.  Just then the bag touched the oven wall and melted.  The juices, containing butter, hit the heating element in the bottom of the oven and burst into flames.  I quickly turned off the oven and intercepted BM's BF carrying a large glass of water just before he tossed it onto the flames.  After several minutes the flames rose up thru the oven vent, out the door and screaming ensued.  Not mine mind you!  Finally the fire subdued and BM's BF & I managed to extract the turkey without incident.  To my amazement, damage was minimal and Evil Dr. Porkchop was done!  Imagine what would have happened had I done that in the middle of the night?

Honestly, I felt like I could overcome any obstacle in my way after that.  I went on to complete a meal for 12 people and dropped the laborious stuffing into the floor.  Ex Douchebag dropped the kids off at 6 and I looked at him for the first time with new eyes.  I didn't miss him. Or long for him to hold me again.  Instead, pity replaced love.  He looked worn, sad and pathetic.  I'm not sure how, after all I've been through, but I feel sorry for him.  I think the stress is taking it's toll on him.  And for once I don't feel responsible for causing it or fixing it.  So I sat down at the table, in my new dining room, by the fire, next to friends and family and didn't give him another thought.  I just kept thinking that I'm blessed beyond measure.  It's amazing what 365 days can bring.  Liberation, freedom and a new path full of anxiety and excitement. 

The moral of the story: Don't buy pans at the dollar store.  :-)

Til Death Do Us Part - or infidelity

I'm 32.  I have 4 children - 3 boys and a girl.  I've been with my husband for 11 years.  And 2 weeks ago - he sent me divorce papers.  Apparently, I'm not as fun as a teenager.  Grown up life proved to be too much.  He cheated, I cheated, then he cheated again and hasn't stopped yet.  He left December 11, 2009.  The boys and I have been left to deal with the ups and downs, cleaning up the messes and get on with life.  So this is me - getting on with my life.  Reluctantly.

My sons - The Oldest (14), The Middle Son (7) and The Youngest Boy (3) have been my reasons for carrying on and have provided solace when I didn't think it was possible.  The 4 of us have formed this little tribe - unbreakable and delicate at the same time.  In August 2010 we welcomed Mini-Me- my daughter- into the world.  So go- do the math.  Yep - he left 8 days after the "+" sign.  But hey - we're not the first ones to go through this and we surely aren't the last.  Together we have faced some interesting and frustrating obstacles.  I don't know where I'd be without them. 

My friends have been there for me at all hours of the night.  Helping me analyze every text, call, email, visit and communication over the last 10 or so months.  Up to now I'd never been the type to cry.  Let alone cry uncontrollably.  Definetly not the type to cry uncontrollably on people.  Oh and never in public.  Boy how things change.  Used to be a time where I was always right.  My gut was never, ever wrong.  It's been an adjustment!  Not only is my gut wrong but I've been more wrong than I have ever thought possible. 

Anyway - my family, friends, therapist and even soon-to-be ex husband always said I should write.  It's always been my dream.  I don't want to pen the next Angela's Ashes or anything, nor do I want fame & fortune (at least not until the divorce is final, haha) - I just want to get it out.  Sometimes it's funny.  Sometimes it's angry.  Sometimes it's torn, confused, hurt, tearful or astounded.  It's always something.  Maybe somewhere someone else will find this in the vast internet and get some inspiration.