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.

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??

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??

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.