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.