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 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.