Gender Roles...not so black and white. (Or pink and blue)

I think somewhere along the line of bearing and raising children, we all as parents are faced with confronting our own notions of where women and men respectively fit into society. I know as a mother I was hit with it as soon as I became pregnant with my oldest son, and it was a real touchy and grave subject to me, seeing as I happened to be married to the king of late-twenties, chauvinistic misogynists. As far as he was concerned, it was a simple matter: a man would work, come home to be waited on, drink beer and exercise any privilege or whim he wished, because...well, he had a penis and generally at least a few pounds and inches on his wife. And conversely, a woman would stay home, raise the children, care for the house, cook the meals, wait on her husband and have rights to go nowhere but the kitchen, bedroom and occasionally the grocery store unaccompanied because those are the only places acceptable for our rib-stealing, whorish gender once owned under the Almighty Law of Marriage.
I never wanted my son to think like that...I often felt it important to remind dear batshit husband that we ditched the horses for motorized carriages called "cars", black people are no longer pieces of property, and utes womanfolk are now permitted to vote, drive and work. Which often prompted a swift slap across my mouth or two hour screaming session because I have yet to learn to properly "shut my whore mouth". Go figure.
The discussions of gender came just ad swiftly. In the vague future of "teenage years", my daughter would have a strict curfew of ten o'clock, my son, none. The rationale behind this? Boys can't come home pregnant. Because clearly unplanned pregnancy is the only concern with teenagers. And clearly him getting someone pregnant is not a possibility. I see it as a pretty overt message: men are entitled to more privilege than women. Conversely, that my daughter I'd more protected than my son. Awful. Sorry, asshole, but I personally loved my kids in utero before I even saw their tiny genitals. Equally. So pink or blue, it doesn't make a difference, I want the same for each and every one.
That being said, although my experience with sexism is extreme, we as a society have a hard time parting with those age old rigid gender roles. Financial burden is shared more equally between spouses than ever. In comparison, the progression of the division of household labor and chilcare is, well, lagging.
I'll say one thing, the more old school you go, the more your kids lose...girls, and boys.
Hypothetically, had we stuck out batshit husband's amazing plan to the end, what would my children have been taught?
Well, my daughter would believe in subservience to a man, hook line and sinker. She would believe herself to be inadequate, lesser, incapable...fragile and secondary. She might develop a shot (or more) of resentment for men, mixed with an unquenchable thirst for male affection, topped off with a splash of antiquated notions about her place in the household and world. Pretty stiff self destructive cocktail. And my sons? A sense of entitlement, delusional grandiose, an affinity for testosterone and control-fueled aggression...masking a heartbreaking emotional vulnerability because girls are protected (nurtured), not boys. Boys don't cry, boys don't deserve comfortable limits, boys are exempt from the rigors of boundaries.
You can't lock down a child, nor can you let them roam free. That in itself is a recipe for dysfunction. Add in reproductive organs as the rationale...and we can expect a generation of fucked up people.
Girls are not all pink, boys are not all blue. They're people.
We all hold on to some bigoted beliefs, be honest! My oldest son, at nearly three, is rounding out a nearly yearlong phase of loving tea parties, dollhouse and baby dolls. And yeah, for a while there, I cringed. Because this is not "manly" stuff. But don't I want him to develop those domestic inclinations to share the burden equally with his future spouse? Old notions die hard. I came to terms with the fact that my son is himself, a beautiful, sweet little person with a wonderful vocabulary, affectionate, with a kind heart and a sharp sense of humor and even in a fucking pair of heels and a dress, all these amazing qualities would still be prevalent as ever.
If anything, the way I feel about gender roles, is that boys need more equality. Boys are disfavored in school, emotionally repressed, privy to morally questionable role models. Our present day "female empowerment" is a damn joke. Men were at one point encouraged to womanize, while women were faced with stigma for exercising sexual freedom. So what did we as a society turn to? Glorifying female promiscuity. What?!? Chlamydia isn't sexist, ok? Why must we lower female standards? Why can't we up it for males? I don't want my daughter to be a rampant slut...but I don't want my sons to be, either.
I'm no feminist. There are biological, inborn differences between the genders, absolutely. Irrefutable. I wouldn't be so presumptuous as to challange that. So...in our abilities, natural strengths and gender specific traits, men and women are not equal. But in our value as human beings, our responsibilities as parents and members of society, and moral accountability, we are. My children will be raised with the same exact rules, moral expectations and curfews, regardless of sex. We are NOT ignorant inbred white trash.
So I no longer cringe even a little when my sons pick up a baby doll. I gladly babysit for my son's make believe newborn (her name is Emily. His choice.) I attend mixed company tea parties, and I indulge the occasional mixed-gender game of Pretty Pretty Princess because bling is bling, bitches. My boys are intrinsically boyish and my girl girly, but they are kids, and deserve the opportunity to explore everything they reasonably and safely can. And if they didn't fit neatly in to the gender package, well, they'd still fit perfectly in my heart. I smile just as much when my boys zoom matchbox cars around my livingroom as when they try on their sisters dressup heels. Its probably just a phase. And I imagine it's pretty hard to beat your wife in a pair of stilettos.

Thanksgiving

It's that time of year again. Turkey and all the fixings, football, family....I love this time of year. The kids and I have been talking a lot about being thankful, because with the moral and judgement deficits in my own life, I never miss an opportunity to dole out a lesson in character.
And this year, we happen to have a lot to be thankful for. To understand, we're going to have to take a look at some past Kate family Thanksgivings.
Or should I say, Batshit family Thanksgivings.
Batshit husband was always adamantly against traveling for the holidays. For someone like me, whose childhood consisted of all packing into the car and heading to Grandma's to celebrate with my extended family, this was a traumatic change. But seeing as my opinion was about as important as a beer at an AA meeting in my "marriage", I had no reasonable option but to blow off Grandma and concede. So, instead, we spent our first of several sorry Thanksgivings with his sister.
Total. Fucking. Clusterfuck.
First off, even though most of his immediate family lives within 20 minutes of one another, they did not all attend said Thanksgiving dinner. So we're left with Batshit husband, Mama Batshit, one of the sisters, and her inlaws. Even though this event was hosted at the sisters, I ended up supplying everything, including THE TURKEY, while she contributed a few assortments of canned vegetables. To make a long and pathetic story short and slightly more bearable, I sat and ate MY turkey with complete strangers and people I hate while my husband and mother-in-law bitched incessantly about how shitty this was and my sister-in-law got plastered. Thats the stuff memories are made of.
The next one wasn't much better. Batshit husband and Mama Batshit refused to repeat the previous year, so we spent it just the three of us and our kids, stuffed into the tiny efficency where we were living. Fun.
This year, sans awful inlaws, we are preparing for a three day extravaganza filed with church, friends, family and food. As it should be.
So when I asked the kids what they were thankful for, I was not at all surprised when my oldest son replied, "That the police put daddy in jail.", just a little sad. Our safety and an actual joyful Thanksgiving is a lot to be thankful for! But when his sister insisted on, "chocolate milk", I was perplexed and offended. I do so much, we are so blessed....CHOCOLATE FUCKING MILK?!
Then I got to thinking. Who puts the milk and chocolate syrup in the fridge? Who lovingly prepares said chocolate milk, and makes sure she doesn't get it in excess? This woman. Chocolate milk is delicious, and an expression of my maternal love. It's something that she enjoys with her siblings and friends. It's a treat, a reward...it's something to be thankful for, yeah. Actually, that child is more grateful than I am. I get so caught up in my daily life that I am rarely thankful. In fact, I made the kids give up their list, but did not offer my own.
I'm thankful for my freedom and safety. I'm thankful that my family is close and loving and supportive and NOT the Batshit clan. I'm thankful for my beautiful, smart, healthy children and my awesome fucking friends, for the roof over my head and the food on my table. I'm thankful to be alive, that in a few hours I will be enjoying a beautiful holiday and not stuck with depressing white trash. I'm thankful for my church. And yeah, I'm thankful for Batshit husbands continued incarceration (therefore our continued safety), and I'm thankful for chocolate milk. Why not?
Have a happy Thanksgiving everyone. I'll have a glass of wine for all of you!

Priority Check, eisle nine.

When I first sat down to blog,  armed with a glass of Sutter Homes and furious resolve NOT to die unwanted and alone with a brood of ungrateful and embarrassed offspring, I thought my mission was simple. Forget loser husband, poke fun at batshit crazy inlaws, find a series of outrageous dates and go on with my little dysfunctional fairytale ending with Mr. Right (for me).
Well, its been a while. Curious as to why? You all know you LOVE my chaos.
I won't dissapoint, I promise.
My family has gotten caught up in the normal flurry of day to day life. My eldest started school (thats a WHOLE other post!), we have had schedules to adjust, potty training x2 to tackle, trick or treating, first school dances to attend, and, oh yeah...their dad got tased repeatedly and arrested from my apartment for beating me, all with our kids right there.
Sordid drama. As you would expect. Blog worthy, the only people left dissapointed are my parents.
I could rehash every little detail of that awful night, but there is a local newspaper article (yup, it was that kind of thing), and I'm all about protecting privacy here. Even in the case of people I hate.
And really, it's the aftermath that matters.
This is a cautionary tale.
What a lot of people don't understand, myself included at one blissful point, is that domestic violence is so  much more than just a beating or fifty. It's mind control, with self confidence and mental health taking the brunt of the abuse. Add kids, shake it all up with the instability of the cycle of abuse, and you've got a family on the rocks. The courts, child protective services, therapists, all label me as "the victim". I'm not. I choose to engage with this guy. My kids are the only real victims. And they suffer.
Let me paint you a picture of what happens when you beat your kids mother, degrade her, insult her, threaten her.
My daughter stays up at night waiting by her window, afraid he'll come back. She tells me, social workers, teachers and anyone else who will listen that she is afraid he will kill me. She has called me a "stupid cunt". My son, his fathers namesake, told his preschool teacher that his daddy is a "monster" who hurt his mommy. They are  traumatized. Every day is a fight, as they attempt to proccess what they just can't. Every child is in therapy, even my two year old.
Here we insert the Batshit Clan.
What else would they do but, loudly proclaim his innocence. In one online post the phrase, "Mr. _____ is the real victim here." The police lied, I lied, the witnesses lied...poor Batshit husband. Clearly the only one to trust here is the guy who kicked the cop and got cuffed after five taser rounds. But thats the cards these people were dealt. And his sister waiting outside  the courthouse to threaten me and ramble about "karma" makes their case all the more compelling.
I owe my former inlaws a resounding thank you, though. I can look at them and get a comprehensive preview of what will happen to my family if I don't spartan up and end this. It's not very pretty, functional or educated. Sometimes it takes sobering reality through something drastic to show you what really matters. And I know that even marrying Jason Aldean will not make me happy if my kids grow in to a bunch of hot messes.
Worry not. My foundation remains. I'm still broke. Still have a tribe of kids, still love my cheap wine and eccentric friends. And I still have the worst inlaws ever pulled off an episode of cops. But is Kate overly concerned with dating? Nope.

This whole "White Trash Mom" Thing, it's an art.

When I say I'm broke, I mean broke. As in, the kind State steps in and gives me a couple hundred embarrassing dollars a month to feed my irresponsibly large family as a consolation prize for my unfettered reproduction topped off with Daddy walking out the door, unemployed.
It's an art, to be this poor, really. Dollars are like rubber bands, they only stretch too far. And when your resources are more pathetic than a swollen-bellied little Indian baby, well....you gotta make it work. There's no choice involved.
And trust me, I do.
Where do I start? Hmm, groceries.
Every week before I go grocery shopping, the first thing I do is look at a calendar. Monday through Friday all my kids are in daycare, and bundled neatly in that price are breakfast, two snacks, and lunch. Check check and check. So, I write up a list, that looks something like this:

Monday: Dinner - Blue cheese chicken, wild rice, green beans

Tuesday: Dinner - Macaroni and cheese, broccoli

Wednesday: Dinner- Beef stroganoff, egg noodles, glazed carrots

Thursday: Dinner - Chicken stir fry, rice

Friday: Dinner - English muffin pizzas, tossed salad

Saturday: Breakfast - Pancakes, sausage, fruit 

A.M. Snack: Ants on a log

Lunch - Chicken salad on croissants, grapes, salad

P.M. Snack: Carrots and dip

Dinner: Roasted chicken, roasted vegetables, rice pilaf

Get the basic idea? Then I write out my list, based on my meal plan for the week. I cook only from scratch - believe it or not, it's cheaper that way. When I make, say, macaroni and cheese, I can buy enough for two batches, cook them both, and freeze one. Bam. One extra meal for the week.

We always have enough food. Hell, on any given day, I feed my family, a couple families down the hall, the family down the street. There's two things that are fundamental to my family: church and food.

As for bills, I have to be just as meticulous. I get a paycheck, I sit down with a pen and my handy-dandy notebook (get the reference?) And I plan out every single penny. I put cash into envelopes - I tend to stumble with a bank account because debit cards are my Nemesis. But hey, my rent is rarely late or delinquent. So it works for me. 

And we don't do extravagant in my house. I have mostly boys, close together, so clothes go down the line until they are no longer wearable. Fashion, I tell my oldest daughter, is a flash in the pan. She wanted twinkle toes, these God-awful sneakers made by Sketchers that look like Michael's craft stores threw up all over them. Sorry, if I'm going to splurge, it's going to be on something more than a stupid preschool fad. "We," I told her, "Are far too fabulous for Twinkle Toes." Still, she persisted. So for her birthday, I decided to make her her own, and they are just as fabulously gaudy and personalized, for a fraction of the cost. That's right. 

Being poor is exhausting. It adds more tasks to my already overwhelming life. But were we in a better financial situation, I would've just caved and bought the stupid Twinkle Toes. Then the world would be robbed of my personalized shoe project, as would my daughter. I can't say it enough, less is more.

Eff all those mean five year old girls. They're going to be so jealous. 

I often think about my life if I had made different decisions. If, at seventeen years old, I had taken my dad's advice and gotten in the car with him, driven to the clinic, never had my daughter. I'd be home from my last year at a real school, leaving my dormitory behind, my childhood bedroom covered with pictures of parties, summer vacations, smiling young faces. I'd have closets full of shoes and clothes, a part time job that was not my livelihood, but beer money until I moved on to my meticulously planned career. In a few years, I'd meet another college-educated young man, probably with the same upper-middle class yuppie roots, we'd fall in love, have a beautiful wedding, live in our well-maintained Cape with our two point five kids and a golden retriever named Ronald. Beautiful, perfect, exactly what my dad saw for me the day he first held me in his arms and looked into my eyes, I'd bet. But I'd be missing so much.

I bet my hypothetical husband would've sprung for the Twinkle Toes. But what's regret?

I wasn't raised here, where I'm living. My cousins and uncles and parents don't live down the street. I don't even know what the High School here looks like. But this city and I, are soul-mates. I've found something so beautiful and real and fulfilling in this struggle. Something that's made me so much stronger and smarter and resourceful than the hypothetical Me could've ever been. My lights get turned off, yeah. I know a million and one ways to get them turned back on, quick. I can pass this on to other people struggling. The hypothetical me knows nothing of struggle, of heartache. The hypothetical me would be too responsible to procreate like a caged hamster. So she would never know the exhausting joy when kids A and B are fighting, and the baby's crying, and you've got beautiful, tiny chaos swirling around you and you still manage to end up with a household of "Best Buddies" who adamantly stick up for a sibling when they're being scolded. THAT's just as much accomplishment as a PHD. Believe it. 

I wouldn't know that when you live in a crappy low-income apartment, your neighbors can become your family. You eat together, pick up the slack when someone falls short, know that the favor will be returned. An amazing give-and-take. A congregation, a Fellowship, all praying for better days and hanging in together until they arrive. The hallways here are always teeming with children, laughing and growing together, learning and changing and bonding. My door is always open, every door here is. We scold each other's children, we revolve babysitting, we help with homework and cook meals and collapse on each other's couches at the end of the day, tired as hell, with a glass of cheap White Zinfandel and a shitload of complaints and jokes. Your husband's an asshole, my husband's an asshole, our kids are too much, work sucks, we're broke, Let's Drink.

We're in this together. And to be honest, if I had a yard and a good man and a good job, a cute little dog and stability, I wouldn't know this. I wouldn't have to.

There's beauty in the breakdown. We all have albums of our children together, and we look at how they've changed, grown, who's going to marry who. I know each child in this apartment building as well as my own. My children love each one of my neighbors like the extended family we rarely see. They are family. 

It's an art, a challenge, and I ROCK THIS. 

My kids learn to cook with me from a young age. We make casseroles for sick friends, neighbors and members of our church. We bake pastries and cakes and cookies for birthdays and celebrations and sometimes, just because it's raining and there's nothing else to do. They learn the power of a home-cooked meal. They watch this profound give-and-take on which we survive, and they learn empathy and family values and what it means to be connected to the community around you. Tell me Muffy and Buffy and their perfect husbands and kids can say that? They don't have to worry about the things we do. They don't know. For those who truly have "It" together, giving is a hobby, an obligation, tax write off or occasional warm, fuzzy feeling. It's kept to Christmas or when Sally Struthers gets on your plasma and guilts you about starving children. When you struggle, it's a way to survive.

I don't hate the middle class or wealthy. When my lights go off or I pass a really cute handbag, I envy them. But, it definitely passes. I am proud of what I have. In a material world, in this crazy capitalist Rat Race, there are a lot of values that just sort of, fade away. I feel blessed every day that though I can't afford an Xbox or big TV, I can't take my kids to Disney every summer or buy the stupid fucking Twinkle Toes, I can give them these old-fashioned values and know that they will stick a lot longer than vacations or glitter-strewn shoes. That is a blessing.

Sorry to disappoint, dad.

The Power of Chores

Someone once told me that the main reason the world should continue to repopulate is, cheap labor. Kids get to a certain age and for those blurred years that you covered EVERY aspect of personal and family care, they have to start giving back. Ideally.
It is my personal belief that children should start being assigned chores around two. Nothing huge, I save the oil changes and oven cleaning for my five year old, but two is a good age to implement cleaning up toys, sorting laundry, helping to make the bed.
Let me just point out, chores sound wonderful, but it's not easy. Small children are programmed to have fun at all times. Chores, hard as you may try, are not always fun. And those young children grow into older children who are inundated with schoolwork, socialization, television...all seemingly more important than chores. Then they grow into teenagers, and well, you know.
But chores are important. They teach responsibility. When handled properly, they give children a proud sense of belonging and contribution to the family. And they help to afford you the luxury of say, a shower or a few minutes in a book or writing in your blog ahem. For me, chores are not even a question. I am the sole caregiver and provider for an entire tribe. I have eight trillion more important things to do every day than put away ALL those clothes, sort ALL those shoes and pick up ALL those toys over and over and over again. I like the beds made in the house. But if the kids didn't do it, let's be realistic, it wouldn't get done.
And chores have helped us bond. When my kids proclaim, "This is my house," they couldn't be more right. From the innocent little age of two years old, they become cogs in the gears of the mechanics from which my house is run. It doesn't always run smoothly, we have our yelling matches, but I made a decision some years back when children began popping from my loins like little baby rabbits, I will not ever be perfect. I am a good enough mom.
Which is good enough for me. The kids' school and daycare are constantly raving about my children's behavior and intelligence. "If we could clone your kids and put all those clones in this school," they tell me, "We would." Instant gratification.
Growing up, and until she passed away recently, I was incredibly close to my grandmother. If you knew her, you would've been too. Having raised seven children who raised their children, who for the most part all turned out to be successful, intelligent people - and all turned out to be good, kind family oriented people, I trusted her opinion entirely. She had been a school teacher from the age of nineteen. Grandma knows kids. And in between priceless bits of advice and encouragement, she would forever praise my parenting and the amazing people my children are shaping in to. "It's uncommon and so beautiful," she would gush, "How well behaved they are."
It will forever touch my heart, that my children were mentioned in her eulogy. I am so proud to have created such amazing little beings that were able to touch her life so profoundly. The way that she touched mine.
Still waters run deep, as they say. The meaning that I glean from my flash of a life comes from more than just these dates that I push myself to go on, more than a bad husband that has shaped us so completely.
No matter where we go from here, the foundation in which I build my children's lives will never waiver. Trust me when I say, even when they come home for summers from college (which they WILL attend), they will still have chores. Because we will forever be a family, and they will forever be components to the mechanics of my life. Grandma taught me that much.

Shitty Internet Dating Volume 2

At Parker's request. This guy was not quite as dumb. Not quite:

From: Mike <xxxx@comcast.net>
To: pers-6zznf-2531244498@xxxxx.xxx
Sent: Sunday, August 7, 2011 8:26 AM
Subject: XXXXXXX

Hi there , just wanted to respond to your ad , it is one of the nicest one I read , I do have a job been there 15yrs, I have a full set of teeth , no drugs, own my own house and car , motorcycle, I am married though not happy with it , been like this for some time now and I understand if not interested , but if I am single some day I will look you up because you seem like a decent person , I'm 35 and weigh 210 lbs , have 2 kids , girls they are my world , Mike ,,, ps forgot to add I'm not a murder or rapest , have a good day : )

Re: Looking for something new

TO: 1 More1 recipient

CC: recipientsYou More

Yeah, no. Totally unacceptable. You shouldn't be even looking if you're still married, at least separate first. Seriously. I am really bothered by this. I've been that woman. I hope you go home to your wife at some point in the near future and she finds a reason to punch you in your face. Unhappy? LEAVE. That's what the rest of the honest world does. If your kids were your world you wouldn't sneak around on their mother. I can't emphasize enough how disgusted I am. If I hear about a Lorena Bobbett copycat, and you as the victim, I won't feel that bad. I might chuckle.

Married men need not apply. Ok?

Fuck Internet Dating.

This isn't even a real entry. But seriously, the internet is a bad place to look for dates. Really. Just saying. Case in point:



From: J T <xxxxxxxx@hotmail.com>
To: pers-6zznf-2531244498@craigslist.org
Sent: Wednesday, August 10, 2011 7:59 PM
Subject: Something new



I'm not gonna lie. I didn't read your post. You can't post a novel and expect people to actually read it even if you are good looking. I'm chillin at my place tonight looking for a little company. What do you say?


Date: Thu, 11 Aug 2011 08:00:59 -0700
From: xxxxxx@yahoo.com
Subject: Re: Something new
To: xxxxxx@hotmail.com


You're really charming and appropriate. What do I say? Sorry. I'm into literate men. You, know, WHO. CAN. READ. And manners. I must be crazy for spurning you super-smooth advances. And yeah, I am good looking.





From: J T <xxxxxx@hotmail.com>
To: xxxxx@yahoo.com
Sent: Thursday, August 11, 2011 7:30 PM
Subject: RE: Something new



Idk about good looking, but you're not bad. Free tonight?

Re: Something new


TO: 1 More1 recipient
CC: recipientsYou More Show Details

Friday, August 12, 2011 11:16 AM

Holy crap. You have the IQ of a piece of fucking french toast. NO. NO. NO. That whole "asshole thing" doesn't work on girls who didn't have a string of stepdads who just didn't love them enough, such as me. And you don't know what I look like. Nor will you. And I don't know what you look like. But I'm gonna go out on a limb and assume there's a weight problem, male pattern baldness and/or height issues. Definitely a small penis. That's just what I can glean from your attitude and failure to properly assess social cues.











 To further drive my point home, although I masked the email address to protect privacy and all that legal, moral bullshit, he had the word "bodman" in his email address. Yeah. Totally.

Makes the bar scene a little more appealing. Facts are, no matter where you go, stupid assholes are everywhere.

Mr. Irish

This is my best effort recollection of my night out for Justincredible's twenty sixth birthday. My date was Mr. Irish.
Bear with me:
5:30pm - I begin cooking dinner for my kids and the family of my sitter. The Meat has rum in his freezer. Technically, I already have a sitter. And I did promise Justincredible that I would get FUN. Sip.
6:30pm- The kids need baths, immediately. They are covered in food, sweat, baby powder...(yeah, I don't know), and chocolate. I still need to make eclairs for my birthday gift. The Meat's girlfriend, MILM (Mom I'd like to MARRY), picks out clothes for me. She's wicked hot so I trust her opinion entirely. I try to navigate to the bathtub, sticky children in tow, while keeping the clothes free of kid gunk.
6:32pm- Success.
6:45pm-Kids are bathed. I wrestle with my son to get his teeth brushed. I set the world record for "Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You?" speed reading. I desperately need a shower. At this point I look like this:

Bag of smashed assholes



Note the lack of makeup, frazzled loook, frumpy, stained clothing. Hot, right? What you can't see is that I'm sticky, have chocolate smeared in inconvenient places, and smell like roadkill and hot garbage.
Who wouldn't want to date me?
7:05pm - I shower. The kids are pissed about bedtime tonight. They keep coming to the bathroom door. I need to shave like, everything. I think this is why I don't bother going out. I immediately speed-dress, do my hair and makeup and strap on shoes. Now I have to finish making eclairs. I can't find my pastry bag, so they're fucking cream puffs. I need to be ready in less than a hour.
Now I look like this:

Thanks, MILM!

 It's a whole typed page to get ready.
8;00pm-Mr. Irish arrives. He has bought me a pack of cigarettes. Nice. I go to give him the money for them. He refuses. Nice.
8:20pm-We head over to Justincredible's place to pre-game, as the  young people say.
8:30pm- We start taking shots. SoCo, hundred proof. Totally one and done. It tastes like nail polish remover. All I have to chase it is a rum and coke. Fuck. Not good.
8:32pm - I'm already dancing. My volume control is waning. I don't really go out or drink...this is going to be rough. I offer to take out Justincredible's trash. Mr. Irish does it for me. He's really nice.
8:34pm-No one will do another shot. I do.
8:35pm- I go to check on my friend, Hot Mom. She is getting ready and looks, well, hot. She is upset because the father of her baby was not invited to go out. I think he is a dick and I'm not one hundred percent upset, but I am sympathetic. I know what it's like to love someone who isn't capable of giving it back.
8:44pm - My friend Jenn stops by on her way from work. She expresses shock and confusion with my decision to go out, because I "never go out." I beg her to join us. She declines.
9:00pm- We leave. The Meat is outside smoking when we leave. I lean out Mr. Irish's car window and yell at him. We are NOT EVEN AT THE BAR YET. My kids are going to blush in shame in ten to twelve years....
9:05pm - We arrive at the bar. It is dead. Absolutely dead. I yell at Justincredible and everyone else at the table, "This is unacceptable!" I bang my fist on the table to emphasize my point. I'm pretty sure I'm the loudest person in this bar. I try to coerce the table to go to Chippendales. I am unsuccessful. In hindsight, I'm pretty glad.
9:15pm - Hot Mom is really upset. She wants to leave. I try to console her, but my count at this point is one rum and pepsi, two shots of SoCo, and one beer. I am not particularly effective, so I turn my efforts to getting a partner in kareoke. I lean over to Mr. Irish and whisper in his ear. He declines. Bummer. But he's nice enough to buy my drinks all night and try to cheer up my distressed friend. He's definitely a good friend.
10:00pm- One more beer, one more shot. Now things are fuzzy. I know the women in the bathroom are telling me how beautiful I am. Mr. Irish is nice, but we're not having very substantial conversation, as I am not capable.
11:30pm - Mr. Irish and I leave. I think Hot Mom is still upset. The bar is still relatively dead. I say goodbye to Justincredible and everyone else. I decide that I owe him a better night, and will pay up in the near future.
7:00am - I wake up. I am not hung over, thank God. But I'm still in my clothes, except for my underwear (...????), earrings and all. My far molar on the left side is EXCRUTIATING. I don't know why. My right knee is scraped. I am slightly ashamed. I did drink excessively, but really not that much. I am a cheap date.
Dear Mr. Irish:
You're a really nice guy. It was fun, from my recollection. Thanks for babysitting me. I think I left my lipgloss, ten dollars, and my dignity in your car.

Tip for my next date:
Watch the liquor, two-beer. You can't accomplish much with a man if you're too busy falling in the parking lot.



"I Fucking LOVE this girl!"

Hello self confidence. You know what?
I don't need to post pictures of Bat Shit husband's HomelyGirl to have half the Internet tell me she's busted and I'm not. I don't need strings of meaningless sex, drugs, or anything drastic. Ends up, all I need to boost my self esteem is karaoke night and beer by the pitcher.
After my wonderful text therapy session, I was sitting at home, all my kids asleep, bored and semi-miserable. My friend texted me and after a short series of events I ended up with a sitter, on my way out to karaoke.
I had NO MONEY for drinks. Didn't think it would be a long night.
But hello, kind kind friends and beer by the pitcher. And the events transpired at such:
10:00pm - Arrive at bar. Think it's going to be a quick night. Offered a beer. Ok, just one.
10:15pm - Friends I am with commence to tell me how beautiful I am, how frustrating it is that I can't see it and sell myself short. They give me a pep talk about how fricken' awesome I am. I'm getting a tad uncomfortable because I am so insecure. Ok, just two beers.
10:30pm - We go outside the bar to smoke a cigarette. There is a man, intoxicated twofold, bobbing and weaving outside the bar. I think one of my friends gives him a cigarette. I walk out as he is barely coherent, talking about tattoos and getting robbed at the bar. I think he mentions he had $560. I highly doubt this. He comes over to me, seriously violates my personal space, and says, "What's up, beautiful? I'm rolling my balls off."
Attractive. My low self esteem is not bad enough to reduce me to this.
I notice he looks a little like Bat Shit husband.
"I'm married with kids," I respond. I mean for it to come out curt. Thank God I still wear the ring...
"I don't care if you're married, I just needa light."
Crap, drugs interfere with picking up social cues.
He is talking about drugs, a lot. He won't get out of my personal space unless it to go wander into someone else's. I go in the bar to finish my second beer. i come back out. He is in the STREET, talking about how the cops walk in when they're called for him. I think he is pantomiming the SWAT team. I can't help it, "Attractive." actually spills from my lips.
11:00pm - His cab arrives. The driver is clearly irked that he has to pick the guy up. I am stuck in the door to the bar, halfway outside, with him awkwardly clutching my hand. He is trying to give me his number. He has no pen, paper, cannot remember it, and I don't want it. Finally he leaves.
"This is why I don't date," I say.
11:15pm - i go inside and rapidly down beers three and half of four. I begin shamelessly venting about Bat Shit husband. I'm told how hot I am. I start getting 1-10 ratings. My average is a 8-9. That's pretty cool. i am hollering and clapping for everyone who is singing. A really cute guy gets up to sing. My friend tells me he is straight. He has a GREAT voice. I swoon a little, even though he's a little on the short side for me. I smile t him. He smiles back. I tell my friends I am going to talk to him.
11:30pm - I am intoxicated. I am outside smoking with half the bar. I am slightly belligerent. I talk about my son and his love for all things Disney princess and how I secretly hope this is an indication of him being gay, so I'll never have to worry about baby momma drama. I am talking out of my ass. Talking about blow jobs, kids....I can't even remember all the nonsense spewing out of me at this point.
11:45pm - Someone says, "I fucking LOVE this girl!" I feel awesome. Half the bar is telling me I could get any man I wanted, I'm that hot. I fucking love this.
12:00am - I have another beer. I love everyone in this bar. I decided I'm going to sing. Bohemian Rhapsody. It was amazing.
12:30am- I am hanging on people, trying as best I can to promote my blog. I kind of feel like a celebrity. I honestly haven't thought much of Bat Shit husband in hours. I never end up talking to Cute Singing guy. I'm too busy being awesome.
1:00am - I go home, relieve my sitter, and crawl in to bed. My kids are all sleeping, i peek in on them and glow with pride. That validation thing? Got a taste. And look at these beautiful, peaceful, sleeping angels. They make me MORE fricken' awesome than if I was just single on the bar scene. I am amazing in both respects.
Tonight, I look at me and say, "I fucking LOVE this girl!!"

Text message therapy?? Works for me.

So my dear dear friend and I had a wonderful conversation via text message today. He is one of my oldest and dearest pals, and I wanted to share this because he is SO well versed in Kate-ology:
It started when I asked him to take a look at my last, very immoral entry.

ME: did you see what I meant about the post? I got out of line.
HIM: I messaged you on facebook.
ME: I saw.
HIM: So then yeah, you got out of line. We all do it once in a while. Youll fix it and not do it again. No biggie.
ME: You can see what drove me to do it, right?
HIM: Well yeah...but the deeper reason is your need for validation (exemplified by your very question.) But i hope you'll learn that you don't really need that validation...your life validates itself. You have a beautiful family which you provide for all by yourself - you don't need anyones approval but your own and your kids
ME:I know. But it snowballs. He puts me down so much that my confidence is ruined. So that sets me up for a bad reaction. Then when I finally see her I feel compelled to tell him that she is in fact not attractive, and he tells me I am wrong. So I look to my friends to validate me, which they do, and then I report back to him, who tells me they are lying because they are my friends. So the audience polled get larger and larger, and every time I come back with "THE FINAL" proof he refutes, and it continues...
ME: It becomes a question of not only my physical beauty but my own perception and sanity quickly. Which, ironically, compels me to act out in a pretty crazy way.
HIM: This girl has no relevance to your life. You exist independently of her, and frankly even if she looked like Anne Hathaway it wouldn't matter. Don't give him this power over you.
ME: Its not even about her personally. It's about looking at something with my own eyes, seeing reality as it IS and having him push me to question it. Were she attractive, no issue. But I see that she is not, and he makes me feel crazy and doubt my own eyes. Maddening.
HIM: So breathe and remove yourself from the situation in the first place. I know firsthand how much easier said than done that is, but it's the only way to stop the snowballing effect.
HIM: He has whatever power you give him. No more - no less.
ME: I know.
ME: Honestly though, outside of my non existent needy lack of self esteem and laundry list of issues, am I an attractive woman?
HIM: If I answer that question i am going against everything that i just said. You must validate yourself.
ME: You suck.
HIM: :) Noted.
ME: Well how exactly do I validate myself? Especially on an issue that revolves around how other people perceive me?
HIM: I'm pretty sure it begins with knowing the great things you are that don't depend on other people. Then you acknowledge the things you are because the people you love and trust tell you that you are. And as for people you hate? They don't play into this at all.
ME: Oh God, ____, I sound like a pre teen. I'm losing my mind.
HIM: Don't flatter yourself- you never had a sane mind to begin with :). But accept that, because that's part of why the right people love you.
ME: I used to insane in a relatively self-assured, fun, comfortable manner...
ME: You have dethroned Dr. Phil. You are too grounded for my pathology ridden little mind.
HIM: Please don't mock my advice. I might not have any comprehension of your specific situation, but i assure you i have plenty of experience with crazy.
ME: No, I would never! I appreciate your advice. I LOVE DR. PHIL. I sit on the edge of my seat for every word he says. I don't care, I fricken' love Dr. Phil.
HIM: Ok I apologize, I thought it was an insult. I'm well aware that people cross a line with their pathologies, but I also know that those people are not generally aware that they've crossed that line. Its a paradox, but it shows me that whatever issues you've developed are probably not pathologies so much as irrational responses to an impossible situation. You take care of all your kids on your own: isn't that something to be proud of?
ME: It's an achievement, of course. But then it all comes back to him. He offers no support, no help, then calls me up to pick out my shortcomings, criticize my parenting and tell me that I just put up the appearance of a good mother. A "thank you for taking care of our children while I go out drinking, partying, and sleeping around while remaining unemployed" would be nice...
HIM: I'm sure you've considered this might be more of an indication of HIS pathologies. You've wisely chosen not to believe anything positive he says - why not do the same with the negative??
ME: Because he has been programming me for years to. The isolation, the name calling, put downs, control and beatings, constant pregnancy - not just random acts. they culminate in me compulsively believing his word over others and even common sense.
HIM: You'll get their eventually. Really. But for now you absolutely need to not have unnecessary contact with him. Period.
ME: But you know? I feel guilty and silly saying this, but i KNOW i'm uncommonly beautiful. I've had a bunch of kids and I'm still thin. I have nice curves. I have beautiful eyes and even when I'm juggling a bunch of kids, men notice me in public.
HIM: See? I knew you could answer the question on your own :). I'm proud of you. Must put phone away now.
ME: K thanks for everything. You can send me the bill...:)

Shitty marriage?? Yup. Amazing friends by the bucket? Absolutely. Works for me!

Revelation.

I  think that Bud Light lime and my neighbor gave me a revelation. I rock this whole white trash mom thing...
After a few beers I stopped by my neighbor's house to talk. She's going through something slightly similar to the rapidly declining clusterfuck that my divorce has become. Well, it's not exactly the same, but close enough.
But honestly, our struggling, low-income, teen pregnancy-divorce riddled pasts seem to draw a certain tie between all of our situations. I hear myself giving the same advice to at least three different friends, in different contexts, then going home and breaking all of my own rules.

My advice is good. I'm ninety five percent positive that most of the people on the receiving end of my psychologically-charged pep talks would all agree that I give sound, empowered, reasonable and (mostly) cement advice. But I also understand the plight. Personally.

Other people who disrespect you in some fashion on a regular basis start to wear you down. They hold that proverbial carrot over you as you run in circles, usually stemming from a lack of support at home. Today he might love me, today he might want a divorce. I might be his only focus, and his children, or he might focus all of his attention on someone or something else. he might stay faithful when he says, he might not. 
It's maddening when you live in such a constant state of adjustment, especially with children.
But you have to hold it together for the kids.
My husband cheated on me. He told me about it to "build trust", and I asked questions. Uncomfortable questions, details, comparisons. This man makes me crazy. He tells me how much better looking she is than me; how everyone in the bar was jealous. This kills my self esteem. I find her on facebook, and definitively see how she is less attractive. She is homely, plain and simple. I post pictures of her next to mine, just to get reassurance from people that I am, in fact, more attractive. But I know I am. And I doubt the (literally) 80+ people who assure me. You follow me? Because I barely can....
This man warps my sense of reality. He says, "Well, to me you're move attractive...but most men would think she is." I shouldn't have asked him to compare. But it's so hard not to. Crazy compulsive shit. And I see, with my own eyes, with so many people telling me, that I come up on top. And when I mention this to him, he makes me feel like I'm lying or crazy and just ugly.
I know I am miserable with him. I know he is no asset to me. I pay all my own bills, I do the majority of the childcare, I cook and I clean; and if I don't, it just doesn't get done. He is mean to me, and I am so resentful that I am mean to him. Can you blame me??? I'm incredibly verbally abusive and petty. I play immature little games.
But I'm being driven fucking crazy.
My strength is, I'm honestly as good as a mom as one could be in this situation. I play with my children, I cook them nutritious meals (we know quinoa in this family, look it up. We eat tabbouleh and fruits and vegetables at every meal, we cook from scratch - together), I bathe my kids every day, I read to them and help with homework, I make sure they are outside as much as possible and I slather them with sunscreen, I brush their teeth two times a day, since six months old with each, and I take to the dentist early. I work as hard as I can...but the stress of cold, hard reality is starting to wear me down. It's spilling over; I'm snapping at my kids more. I'm yelling at their father over the phone for cheating, in front of them.
I can admit when I stumble. I own this behavior. I need to fix it.
First step is this: letting it go. Sign the divorce papers, move on...until then....just live life like I already had. He will never be able to make a commitment to anything. He can't commit to marriage enough to behavior as a husband should, but he won't commit to a divorce. It's like balancing a tightrope May the literary Gods strike me dead for that cliche. But there's no other way to do it.  
Well, you know what? I'm setting another place at the devil's dinner table for this one. ________, who is fucking my estranged husband: I'm sorry. This is petty and embarrassing and nut-so crazy inappropriate. I feel bad for you, because if you do end up with Bat Shit husband...well, that's what you're going to get. He is so good at making me look crazy that I tend to believe it, but the facts stand as they are, and as emotionally unstable as I may be right now, I can pierce deeply in to reality. But what I'm about to do isn't right:

Other Woman                                                                Me

Blog readers, look at this comparison picture. Look at how I see myself. He has me convinced that I am lower than her physically. That is my perception of myself. And I know logically that this is not correct. This is a cautionary tale: Don't live like this.

Positive Affirmation - Not just for Alcoholics, Middle Aged Women and the Overweight.

My mother always tells me, "You have to be who you want to attract." Meaning who you become involved with is often a direct reflection of you.
Given that, it definitely makes sense that I've had a string of total bags o' crap.
So obviously, for a lot of reasons, I need to make some major changes.
And I definitely need to work on my friggin self esteem. Thus, I have picked up some post-it notes. Whenever I think something positive about myself, or my situation, I write it on one of those little, yellow, sticky notes and I stick it up on my fridge. After my fridge, the bathroom mirror, after the bathroom mirror, the walls, so on and so forth.
I plan to wallpaper my house with self esteem.

My Affirmations:

There are people who think unflattering things about it. Their opinions don't matter.
Most people who believe that I am psychotic-crazy (I'm just regular type crazy), whorish, vindictive, etc. Don't know me, they know my ex. And he lies, a lot. Anyone who believes him is stupid. And generally the people who think these things, are pretty trashy.
Everyone I have in my corner loves me.
I have the best friends and family in the world. Enough said.
I actually do get hit on, a lot.
Even if BatShit husband tells me I'm disgusting, my kids tell me I'm beautiful every day.
And they are the only ones who matter.
I deserve to take a shower, at all costs.
And the people around me deserve to have me take a shower.
This state I'm in, cannot and will not last forever.
That cute guy in the garage out back keeps trying to talk to me. He sees I have kids, and finds me attractive enough to pursue me anyway.
If I could just get over myself and my marriage enough to do more than just silently walk away....

And on my bathroom mirror:
Your loss, Bat Shit husband. Your loss.

You have reached the voicemail box of....a recovering verbal batterer.

I finally did it. I am changing my effing number.


All the domestic violence advocates out there would say what a good positive choice this is, would commend my strength and conviction to change...and I would unabashedly have to admit that, in my case, that is a big bag o' shit. It was more of an act of God, per say.


I dropped my cell phone in a full tub of bathwater while juggling phone calls, bathing my boys, brainstorming words that rhyme with "orange" (to no avail). This was the first in a series of events that culminated in the monumental phone number change.
The phone did not die. But it definitely short circuited. For weeks my text messages were sent haywire to everyone in my call list, my calls were dropped and muffled, my service was shotty at best...and then one morning I woke up and the screen said simply "SIM blocked".
Wtf does that mean?
The only option on the screen was "SOS". My thought process was as follows:
My SIM is blocked, whatever that means. I can't make calls. Pretty sure I won't receive them. I can't live without my phone. It is the epicenter of my life. "SOS", whatever that is, sounds like the appropriate choice.
It wasn't. Let me give those of you as ignorant to this sort of stuff as I am a tip: save "SOS" for incidents where you are at risk of being raped, murdered, or having a heart attack. It's just 911. Why they can't just put that on there instead is beyond me. So SOS is no help, my phone is boycotting my work, kids' school, and social life, it is 7:30am, and I am freaking out, legit. I don't care how pathetic it is. I love my phone like another child...
I put my kids on the bus, lamenting to the driver, then head over to my neighbor's to use their phone. I am put on hold for twenty minutes just to speak to a thickly accented Indian woman named "Anne" (yeah, ok) who asks me to clean the card, take it out, put it back in..like I hadn't desperately tried all that before calling. She informs me that if I have a SIM card assigned to another phone in my phone it will not work, because clearly I am a fucking idiot with twelve billion SIM cards floating around. She finally tells me they can send me a replacement card in 2-7 days, but that it will change my phone number when I get it.
TWO TO SEVEN DAYS?!?! I cannot live without a phone for that long! I am devastated. Utterly devastated. Then "The Meat"'s girlfriend, nickname still pending, drops the biggest revelation of the day on me.
"Maybe this is an act of God," she says, "Now you've lost all your numbers, you can't contact Bat Shit, he can't contact you."
True, true, true. I have a sick and compulsive need to engage with Bat Shit in every ridiculous capacity you can imagine. It's wrong and a waste of time, petty and stupid. Now, in one single SIM blocking divine intervention, it's a non issue.


The bigger blessing in this is, it's helping me to kick a pretty serious habit of mine. I am, I must admit, a verbal abuser.
The words "lazy", "useless", "redneck", "stupid", and "deadbeat" fly out of my mouth and Bat Shit is always on the recieving end of these verbal attacks. My words are my weapons, I sharpen them often. Yeah, yeah...all this is on the blog. But the point of that would be, to complete a variable binge-and-purge cycle on all these negative feelings, so they're out and I'm free and you all get a laugh at my expense.
But no. I aim them right at the people intended and let loose.
It's wrong. It's wrong to imagine one hundred ways the father of your children could die in an accident. It's wrong to fill your free time and night looking up new and interesting insult words in a thesaraus. It's wrong to speak bitterly of your ex with your children mere feet away. Kids are like wet cement. Everything that falls on them makes an impression. Oh, and they weigh you down and stick you at home. But that's another story...
But let's face it, it is normal. And unfortunately, even the unacceptable becomes excusable when it fits the conventional norm.
I endured physical, emotional verbal abuse from this man. I know what it feels like. So why do I throw these verbal daggers right back?? It's called reactive violence. Probably part of some PSTD, because I have it, thank you Bat Shit husband. But it's wrong and exhausting and leaves me in a state of constant anxiety.
My cell phone made a stand for me. Cut the crap, cut the contact, let it go. Forget about it. Stop letting this man get to you and consume your thoughts and feelings.
I've been having panic attacks lately. Or at least they feel like them, it's suffocating anxiety. At work, at home, out with friends...Bat Shit takes over my mind and I obsess and worry and self-deprecate, I live in "what if" and "if only" and regret.
But i haven't felt it in days since the phone passed away. It's a fucking vacation.


RIP former cell phone, RIP former life.

The story of Domestic Violence: Yes, I am still alone.

At this point in my life, I mildly loathe all men.
It's unfair, biased, and ridiculous, but every time a man shows any slight interest in me, I go through what I like to call the "Kate downward spiral of romantic self destruction."
a. I assume he is trying to use me in some way. I'm broke, overwhelmed, I have little interest in sex...I can offer you nothing, buddy. Move on.
b. You're still talking to me. You must be crazy. As you speak, I am assessing you for signs that you are a sociopath.
c. Oh, you coach little league? Child Molester. You may be a decent guy, but I now hate you. I have convinced myself you have anger problems, are lazy and manipulative, and have a wife and children at home. I am looking for concrete flaws to pick out and use to mock you.
d. Enter sarcastic comments about: (clothing, job, name, facial features, mentioned interest)
e. You are awkwardly trying to deflect my insults and leave the conversation. You might have been interested in me a few minutes ago, but I'm not worth all this.
f. You leave. I assure myself that you were planning on killing me and eating me after the drinks you mentioned at the Sandbar, or that you wanted to get me intoxicated so you could move in to my apartment the very next morning and drain every last little financial resource I have.

I am such a freakin' charming catch. Why am I still single?!?

In my defense, you try marrying a guy that leaves you perpetually pregnant, rarely works, beats the ever-loving crap out of you for a few years and then "graduates" to just calling you a whore and degrading your genitals. His fidelity? Questionable. His I.Q.? Comparable to that of a piece of french toast.

Male half of the species, feel my wrath. I will punish you all for this mans misdeeds.

And behind my man-hating rage, I kind of feel like crap about myself, most of the time. Mission accomplished, Bat Shit.

He tells me I have a cavernous, gaping vagina. Now, I can assure you, the first thing that I do in the morning is NOT check to see how my vagina looks. But, eh, do I really want to venture into sexual relations with someone new when it is questionable as to whether or not I'm going to need to sell tickets for a mystical Cave of Wonders tour? He tells me I'm stupid. I'm probably not. In fact, I'm nearly certain that the combined IQ of his family tree is 47, legally retarded. I have more teeth in the right side of my head than his immediate family, total. But I can't always be certain that I'm really the one with the last laugh...twisted, right?

Domestic violence counselors will tell you about the cycle of abuse, about power and control, how the whole objective of these relationships is to wear the victim down until she (or even he) is a shell of who they were. Most people off the street can tell you that. What isn't so commonly known, is that a lot of time, the roles of aggressor-victim are blurred over time. The aggressor plays victim, and the victim gets aggressive...things spiral out of control faster than a bad night in Tijuana.
He has two arrests, you have countless bruises, he scares away all your friends and family...but you're the bad guy. He threatens to kill you, the kids you have in common and all your family, but you're the one who's crazy. He gets tackled by the cops after slitting his wrists and threatening suicide, but it's all your fault.
If you could just shut your mouth when he told you "enough", he wouldn't have to hit you. He's never hit any one before, it's something in you that brings it out. He hates you and wants you to die, he loves you more than anyone ever has or ever will, and he can't live without you.
The social workers come in and take your kids. Your daughter is throwing violent tantrums and calling her dolls "nasty whores". You cry every night, wondering what happened. You stay with him, because that's the only way he says you will ever see your children again. You make a move and leave him, and the social workers say if you hadn't, you never would have seen them again. But he still says YOU'RE the bad parent.
You have custody, and he doesn't. But you're the worst mother in the world.
The first rule of leaving the abuse behind, take it from me: live in reality. Because the aforementioned, is not reality.
The aftermath is, you can't trust yourself. How could I now? I lived like this for YEARS, people. I believed that every warped and twisted lie that came out of his mouth was truth, absolute. Living with this man was like looking at the world around me through a kaleidoscope. Everything is distorted, fragmented. Coming out of that, I have to imagine, is like kicking a hard drug. You question everything around you.
I try every day to live in reality. I try to remember that not every man that approaches me wants to control me, use me, murder me, or diddle my kids. But it's hard. Look at what I chose to marry, look at how I chose to father my children.
How can I really trust my own judgement??

My Ode to the whole freakin' BatShit Clan.

Ok, Parker. Me, Holding things back? Nah.
Parker of Fuck you Friday (which will probably win a Pulitzer by the time I'm done posting, because he, like me, is super-famous on the web), left me a comment on my "Bad Judgement Call" post for leaving out what I said to Mama BatShit.
Me, holding things back? Nuh, uh, buddy...I am totally unfiltered.
So I will elaborate. But I HAVE TO leave out personal details about their family that I so kindly threw into her fat redneck face, classy lady that I am. Why? Well, I'm already going to hell. I don't want to get into the "sodomized with a pineapple and made to listen to ICP" section. Ok??
So, as soon as this woman alluded that she was aware of "my opinion" of her family, I let loose. Like a thirteen year old girl, via text message.
Well, in my defense, trashy woman like to yell a lot when you start telling them undeniable truths about their own menial existences. Somehow, to these woman, if they can't hear the words coming out of your mouth, it never happened, and is somehow less true. You can't yell over written word. Black and white, there is it, ready to seek and destroy.
So, I told her what I thought. I will tell you all what I think, ahem, PARKER.
Follow me here, though. You need some back story. Otherwise I just come off as the most heartless human being on the planet. I am not. So follow me on the back story.
The reason I am getting divorced, blogging, raising my children alone and ready to move on with my life is:
My husband used to beat me.
Big surprise, right? Me, with the eight billion children under the age of six, with the cutoff jean shorts, pack of Newports, crappy apartment and depressing finances...has an abusive husband?! Preposterous! But yes, it is true. And domestic violence is no laughing matter.
But fat rednecks are.
So, I told Mama BatShit was an incredible enabler she is. That she raised my husband and his siblings to believe, conclusively, that this sort of behavior (as well as the recreational use of drugs, alcohol, and questionable parenting) is somehow acceptable, excusable, some one else's fault.
Which is true. When I was seven months pregnant, BatShit and I got into an argument. I am a total bitch, particularly in arguments, if you couldn't tell. I spew venom like a damn camel spider. He knocked me unconscious, seven months pregnant with his eldest son. WHILE ON THE PHONE WITH HIS MOTHER. What did this vestige of materal wisdom do? Call the police? Call an ambulance? Admonish her son for his bad behavior and insist he seek intervention immediately? Nope. It was my fault. If I wasn't so mean to her son, if I didn't compare him to my ex's when I got angry, if I could just do what he told me to, what he wanted me to do, then he wouldn't get pushed so far as to hit me. Pregnant. With his child.
Clearly, she is a genius.
Shittiest. Mother. Ever.
So, this is why I call her an enabler. It's not mincing words. It's what she is.
I brought up a couple instances of trauma in BatShit's life that are clearly her fault. It is our job as parents to protect our children. I won't let my own husband beat or degrade me in front of our children. For their protection. I would never let harm come to them. She did. To all of her children. They are dysfunctional, poorly educated, unhappy, petty adults because of it. Mothers are supposed to protect their children, it's the basic task of parenthood, an animalistic instinct. Well, guess what, Mama Batshit? You FAILED.
And now my children suffer for it.
I congratulated her on raising a unemployed, thirty-something, mentally ill abusive loser.
I told her next time she wants to blame someone for his problems, she should look in a mirror.
And I told them all, they need to stay the fuck away from my children.
For pretty good reason.
To elaborate, here are some awesome bits of parental advice I have recieved from the BatShit clan:
If a toddler gets in to the biting phase, simply bite them back. Toddlers have no empathy. They are not mature enough to develop it. So "ouch, it hurts when mommy bites me", does not equate to "it hurts when I bite others". And besides, isn't biting a child included in the statute of child abuse?
Children can be allergic to organic foods. Don't even get me started.
BatShit himself told me of a "home remedy" for colic that included cigarette smoke, a plastic bottle and a child's forehead, and anotherone that included (yikes!) feeding a child a mixture of kerosene and sugar. His sister tried this on his nephew. Luckily, the child is still alive. So much for natural selection...
Mama BatShit feels it is appropriate to bail the father of your children out of jail with the kids in tow. She did it.
Mama BatShit feels it's appropriate to leave your children with a friend while you go on a bender, with no definite return date. On Easter. She did it.
Mama BatShit thinks if a man abuses his wife in front of the kids, it's ok. It's a problem between the parents. Her son did it, and she told state social workers this.
Am I crazy??? Or are they???
I would apologize for embarrassing any of the BatShit family, if in fact, it were my fault. Simply put, they embarrass themselves by being so damn crazy. I can, and will, slowly come out about my faults, bad decisions and struggles. Because I can identify them, proccess it, and move on. I have a little something called "perspective." Redneck former inlaws, kindly locate a dictionary, look up the word, and think about it.

I have too many children.

Today, I accomplished a great feat worthy of the Nobel Peace Prize. No, I didn't cure cancer, end world hunger or erradicate terrorism. I got all my children, the number which is more than two but less than five, ready to get their bus in seven minutes flat. Woke up, 7:51am, out the door to wait for the bus, 7:58am. Yes, there were tears. I barked orders like a drill Sargent. I felt bad. But WE DID IT.
I remember lying in bed next to my husband, tracing hearts over his bare chest, talking about a "large family". It sounded sort of nice. A bunch of little Kate-and-hubby clones, running barefoot in the yard, their dad chasing them and eliciting raucous laughter as I stood on the deck with a big pitcher of homemade lemonade.
Yeah, right.
Now I have as many children as I've had my heart broken. They are not puppies, that poop and pee in the yard and can be bathed one a week. No. My brood are all under four years old, with only one NOT in diapers. All those baths every night, teeth brushed a.m. and p.m., snacks, diaper changes, boo-boos kissed, fights broken up, scrawled and scribbled pictures to admire...outfits to pick out and wrestle over defiant little heads, bedtime stories to read and nighttime fears to overcome. And forget about the expense....having a "large family" is a full time job in itself. I am exhausted most of the time.
And doing it alone??
I am low-income. Conclusively. I spend many sleepless nights adding, subtracting, multiplying and praying.  And in some ways, I meet the criteria perfectly. My kids are nearly always barefoot and dirty. I wear cutoff jeans more than I'd like to admit. My husband walked out and has little interest in our finances or daily life. We get in to nasty fights when he calls. I drink. I smoke cigarettes, a lot.
But every day I work to break that stereotype. It's my personal affirmation.
My preschooler knows what Ratatouille is, and not just the Disney movie. We don't have cable, and the T.V. is not a baby sitter. We eat extremely well. We cook together, recipes from all over the world. We go to church on Sundays, where my whole full-time nursery class sits (more or less) quietly in the pew as our Pastor reaffirms our faith and then they all shuffle off to learn about God as I sit and pray for penance for my shortcomings and the terrible things I've thought, and usually said, all week. I read to my kids, every night, from birth on. My house is not sparkling, but most of the time it's clean. We are the typical low-income white trash family on the surface, but look deeper, and we're so much more.
When my daughter was the only child, she was spoiled. Name-brand clothing, more toys than your local daycare center, vacations to Florida to visit Mickey and vacations up North to see the first snow and my Father-in-law. But, kids are expensive. We've had to adjust, severely. At first I was miserable, guilt ridden. We're broke. Everyone's laughing at me. I can't provide as well as I should. But in having WAY too many children and not nearly enough money, I've learned so much.
You have your bachelor's in pyschology? Yeah, well I have A doctorate in my children's pyschology. When you're broke, overwhelmed and overworked, all you have left in your spare time is to revel in your little miracles. I know how to elict laughter, who gets along with who, what will unavoidably turn to tears. I know it all. I know that one week at Disney World is worth a lot less than a whole summer worth of walks to the playground, cookouts in the driveway, late night movie nights and days at the beach. I know that all the toys in the world cannot possibly be as fun as all gathering in the kitchen to bake a batch of chocolate chip cookies. I know that no educational dvds or "learning systems" can hold a candle to what we learn exploring the world together, that no one can teach my children to read better than I can, brandishing our beat-up copy of "Mr. Brown can Moo, can You?" for the eight millionth time. I hate to be cliche, but when it comes to money and children, less can be more. When your resources are limited, you find yourself improvising in ways you never thought was possible. And as much time and work as it is, more is more with children. You think your heart is finite, that with each child it cannot grow to accomidate all the space required to love this family ballooning in front of your eyes. But my love for my children is endless...this I have learned. I couldn't imagine my life without them, each and every one.
I'd be lying if I said that my life was complete, though. There is a tinge of resentment in everything I do; it's dark and toxic and menancing. A longing for some semblence of an adult identity outside of offical poop-wiper and monster-sprayer. It makes me snap when I wish I wouldn't, it makes me collapse in bitter exhaustion at this end of the night and stare at my cell phone, wishing it would ring, knowing it won't.
I read somewhere that having children doesn't neccessarily make you happier. In polls, people with children can actually be less happy than those without. I can believe it. The question I leave you with, the question I've had hanging in my own head - how do you balance the wonderful identity you find in yourself when you have children, with the identity you had before??

Bad judgement calls, Stop calling my friends, and the Story of being alone.

From herein forth, my estranged husband will be referred to as, "BatShit". Make a note, all this baby momma drama is getting my weave all tangled.

Ok, so, generally I am a non confrontational person. Meaning I am a big giant sissy who is afraid of people yelling at me, thinking unflattering things about me, or become aggressive with me. I am also fed up with my tribe of children running me ragged, my generally unsatisfying work situation, my crappy apartment, and my lack of anything personally fulfilling to do. Short story, I'm a pissed-off bad mama-jama. So if you're going to ask my opinion, think really really hard.
Or, you could be my brain dead, four hundred pound, drug addict former mother in law. And if that's the case, then around 4:00pm yesterday, you received a  big steaming dump of truth all over your washed up, worn out bulldog face.
I would love to post what I said, internet public. I know you want to hear it, because you're all going to hell. I can't. Way too personal. Probably the worst thing I've ever said to anyone, hands down.
But she made the mistake of assuming she knew my opinion of her family.
This is all I can say: dysfunction is a long-term pattern. It starts up top, with someone who should never have been allowed to breed, who creates more parents that should subsequently not be allowed to breed due to receiving NO  parenting/life skills from the aforementioned ill-suited parent, so and and so forth. There are plenty of means of intervention and education available to stop the cycle, I've engaged in a TON to be the best mother I possibly can, because, I am no saint. But there are families out there that are so stuck in being big pieces of crap, they won't even acknowledge their problems. The rest of the conventional parenting world and our "new fangled ways" are ruining the way THEY raised their children - into crazy woman beaters, women with four plus different baby-daddys, women whose children are generally raised by the state more than them because they are BAT SHIT crazy. Men who drink, drug and run wild while some one else cares for their children...generally innocent children who are raised into real-life examples of every social problem well-meaning philanthropists are fighting to eradicate on a daily basis.
It was a bad judgement call. I'm probably going to have the whole redneck army rushing from the trailer after me, ill-fitting T shirts blowing and beer cans a-blazing.
But, hey, I got it out.

Which brings me to my next rant. Dear BatShit, if I don't want to take your phone calls, as the woman who cooked your meals, raised your children and slept beside you in bed all these years....why would my friends? Stop calling my friends. They are repulsed by you. We drink wine at night and in between my incessant self deprecation (or, as it comes out after a couple glasses, self defecation, which is a whole other ball of...well, poop) We taunt you, mercilessly. We pray for your children. I make heartfelt promises to keep them away from the trailer park and everything that you are made of (beer, low self esteem, and everything uneducated). I thank God that I never took your last name, and we speculate that that fact saved my teeth from rotting out of my head. I hate you. STOP CALLING MY FRIENDS.

Yup, the gloves are coming off. I am a bad person. I probably have a seat reserved for me next to Hitler in hell.

Which is my Story of Being Alone:

I hate being alone. I hate feeling like I am responsible for all this, all by myself, on a daily basis. Being alone makes me depressed, which makes me angry....which builds until I blow up, generally on BatShit, which makes me look crazier, which pushes me further into being alone....and such is the cycle.
I play this game on my cell phone, Battle reversi. I lose, constantly. Every move that I make, as soon as I make it, I see how the computer is going to block me, immediately. I think that is a good analogy for my life at this point. Ninety percent of the things that I do, as soon as I do them, there is an "oh shit" moment, where I realize exactly what I have done. The problem is, both in the game and in my life, is I haven't learned what moves to make in lieu of the ones that are going to make me lose.
But for now, I'm still single, spitting venom at my ex, and losing in Battle Reversi.

Return of the Ex

"One of these things is not like the others..."
In my family, that odd-fitting piece  is about three and half feet tall, dark, unruly curls, irrepressibly sweet and cursed with a different last name than the rest of the family and freckles that don't match anyone else. My daughter.
When I was eighteen, as a result of a stupidly high BAC level and an ill-advised feud with my parents, my beautiful daughter was conceived. From the moment I felt the first twitches of life within my belly, I was head-over-heels in love. To this day, years later, she is still my little soul mate.
But, for her biological father, not so much.
It always makes me wonder, back then and now all over again, what is it wired in the minds of fathers that allows them to detach from their own flesh and blood so easily. It amazes me. What amazes me more though, it that I have the preternatural ability to seek out men predetermined to do so not once, but twice, within the last seven years. Amazing. Thank God the ability to bear children has been ripped from my womb. With the average I'm batting, I really wouldn't want to tempt fate.
Anyway, the point of all this: The WORST WEEKEND OF MY LIFE.
I found out, through a mutual friend who will herein be referred to as "DeepThroat" to respect confidentiality and preserve my source, had informed me that my daughter's father was expecting another baby.
Ok, I got remarried and had...a few...more babies after this guy. I can't be pissed on principal, or jealousy...but....he walked out on our daughter and never looked back. Not a dime in voluntary child support, no visits, phone calls, birthday cards, nothing. So if you fail at something that conclusively, isn't it just common sense not to do it again?
Nope, people, not for this one.
DeepThroat slides me TheEx's phone number through a text message. I look at it, ten digits, locked and loaded and ready to deliver my wrath.
Let me stop for a minute and clarify something. You know that "bigger person" people always tell you about when you're royally pissed? That picture of morality and calm, who understands what a waste of time and energy petty little fights and mind games are. I'm a mother, I attend church. I pray. A lot. I should be that "bigger person". But I'M NOT. I am a scandalous bitch. If I wasn't so petty, you'd never see me type a damn word.
So, being the amazingly mature person I am, while my children ride their bikes in my driveway and debate how big is too big for a $20 WalMart Diego tricycle, I send my first contact:
Me:____, are you fucking retarded?
TheEx: (must know my number): wth are you talking about? (For anyone who lives under a rock, is an Amish person who came across my blog while exploring the modern world at age eighteen, or my mother, who I HOPE never reads this, "wth" is "what the hell." I'll let you figure out what "wtf" is.)
Me: You already tried the whole parent thing. If you can't take care of the one you have, what makes you think you can have another one?? And drugs, still, really? You need to fix this, or you're going to lose another child. I can't believe you'd even think having another kid while all fucked up on drugs is an option.
TheEx: (Over several different text messages, in several different ways) I'm clean, sober, and not having any more kids.

DeepThroat is a good source, relatively non-biased. TheEx is a pathological liar who probably has some vested interest in not having me find out about the aforementioned second bastard child. And I'm not fucking retarded. He manages to unwittingly corroborate some details from the story originally recounted to me. Obviously all odds point to drugged up father-to-be, again.

But this is not the interesting part.

He keeps texting.

I keep texting back.

I am getting irritated.

He is proposing that we get back together.

He finally admits to having a girlfriend. The first name he uses matches the name of said PregnantGirlfriend mentioned by DeepThroat.

I quote, a text message received from TheEx at 2:43pm, 07-24-2011: (quoted verbatim, bad grammar/spelling intact)
TheEx:I know im with somebody,  but honestly noone has cared about me as much as you did kate. You were only a bitch to me because you saw the the path of destruction I was. chosing and you didnt want to see me go down it. I honestly have always had love for you. And have always regretted walkung out on you n ____. You were my first an only true love an if I could ever have it back I would drop what I was. doinv in a heart beat. I wanna know what I have to do to make  things right again. For us. And _____, reguardless of this fling I have I still care about you a lot. You still have a beatiful voice a great personlity ann your the smartest person I know.

Ok, first of all, you can't unring a bell. When you leave a woman alone to care for an infant with no visible means of support, cause a bunch of problems in her life that snowballs into her seeking the support of a man who later becomes her husband who beats the ever-loving shit out of her, has her pop out a few more kids to eventually do the same damn thing that you did in the first place, there's bound to be hard feelings. Secondly, when all signs point to YOU HAVE A PREGNANT GIRLFRIEND...well, that doesn't make you a particularly standup guy. Thirdly, thanks for putting another nail in the coffin that houses my desire to ever step back out on the dating scene. I was going to finally post my "Kate's Date's Blind Date" add today. Instead I'm going to go home, pork down an entire case of Hagan Daas and lonely, peruse the "cat adoption" adds. Thanks.

But, seeing as I am a scandalous bitch, but not a total shit bag, obviously my answer to TheEx is a resounding: "NO." And if anyone knows of DeepThroat, TheEx, and PregnantGirlfriend, you might want to mention this to PregnantGirlfriend. Oh, and that she's:
TheEx: 3:07pm 07-24-2011: Just another person I try to replace you with. An I always end.up unhhappy an think about what I could have had if I had cleaned up my act then instead of now.

And that yes, she can do better, she can raise that baby alone, and for fuck's sakes, both of you, STAY OFF THE DRUGS.


Oh, on an unrelated note, if "Kate's Date's" on fb can get 500 likes on or before 08-05-2011, I will PERSONALLY picket a "KATE'S DATE'S - BLIND DATE ME!!!" sign at several major rotaries/highways and video tape it, stream it, and post it to the blog, youtube, and facebook. Pinky Swear.

Depressing.

So I took a walk to downtown today. I don't know why I thought it would clear my mind - it was at least 100 degrees and stifling. I'm walking, and a scruffy looking guy approaches, herein referred to as "The Desperate Vagrant".
Desperate Vagrant: You have a lighter?
What, do I exude "smoker"? But yes, I do.
Me: Sure. (rifles through pockets)
Desperate Vagrant: So, where you headed?
Are you kidding me? 
Me: Court.
Desperate Vagrant: Oh, did you get in some trouble?
Me: Yeah, sort of. I snapped on my baby daddy and stabbed him. They're prosecuting. i might get lucky, he's still in the hospital and I don't think he can testify.
Desperate Vagrant: (Fumbles to light cigarette as I wait for my lighter, awkward) Some guys are such assholes, eh? Seriously? So how many kids do you have?
Me: (What I see as clearly irritated, still waiting for my lighter)Eight.
Desperate Vagrant: Wow. You look too young. (At this point just holding my lighter)
Me: Yeah, well some of them are my brother's. I met a guy, had a few more, and then he just begged me to stab him - I snapped. It's too bad. He was my favorite cousin.
Desperate Vagrant: (STILL holding my lighter) Wow. You need some company on the way there?
Kill me now. Are you shitting me??? Fuck it. No lighter is worth this.
I walk away, abandoning the lighter and the quite possibly mentally retarded vagrant on the side of the road. I take the long way home, not taking any chances.
Is this really my prospects? The first interaction with a member of the opposite sex in MONTHS.
Things aren't looking good, people.

I'm Not Daddy, I'm me.

If this is a story about redemption, I guess I should start with my kids.
There are four types of divorce. Amicable divorce, where the marriage does nothing more than fade into dusk like a sunset. Mutual, no flaming emotion - lack of emotion is the reason for the marriage dissolving in the first place. There's contentious divorce, where one party just can't let go, even after the other has packed her bags, walked out the door. The papers become a tether, the final break in a one-sided bond. There's volatile divorce, where there is so much hatred that even after it's over, the fighting never really stops. You've just stepped outside to do it. And then there's my divorce, so sick and twisted I can blog about it. Where both people swing between absolute detest and false hope of a better tomorrow. Where the marriage turns on itself, every intimate moment and personal detail is just another bullet in the chamber. The divorce papers are a vague, false threat, a sobering reality, a terrible implosion that sucked my whole world into a hateful void, in that order.
Add children to any of these, and the volatility multiplies exponentially. I know best. No matter who "I" am. And like my dad always said during his divorce and consequent custody battles, "He who has the kids has the power."
Since when is marriage and parenting about power?
As soon as you step into court.
I love my children, absolutely. Entirely, unequivocally. I have made more sacrifices and endured more pain than is humanly reasonable to those without children. But if you have kids, you understand.
Mommy, do "martyr" and "mother" rhyme?
We love our children because they are a part of us. We don't have children, we receive them. An ethereal gift from our own bodies.
So what happens when we lose ourselves? If our children are a part of us, a reflection, what happens when we can no longer stand ourselves?
Or worse, the other parent? The other part of the proverbial minor-dependent puzzle?

Which brings me to this:
My son said something all together too profound for 7am this morning. He didn't mean to; he's two and a half. But it hit me. Out of nowhere. A six car pileup on an otherwise sunny and uneventful morning.
"Mommy, I'm not Daddy. I'm _____."
This child is the spitting image of his father. He has his mannerisms, his temper, his name. Everything about him is shaped into his father's image. And he's difficult. Painfully difficult.
Moreso since I finally separated from his father.
He's not daddy. He's him. And I am supposed to love him, unconditionally. And I do. But I don't like him.
I know why he said it. He knows he's named for his father, his sister and neighborhood kids tell him this. He wants to assert himself. He needs to be separate. Is it just his name? Or does he sense I struggle to give him his own identity? Does he feel stuck in the crossfire, by something that he can't even control? His own birthright?
This is supposed to be simple. We don't love each other, we hate each other. We can't be in the same room, let alone the same household. Our marriage didn't dissolve. It burst into flames.
But here I am, left to solely support my band of children and run my household. Boo-boo kisser, personal chef, nurse, cheerleader, personal care assistant, chauffeur,  referee. I knew he wouldn't help as soon as he left. I had to get rid of him regardless. I knew what I was doing. So why am I still angry.
On the surface, it's a., b., c., d. Love, marriage, children, not necessarily in that order. Fights, tears, someone moves out. Now we have to move on. I shoulder this responsibility, I bear this cross, because my ex never could. There's the martyr again. Oh well. But it's so much more. It's the end of an era, it's a lifetime of regret, of wasted time, money and resources. It's the death of my girlhood dreams and romantic fantasies, it's the hard reality of what SINGLE MOM means. It's the birth of distrust of men, the slight glimmer of hope that there's someone out there who gets me. Who I get. Someone not tethered to me by children we have in common or a stupid piece of paper of a semi-convenient living situation. The hope for love.
The other day, I let my daughter have a "sleep over" of sorts in her room with her brother. We try not to talk about their father  because he is not a presence. But you can never forget. She tells me, "This is so cool, mom. Daddy would never let us do this."
Well, I'm not daddy. I'm me. 

This is the stupidest idea three glasses of Sutter Homes have ever given me...or is it?

This is a story of redemption, true love and second chances. The harrowing tale of a victim finding empowerment. Or, it's just me leaving my hoard of children with "The Meat" and "The Meat's Girlfriend" (my hetero life partner....nickname to be determined at a later date), while I engage in quazi-drunken desperate acts of dating, hoping to find a man I DON'T wish a terrible mac truck accident upon. So...do I sell myself now, or do I convince you that I don't really care who reads?
Or am I unabashedly honest?
Let's go with the latter.
I am way too young, have a tribe of children, a shitty apartment, a crazy ex husband and the best friends money can buy. Well, almost. I have no money. so I guess they're shitty friends?? We have put our children to bed and had three glasses of Sutter Homes White Zindfanel at this point. I am slightly intoxicated at this point, and will most likely wake up tomorrow to make my children pancakes while feeling like a bag of smashed assholes. Such is life. I will regret internet whoring myself tomorrow....possibly.

I am waaaay too sexy and outrageous for  you, internet public. I need to date. My life depends on it. Date me. I am desperate, and easily drunk. I don't want you to play father to my children. Chances are you'd suck at it anyway.

More to come when I find a date.