When I was a little girl.. around 7 or so... my biological mother met a man who would change me. I was not just your average straight "A" student. In the 2nd grade I was promoted to 3rd. I was under evaluation for the gifted programs. I had a pink bedroom. I loved to dress up and look pretty. E.T. lived in my closet. Riding bikes was my favorite pastime. I loved Little House on the Prairie. My shoes always had to match my dress. My hair was brushed every day. I read my Bible every night. My "parents" made me feel like the smartest, most beautiful girl in the world. I'd had my share of rough patches but overall - I was the smart, pretty girl that everyone loved. And I felt worthy.
This man came along and wooed my (bio) mother. She hadn't been with anyone since my (bio) father left when I was 3. She was putty in his hands. Things moved rather quickly from there. Dates quickly became an engagement. The warning signs were there and my parents fought with my (bio) mom. They noticed hickies on my neck. Bite marks. All of a sudden I wasn't an outgoing little girl anymore. I stopped doing my homework. I withdrew. He liked to hit me a lot and call me names that I didn't understand. But he liked to kiss me too. I didn't understand those either.
My (bio) mother stopped letting me see my parents due to these fights. They fought for custody. Instead it ended with visitation every other weekend. Then my (bio) mom just stopped picking me up. One day during the summer of 1986 I was outside playing with my friends. I hadn't seen (bio) mom in a long time. Felt like ages when you are that little. I looked up and saw her smiling face. And I ran to her with no shoes on. Then she ran with me. He was in a car around the corner waiting with his green teeth and his crooked smile that made my stomach turn. I cried but it didn't matter. He made it very clear what would happen to me if my "wetback" mouth didn't shut up. I cried for hours anyway. He tied me to a chair in the living room of my mom's apartment that night. He beat me so badly that I stopped crying. Just so it would end. I don't know how long I was in that chair. My mom came home later and got me out.
Lots of days were like this. I was able to go home a few times. There were lots of fights. My parents - him - my (bio) mom - him - police..... It didn't matter. Nothing saved me. By this time I had a baby sister, Bean. She was beautiful. And squirmy. And I didn't know what to do with her but mom would have to work. So I took care of her. Our parents would send us toys and he'd sell them. They would call and he'd hang up. They'd come to see me at school but I wasn't there anymore. Angie was left in my arms a majority of the time. Looking back I can't remember how I did it. There are lots of memories there. None of which I think I can share. But I was smart enough to try to get help. Unfortunately, my voice wasn't heard in time. My sisters suffered. I suffered.
Several years later he served time in prison for what he did. A year. Seems rather short for stealing the innocence of 3 little girls. The damage was done. I shut down. I had nightmares where he was trying to rape me again. If I had a boyfriend I'd have flashbacks and get confused as to who was kissing me. Killing myself seemed like the only way out. I tried. My parents couldn't help. He came to our house once. He called often. In response I'd cut my arms. He stole my self confidence. He robbed me of my self esteem, my self worth. Even now - 25 years later- the damage is still at the surface. I still feel it. He got his karmic repercussions quite a bit over the last few years but nothing in comparison.
Have you ever taken a narcotic pain killer - for a toothache or some such malady - and actually felt the pain leave your body? You know, that instant that the pain you had is gone? That's what I felt when I read his name in the obituary section of today's paper. I'll never get back what was taken. But I'll sleep better knowing I no longer share oxygen with him. He will never lay eyes on my sisters, my (bio) mom, my kids - anything again. I may put on a pretty dress, make a nice dinner and pour a glass of wine and toast to FREEDOM.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
"Plese"
Yes, I am aware of it's misspelling. There's a reason for it and you will understand by the end. You know it means "Please".
When we say "please" we are usually trying to be polite and get something in exchange. We are taught from a young age (well, we should be at least) that it's the "magic word" and it will get you what you want. All you have to do is use it. I imagine that I say "please" about 100+ times a day. "[Youngest Boy], please don't wipe that booger on the couch" or "[Middle Son], please put on underwear" or "[Oldest], please stop making 'Your Mom' jokes with your brothers" to the generic "Please pick up your toys" and an occasional "Bitch PLEASE!". As a parent you want to instill politeness in your children. So you teach them to use it.
My kids are generally pretty good about using it. Most of the time it goes unnoticed or unmentioned and sometimes taken for granted. I'm probably guilty of not enough praise and a little more emphasis on the negative than I should. Guess it's part of parenthood. There are times where Youngest Boy will look at me with those big blue eyes and in his sweet, yet devilish voice and ask for an Uncrustable. I'll hold it in my hand and say "What do you say?" and he will respond with a "Please" knowing that satisfaction is just a word away. He will snatch it from my hand and skip off to some remote location of his room where he is not supposed to have food and consume it. His belly will be full - all because he said it.
Every time we go to the store the kids ask me for trips down the toy aisle. They don't necessarily want something (ok, who am I kidding?). They like to look and dream about toys I can't afford to give them. They start in with their insincere "please" fest. Begging me for 1 more godforsaken Beyblade or just 1 more Toy Story figure - I'll hear "please" no less than 712 times per child. Sometimes I feel bad because I don't have enough money to give them these little things. The way that they say "please" tugs at my heartstrings. But then I remind myself that I provide them with much, much more. Clothing, food, shelter, love, Eddie Izzard... you know, the important things.
On Monday morning my little Tabasco (the last nickname my dad was able to grant before he died) and Youngest Boy started their 6 day visit with their father. Mini-Me has been spared somewhat for now. Maybe a little longer if I can manage it. Middle Son has been having the worst time with the divorce. He was very close with his father. That closeness was lost over the last year that Ex Douchebag chose to stay out of his life. He has kind of clung to me in the process in ways that he hadn't before. We've bonded in a different way. He was apprehensive about this stay. He saw his father not only leave him and his 2 brothers but his unborn sister too. I can tell him that it'll be okay til I'm blue but actions have spoken much louder than words. He's not ever been away from me for more than a day or 2 since he was born. That's 8 years of togetherness. His lifetime. He and I have kept in touch through texting and calls. I got to see him yesterday for a few minutes at his therapy session. He looked down, withdrawn and sad. I wanted to hold him and run out the door to take him home.
Around 7:30 last night I got a text from him asking if he can come home. I explained that this was his time with Daddy and that he would be back in my arms in no time. I tried to tell him that this time apart was going to fly by and that he'll have fun, Daddy loves him and will take good care of him. In my mind I saw him standing there, in that hallway outside of his therapists door - with that sullen look on his face and the tears welling up in those precious brown eyes. I started to cry. He couldn't hear me or see me. But I felt for him. His fear, his anxiety - that hopeless feeling of wanting so badly to go home. For a minute I was in his heart - confused and scared. Several minutes went by and my phone emitted the "I like turtles" alert letting me know that I had an incoming text again. I looked down and next to his name and picture of his beautiful smile taken during a much happier moment and saw the painful pleading of a little boy who wanted his mommy -
"Plese"
When we say "please" we are usually trying to be polite and get something in exchange. We are taught from a young age (well, we should be at least) that it's the "magic word" and it will get you what you want. All you have to do is use it. I imagine that I say "please" about 100+ times a day. "[Youngest Boy], please don't wipe that booger on the couch" or "[Middle Son], please put on underwear" or "[Oldest], please stop making 'Your Mom' jokes with your brothers" to the generic "Please pick up your toys" and an occasional "Bitch PLEASE!". As a parent you want to instill politeness in your children. So you teach them to use it.
My kids are generally pretty good about using it. Most of the time it goes unnoticed or unmentioned and sometimes taken for granted. I'm probably guilty of not enough praise and a little more emphasis on the negative than I should. Guess it's part of parenthood. There are times where Youngest Boy will look at me with those big blue eyes and in his sweet, yet devilish voice and ask for an Uncrustable. I'll hold it in my hand and say "What do you say?" and he will respond with a "Please" knowing that satisfaction is just a word away. He will snatch it from my hand and skip off to some remote location of his room where he is not supposed to have food and consume it. His belly will be full - all because he said it.
Every time we go to the store the kids ask me for trips down the toy aisle. They don't necessarily want something (ok, who am I kidding?). They like to look and dream about toys I can't afford to give them. They start in with their insincere "please" fest. Begging me for 1 more godforsaken Beyblade or just 1 more Toy Story figure - I'll hear "please" no less than 712 times per child. Sometimes I feel bad because I don't have enough money to give them these little things. The way that they say "please" tugs at my heartstrings. But then I remind myself that I provide them with much, much more. Clothing, food, shelter, love, Eddie Izzard... you know, the important things.
On Monday morning my little Tabasco (the last nickname my dad was able to grant before he died) and Youngest Boy started their 6 day visit with their father. Mini-Me has been spared somewhat for now. Maybe a little longer if I can manage it. Middle Son has been having the worst time with the divorce. He was very close with his father. That closeness was lost over the last year that Ex Douchebag chose to stay out of his life. He has kind of clung to me in the process in ways that he hadn't before. We've bonded in a different way. He was apprehensive about this stay. He saw his father not only leave him and his 2 brothers but his unborn sister too. I can tell him that it'll be okay til I'm blue but actions have spoken much louder than words. He's not ever been away from me for more than a day or 2 since he was born. That's 8 years of togetherness. His lifetime. He and I have kept in touch through texting and calls. I got to see him yesterday for a few minutes at his therapy session. He looked down, withdrawn and sad. I wanted to hold him and run out the door to take him home.
Around 7:30 last night I got a text from him asking if he can come home. I explained that this was his time with Daddy and that he would be back in my arms in no time. I tried to tell him that this time apart was going to fly by and that he'll have fun, Daddy loves him and will take good care of him. In my mind I saw him standing there, in that hallway outside of his therapists door - with that sullen look on his face and the tears welling up in those precious brown eyes. I started to cry. He couldn't hear me or see me. But I felt for him. His fear, his anxiety - that hopeless feeling of wanting so badly to go home. For a minute I was in his heart - confused and scared. Several minutes went by and my phone emitted the "I like turtles" alert letting me know that I had an incoming text again. I looked down and next to his name and picture of his beautiful smile taken during a much happier moment and saw the painful pleading of a little boy who wanted his mommy -
"Plese"
Monday, December 20, 2010
Teaching Manners
While on a recent trip to the grocery store I discovered a product available in the Frozen Foods section - "Muffin Tops". This sparked my sometimes prevalent Runningoffthemouth syndrome that I have been plagued with all my life. Instantly, before I could control myself, the words just flew out of my mouth - "Your father must get these while his girlfriend is away at college to remind him of her." My dear Middle Son (7) and Youngest Boy (4) are little sponges. They will tell on anyone at anytime for anything. Once, I forgot to strap Youngest Boy in his booster seat while coming home from the grocery store. It was a 2 mile trip at best and nothing happened. But everyone we know and several that we don't are privy to this information. Because he doesn't have a mute button. Telling him not to repeat those things is not an option as I do not teach them to be deceitful. And if I'm going to teach them "personal responsibility" then I must, in turn, lead by example. I threatened to eat his soul once and he told his pediatrician. I must be accountable for my actions.
I dig myself deeper and deeper into a hole. On Christmas Eve they must spend a wretched 8 days with their estranged father and his homewrecking teenaged girlfriend. Though, we have a hearing on the 27th that may (let's pray) result in their immediate return home. I've talked this up to be a phenomenal experience for them in spite of my sheer and utter terror. But I'm still human. I still have anger. So I went on. I provided a list of things that my children should not say to or about the Pop Tart (totally void of nutritional value and there's a reason they come in two packs). I know, I know - I should be teaching respect and love and all that happy horseshit. But let's get real - the bitch thinks it's funny that he left me pregnant. I ain't Mother Theresa kids. I have a Mexican temper. And a big mouth.
The list consisted of the following:
1. Do not ask her when she fought Godzilla.
2. Do not point out that even at 9 months pregnant my behind was smaller than hers.
3. Do not tell her that you can hear her arteries screaming.
4. Do not offer her a breathmint.
5. Don't mention that she may or may not turn you to stone with a single glance.
6. Those unfortunate marks on her face are called pimples and pointing them out is rude.
7. Don't ask her if she should be eating those particular pastries.
8. Do not make beeping noises should she be walking backwards.
9. Do not tell her that you don't speak that dialect of Whale.
10. When she asks a question do not respond by barking.
11. Do not throw water at her in hopes that she melts.
12. Don't ask her what happened to her face. It's called make up and some women need a lot of it.
13. Don't tell her that she reminds you of something you read about in a Percy Jackson book.
14. If she falls do not tell her that a little more of California just fell further into the ocean.
15. Do not point out her resemblances to RuPaul.
16. Also do not point out that manatees cannot live out of water.
17. Don't suggest that she buy bigger pants.
So now that we have those bases covered I think we're safe, right?
I dig myself deeper and deeper into a hole. On Christmas Eve they must spend a wretched 8 days with their estranged father and his homewrecking teenaged girlfriend. Though, we have a hearing on the 27th that may (let's pray) result in their immediate return home. I've talked this up to be a phenomenal experience for them in spite of my sheer and utter terror. But I'm still human. I still have anger. So I went on. I provided a list of things that my children should not say to or about the Pop Tart (totally void of nutritional value and there's a reason they come in two packs). I know, I know - I should be teaching respect and love and all that happy horseshit. But let's get real - the bitch thinks it's funny that he left me pregnant. I ain't Mother Theresa kids. I have a Mexican temper. And a big mouth.
The list consisted of the following:
1. Do not ask her when she fought Godzilla.
2. Do not point out that even at 9 months pregnant my behind was smaller than hers.
3. Do not tell her that you can hear her arteries screaming.
4. Do not offer her a breathmint.
5. Don't mention that she may or may not turn you to stone with a single glance.
6. Those unfortunate marks on her face are called pimples and pointing them out is rude.
7. Don't ask her if she should be eating those particular pastries.
8. Do not make beeping noises should she be walking backwards.
9. Do not tell her that you don't speak that dialect of Whale.
10. When she asks a question do not respond by barking.
11. Do not throw water at her in hopes that she melts.
12. Don't ask her what happened to her face. It's called make up and some women need a lot of it.
13. Don't tell her that she reminds you of something you read about in a Percy Jackson book.
14. If she falls do not tell her that a little more of California just fell further into the ocean.
15. Do not point out her resemblances to RuPaul.
16. Also do not point out that manatees cannot live out of water.
17. Don't suggest that she buy bigger pants.
So now that we have those bases covered I think we're safe, right?
Friday, December 3, 2010
A Raw Nerve
Over the last few days I have noticed a FB phenomenon going around wherein FB users are encouraged to change their profile picture to a cartoon character in support of Child Abuse Prevention. Seems like a decent thing to do. I mean, who doesn't want to stand up and speak out against Child Abuse? No parent that I know would ever condone child abuse in any way, shape or form. If they do - well, I will report it if I am aware of it. So it's best not to call your child "retarded", "stupid", "moron" or any other derogatory name in my presence. Also, hitting (short of spanking which I equally consider deplorable) any part of a child's body other than a patoot with any other object or body part other than an open hand will also find you on the end of a phone call to the authorities. Why? Because I'm a bitch like that. I digress... I'm thrilled that for several days my friends etc. raise awareness of this crime. Kids are innocent little people that learn from us behavior that will carry them through life. In turn, our legacy lives on and on and on. Changing your pic isn't enough. (but a good start!)
I joke that I had 2 childhoods. One was a blessing from God. The other was a hellish nightmare that has plagued me in all aspects of my life since I was 7. Without going into great detail I am the victim of severe child abuse. Tied to chairs, denied food, belts, punches, neglect, demeaning/degrading, sexual abuse... It wasn't anything like Trudy Chase or Dave Pelzer but it did result in a prison sentence for 1 man, the removal of my sisters and I from the custody of our biological mother, physical and emotional scars and my adoption at the age of 14 by my maternal grandparents. All could have been prevented had a little work been done. Don't just change your profile pic. Educate yourself on this subject. Get to know signs. Parents going through difficult times are likely to take things out on their kids. If you know someone going through a major stressor (divorce, unemployment etc) and they have kids - check up on them. Better those parents vent on you then on the children.
So please, in addition to changing your profile pic take 10 minutes to look at this: http://www.childwelfare.gov/preventing/preventionmonth/ and http://www.rainn.org/. Also, check your local sheriff's department's website for links to the sex offender registry. Know who is looking at your kids at home, at grandma's, at daddy's, at their best friends house. Don't post pics of the outside of your house online and be picky about what pics you post of the inside. Or mention where your children go to school. Or what parks you frequent. Know who you and your kids friend online. It's amazing what you can get in a few clicks of a mouse. Sometimes I know I sound like an overprotective freak. That's okay with me though because my kids are worth it. So are yours.
I joke that I had 2 childhoods. One was a blessing from God. The other was a hellish nightmare that has plagued me in all aspects of my life since I was 7. Without going into great detail I am the victim of severe child abuse. Tied to chairs, denied food, belts, punches, neglect, demeaning/degrading, sexual abuse... It wasn't anything like Trudy Chase or Dave Pelzer but it did result in a prison sentence for 1 man, the removal of my sisters and I from the custody of our biological mother, physical and emotional scars and my adoption at the age of 14 by my maternal grandparents. All could have been prevented had a little work been done. Don't just change your profile pic. Educate yourself on this subject. Get to know signs. Parents going through difficult times are likely to take things out on their kids. If you know someone going through a major stressor (divorce, unemployment etc) and they have kids - check up on them. Better those parents vent on you then on the children.
So please, in addition to changing your profile pic take 10 minutes to look at this: http://www.childwelfare.gov/preventing/preventionmonth/ and http://www.rainn.org/. Also, check your local sheriff's department's website for links to the sex offender registry. Know who is looking at your kids at home, at grandma's, at daddy's, at their best friends house. Don't post pics of the outside of your house online and be picky about what pics you post of the inside. Or mention where your children go to school. Or what parks you frequent. Know who you and your kids friend online. It's amazing what you can get in a few clicks of a mouse. Sometimes I know I sound like an overprotective freak. That's okay with me though because my kids are worth it. So are yours.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
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. :-)
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. :-)
Sunday, November 21, 2010
And I still don't know what it is...
I fancy myself somewhat of a Do-It-Yourselfer when it comes to car repairs, home improvement tasks and most everything that is not of the electrical pursuation. Some things I'm pretty good at. Some things I need some more practice with and some things are straight up over my head.
Over the weekend I encountered one such obstacle. For the first time in about 8 or 9 years I have a fireplace. Let me tell you that I am head over heels in love with this fireplace. It makes me happy to sit there holding my little girl in the rocking chair, warming my tootsies, sipping hot cocoa by glowing embers. Talk about relaxation! Maybe someday, when I meet a man brave enough, I'll share it with someone special. One downside to this awesome feature of my new home is the care and maintenance of said fireplace.
Currently, I am without a fireplace kit. No poker. No shovel. No strange little brush. Of course this does not deter me from using the fireplace. Ever. I'm a whiz at improv! So I needed to clean out some of the ashes in the fireplace. I find this to be a tedious job using an empty box of Little Debbie Star Crunch's and an empty speculum box (what? My sister works for a gynocologist and she saved me some boxes). As I am scooping up ashes with the star crunch box and pouring them into the empty speculum box I make a discovery. There, in the bottom of my fireplace, is a trap door. It's about the size of a mail slot. And it's right there in the floor.
I press on it and it opens. I can't really see anything in it either. My ex conveniently took most of the tools and the flashlights (not that it would help since the kids like to run the batteries down in them anyway.)This is when The Oldest offers his suggestion. "Put your hand in it and see if you can pull out the DaVinci Code." Yes- that's my kid! He's gonna make some woman so proud someday. I, of course, decline. Instead, I drop some ashes down in it. Then I got to wondering where it leads to and what it's for and maybe putting ashes in it is a bad idea. So I closed it back up and went about my business. My dad has been gone for roughly almost 8 years. Can't call him. Everyone else I know suggests I google it. I am sure that it has to be some kind of storage for ashes but I can't be 100% sure. If it is - um where does it lead to? Do I have to clean it out? Is there any other way of opening it without getting burned.
Most importantly, WHAT IS IT???
Over the weekend I encountered one such obstacle. For the first time in about 8 or 9 years I have a fireplace. Let me tell you that I am head over heels in love with this fireplace. It makes me happy to sit there holding my little girl in the rocking chair, warming my tootsies, sipping hot cocoa by glowing embers. Talk about relaxation! Maybe someday, when I meet a man brave enough, I'll share it with someone special. One downside to this awesome feature of my new home is the care and maintenance of said fireplace.
Currently, I am without a fireplace kit. No poker. No shovel. No strange little brush. Of course this does not deter me from using the fireplace. Ever. I'm a whiz at improv! So I needed to clean out some of the ashes in the fireplace. I find this to be a tedious job using an empty box of Little Debbie Star Crunch's and an empty speculum box (what? My sister works for a gynocologist and she saved me some boxes). As I am scooping up ashes with the star crunch box and pouring them into the empty speculum box I make a discovery. There, in the bottom of my fireplace, is a trap door. It's about the size of a mail slot. And it's right there in the floor.
I press on it and it opens. I can't really see anything in it either. My ex conveniently took most of the tools and the flashlights (not that it would help since the kids like to run the batteries down in them anyway.)This is when The Oldest offers his suggestion. "Put your hand in it and see if you can pull out the DaVinci Code." Yes- that's my kid! He's gonna make some woman so proud someday. I, of course, decline. Instead, I drop some ashes down in it. Then I got to wondering where it leads to and what it's for and maybe putting ashes in it is a bad idea. So I closed it back up and went about my business. My dad has been gone for roughly almost 8 years. Can't call him. Everyone else I know suggests I google it. I am sure that it has to be some kind of storage for ashes but I can't be 100% sure. If it is - um where does it lead to? Do I have to clean it out? Is there any other way of opening it without getting burned.
Most importantly, WHAT IS IT???
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Light My Fire
It's 9 pm on a Saturday night. Here I am, nursing my 3 month old daughter while typing this blog. My youngest son is perched on the back of a couch watching Goosebumps. My middle son is in his room playing on his Playstation and my oldest is on his Nintendo. We're all "plugged in" so to speak. This is the first time I've sat here just relaxing.
Less than a month ago I made a decision to move. Some say that's pretty crazy. Our landlord refused to fix my dishwasher that had caught on fire. So that day I checked the paper and found the only listing for a house for rent. It was in my price range and sounded good. The next day I called and scheduled a visit. We took 5 steps in and I was ready to hand over a check. Immediately, I fell in love with a house. I filled out the application and went home and prayed with every fiber of my being. If you know me, you know how crazy that sounds. And within hours we got the call. The house was ours. The next day I handed him over a check. Here I sit, not even a month later, in my new living room. And there are no ghost stories. Only blank sheets of paper for us to fill.
Packing, working, taking care of 4 kids and celebrating my youngest sons birthday was challenging, to say the least. I had help with the actual moving itself but as far as packing and unpacking- I've had very little. Each box made me stronger. Each step was an inch closer to my dreams. With every roadblock I got smarter. Even though we've only lived here for 16 days I feel like I'm home. I feel like I have to keep conquering the unconquerable. Just to prove to myself that I can do it. I found myself again. Last year I almost lost myself. It's rough to admit that I was close to ending my own life. So many things presented themselves in just such a way to respark my inner light. For that I am so truly grateful. You have a choice - either let the flame consume you or let the fire propel you.
Less than a month ago I made a decision to move. Some say that's pretty crazy. Our landlord refused to fix my dishwasher that had caught on fire. So that day I checked the paper and found the only listing for a house for rent. It was in my price range and sounded good. The next day I called and scheduled a visit. We took 5 steps in and I was ready to hand over a check. Immediately, I fell in love with a house. I filled out the application and went home and prayed with every fiber of my being. If you know me, you know how crazy that sounds. And within hours we got the call. The house was ours. The next day I handed him over a check. Here I sit, not even a month later, in my new living room. And there are no ghost stories. Only blank sheets of paper for us to fill.
Packing, working, taking care of 4 kids and celebrating my youngest sons birthday was challenging, to say the least. I had help with the actual moving itself but as far as packing and unpacking- I've had very little. Each box made me stronger. Each step was an inch closer to my dreams. With every roadblock I got smarter. Even though we've only lived here for 16 days I feel like I'm home. I feel like I have to keep conquering the unconquerable. Just to prove to myself that I can do it. I found myself again. Last year I almost lost myself. It's rough to admit that I was close to ending my own life. So many things presented themselves in just such a way to respark my inner light. For that I am so truly grateful. You have a choice - either let the flame consume you or let the fire propel you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)