Letter to My Father’s Mistress- A.K.A. CUNT

Theresa,

 I know you and my father have had a close “friendship” for years.  

Do you remember around 15 years ago when my mom was out of town, and you were repeatedly calling my parents house late at night?  Every time I answered, you would hang up.  Well that is because you thought I was my mom answering.  At 15 I knew exactly what the fuck was going on.

 You are obnoxious, pathetic and I have always thought this about you.  Who gets a boob job and then goes into a married man’s business to show off her new fun bags?  A woman who craves attention and being wanted from the most off limit source: a married man.  

Here we are 15 years later and now I am VERY aware of what the fuck is going on here.  I know things about you that I doubt you even know about yourself.  I know that you are aware of the letter my mother received.  Anonymously sent to her telling her my father was having an affair.   Typed with no return address.  That letter wasn’t to help my mom out.  That wasn’t the kind of letter someone sends someone when you sincerely feel bad for them, and are trying to offer up information to spare her from future heartbreak.  No, that was a letter to hurt.  Fortunately it didn’t.  You know what I think?  I think you sent that letter to try to stir shit up. I would say from your history with men, that you are used to getting what you want.  The decrease in attention from him must suck huh?  That’s what happens when you fuck with a married man.

Isn’t your usual M.O. older men who are unattractive but make up for it with their loaded bank accounts?   Pretty sure one of those men ponied up the cash for those new boobs you bought.   Well my dad is good looking for an older man, but he funnels his money into real estate, and his grandchild’s college fund.  I can assure you no matter how sexy you try to be, he will never pay for your house, buy you a car, pay for a face lift, or..what is that new procedure older women are getting?  Vaginal rejuvenation?  Yes, I believe that is it.  Ironically he hates boob jobs.  Although he is a feeling sparer, I am sure he told you he loved them.

You need to check your ass and back the fuck up.  I don’t care what kind of a “relationship” you have with my dad.  My dad isn’t your therapist, your shoulder to cry on, or your go-to person.  Find a  therapist, a girlfriend, a family member, a non-married man for comfort.  Back the fuck up and sever the contact.  I will be having a long talk with him about him doing the same.  It does take two to communicate after all.

I am sorry that you have had a string of fucked up relationships.  Perhaps instead of being a gold digger, or going after married men, you should ask yourself what you really want.  If you want someone to shower you with attention, and make you feel special (which is what you scream to me) then go find yourself a 22-year-old who will brag about his cougar girlfriend.

I think you know exactly what you are doing, and I definitely know exactly what you are doing.  You need to back the fuck up.  

 

The Daughter

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A Letter to My Creepy Mailman

Dear “Creepo”

I need you to know that you have officially passed the line of overly friendly mailman to official creep that I avoid at all costs.  When I am mowing the lawn (which I actually love to do) don’t approach me to talk about whatever it is you think is important enough to force me to turn off the mower twice so I can hear you.  Since I actually enjoy mowing the lawn this is comparable to trying to strike up a conversation with someone who is in the middle of a workout.  After all I am sweating my ass off and focusing on my straight lines in the lawn.

Your talking and talking is obnoxious.  Some people are talkers.  I am one myself.  So for me to say your talking is excessive is saying a lot.  You have done kind things, like taking the extra garbage can from the unoccupied house down the street and moving it to mine so I had two receptacles, without me ever asking.  Although I doubt that is legal because technically we pay for each can.

But Bernie when you wrote this on the back of a birthday card that was mailed to me, you crossed the line. You WROTE on my mail (which unless an urban legend I swore that is illegal), I repeat, YOU WROTE on my mail.  What you wrote is the most disturbing.

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You LOVE my HAT? What the fuck is that?  Because the last time I checked I have NEVER seen you when I was wearing any of my hats.

Keep your pen off my mail.

I Have a 42″ Little Man Who Has Mastered the Poker Face

So my 4-year old has taken on the role of an impressive little liar.

I was discussing this newfound behavior with a friend who has a 4-year old daughter.  He said that he can always tell when she is lying to him because her eyes dart around and she can’t look at him.

Not my little guy.  When I ask him if he is lying, or if he is being honest he plays the game well.  He gives full on eye contact accompanied by the most incredulous look as if he is thinking “I can’t believe you would even question me”

We were at my parents the other day.  They were going out to dinner with friends, and it’s tradition that they rotate hosting after dinner drinks and dessert.  This time up my parents were the hosts.

On the counter lay a very delicious looking pineapple upside down cake.  Fresh from the oven yet to be topped with cool whip.

I was upstairs and came down to the kitchen to see Noah standing in the middle of the room.  His eyes dart from the “cake” on the counter back to me.  “Mommy can I have a piece of that cake?” he asks in a voice as sweet as I bet that cake tasted.

Something about the look on his face, or perhaps the way he asked prompted me to ask “Noah did you put your finger in the cake?”  Mind you, I hadn’t even looked at the cake yet.

His eyebrows shoot up, immediate eye contact.  “No mommy, no, no, no.  I did not put my finger in the cake.”  All the while his arms moving emphatically as if to be backing his statement.  Now if he wasn’t my son, and I didn’t know that my son LOVES anything sweet, I think i would have believed him.

But as I have told him many, many times.  Mommies know EVERYTHING.

And yes we do.

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Dear Mother-I am trying to forgive you

I rarely call you “mom” when I am referring to you, and even though you don’t even know it, it’s my way of secretly punishing you.

I am 31-years old, and the memories of you are carved into my mind like a river.  The river was smooth and relatively normal until I was 7, and after that became a twisty, unpredictable, rocky current.

Remember when I was 7 and I got really sick? Of course you do, the doctors thought I was going to die.  I sometimes wonder if you distanced yourself from me because you were preparing yourself for the worst, but then I realized that was a bullshit excuse I made up in my head to make myself feel better.

Those crazy fucking steroids.  The “miracle” pill they called it.  Saved my life, but turned me into a monster. Gone was your blonde haired, brown-eyed, tan, tiny little daughter.  She morphed into a child that looked like a freak.  If you thought it was hard to look at me with all that excess weight, the moon face, and overall blimp look I took on, you have NO idea how hard it was for me.

The looks, the stares, the sympathy nods from people who had seen me only a month before who were flabbergasted at what I had turned into.  Do you remember that time at the library?  We ran into our neighbor, and he said “My God, what happened to her?”  Even at seven I knew that was some shit you didn’t say to a kid.  The car ride home was filled with awkward silence.  I think you said “I can’t believe he would say that.” But it wasn’t what you said that I remember, it was what you didn’t say.  Mother how your body language spoke and still speaks volumes. You were EMBARRASSED of me.

Not only did that medicine make me fat, it made me CRAZY.  You would like to think maybe my memory doesn’t go back that far, sometimes I wish it didn’t.  When you put a 7-year old on 75mg of Prednisone, it really fucks her world up.  Remember those terrifying panic attacks?  The first one was in the grade school auditorium.  I thought I was dying.  Do you know how scary it is to be so little and to  know that you are so sick you might die?  Then you start having panic attacks that make you feel like you ARE dying?  It’s fucking terrible.

Remember the psychosis, the obsessive compulsive disorder, the mood swings, the constant hunger?  I thought you were trying to poison me, I thought that aliens were going to abduct me.  If I didn’t flip the light switch “just” the right amount of times, something terrible would happen to you or dad.  I would get out of bed, sometimes 10 times a night to unzip my footy pajamas, the red ones.  I would peel them off and search them for bugs.  I knew, just knew there were bugs on my skin or crawling in my jammies. I never did find those bugs, and I never told you about all those scary thoughts because I knew I sounded crazy.

Do you remember when you started obsessing over my looks?  I am sure you worried about me, and maybe that is where your controlling nature took over.  You couldn’t control the disease but you thought you could control what I looked like.  Mother that prednisone was stronger than ANY diet you could ever put me on.

Remember when I was eight the doctors started trying to taper the Prednisone?  You had a “friend” come over and put me on a “diet.”  I knew you were disgusted with me.  I was disgusted with myself.  Unfortunately you missed that I needed you to love me for who I was, more than you needed me to lose weight.  I was 8-years old and was overly aware that in our family excess weight (medically induced or not) was absolutely NOT acceptable.

You watched me like a hawk.  The doctors said to watch the salt intake for water retention.  God forbid I got any fatter!!  You bought every salt free food the grocery store sold.  Everything that passed my lips you had to approve.  You would give me a “look” that meant NO if I went for a “treat” at a family function.   Now that I am older I know that our extended family noticed your obsession too.  I wish I would have realized they knew then.  I felt so alone.

The rest of my childhood was a lot of that…when I was fourteen  you became even more obsessive about my weight.   A freak looking 7-year old was one thing, a thinned out but still slightly overweight 12-year old was another, but to have a teenager who didn’t fit your mold.   Now that was something that needed FIXING.  NOW.

You constantly talked about my weight.

“Nicole you are really putting it on, you need to watch it.”

“How much weight have you gained?”

“Are you seriously going to eat another helping of that?”

“That will never fit you, you are getting a gut.”

As I got older you got meaner.  You must have thought I needed harsher treatment.  When I was fifteen every single night after dinner I would go upstairs, run a bath (to attempt to hide the noise) and throw up everything I had just consumed in front of you.  It felt so fucking good. Out with the food came the anxiety.  I know you fucking heard me.  You had to.  You never said a word.

I quickly figured out it was easier to not eat.  I went from a 5 6″ 140lb healthy teenager to a 108lb anorexic.  You know whats even crazier mother?  That you never said one fucking thing to me as you saw me wasting away.  It wasn’t until dad (who always adored his little girl, bloated and puffy and all) intervened.

I take that back.  One time. One time.  I was walking out of the house in a sports bra and shorts to complete my daily laps around the neighborhood and you said “I don’t think you should lose anymore weight.”  Really mother?  Have I finally hit the right proportions for you?  Because I am FUCKING miserable.  I crave your attention so badly.  I am a good kid, I get good grades, I don’t get in trouble.  You haven’t seen me eat in three months and NOW I meet your approval.  I will never EVER forget how satisfied I felt when you said that.

Dad took me to his friend who was a psychologist.  I was fucking pissed.  I really had nothing to say to this man.  You ruined every ounce of self esteem I had.  You made me feel like I was the most hideous, disgusting human being that existed.  That I didn’t deserve anything, including love if I wasn’t “beautiful” in your eyes.  I used to blame myself.  Told myself I was overreacting.  Finally I realized mother, I was a child. It wasn’t my fault.

Do you remember when you tried to pay me to lose weight?  $7 per pound. Seven was and is my favorite number.  You almost fucking ruined that.  You reassured me that “I could use the money to buy cute new clothes.”  Who fucking does that.  Never good enough, never worth enough.  All I wanted was for you to love me unconditionally.  Through thick and thin.  Literally.

I remember coming down in a new outfit and making the mistake of asking “does this look okay?” I knew what you would say but fuck maybe this time would be different.  God, I wanted you to tell me I looked great, that I was beautiful.  Your response was a blasé “you know you are really getting a gut.”  Crushed.

Remember my first year of college when I got depressed and gained a bunch of weight?  Oh I am sure you do, you probably tucked any photos of me looking like that deep in the pockets of the photo album.  I missed my boyfriend so much.  He was in boot camp.  When I was home for a visit you said “you know, ___ will be coming home soon, you should really use that as some motivation to lose some weight.”  Mother I probably went and sat in my room with the door locked and stuffing my face with a box of crackers while crying.

One time you were going on and on about my weight.  You screamed “Jesus Christ Nicole you CAN’T lose weight??  You used to be anorexic and you are telling me you can’t CONTROL YOURSELF??!!!”  Those words felt like a thousand wasp stings at once.

There was one memory that stood out the most, I think because I was actually happy with my life when you did what you did.  I had a boyfriend who loved me so much.  He thought I was beautiful.  He knew about you and how you acted.

I saw it immediately when I woke up.  There was a note taped to my mirror.  A brief smile crossed my face.  When I was younger you would sometimes leave us notes on the mirror.  “Have a good day, Love you” in that perfect handwriting of yours.  You could be nice.  That was probably during a time when I was ‘beautiful” in your eyes.

As I unfolded the paper that had been so delicately taped to the mirror, my face fell.  It was typed.  Typed meant serious.  You had typed me notes about my weight before.  But you had never ever said anything this cruel.

Nicole-

I am so upset with you I couldn’t even sleep, I am up at 3 a.m. writing this.  You were doing so well with losing weight.  What happened?  You are gaining it back.  I have a question for you?  How do you expect to ever get a husband let alone keep one if you keep gaining weight at the rate you are?  Think about it, if you gain 10 pounds every year, in 10 years you are going to be over 150 pounds overweight.  You are headed in that direction!  Do you think _______ husband is even attracted to her?  She is so big and that is going to be you if you don’t watch yourself.

The tears fell. They fell hard. I went to my parents room and woke my dad to show him the letter.  His face was crushed like mine.  He looked at me and said “you know Nicole, your mom is the way she is, I think you are going to have to learn that you can’t change her and accept this is how she is.” Crushed.  Dad never backed you on the shit you said to me, but he didn’t stand up for me much either. Ironic, dad wanted me to accept you for who you were, but you couldn’t even accept your own daughter.  Pathetic.

After that letter I finally fucking realized I was so done with this shit.  I waited for you to walk in the door after work.  I fucking snapped.  I never cursed at you.

I asked:

“What the fucking FUCK is wrong with you?”

That definitely threw you off guard.  You tried to stutter something (you weren’t used to me standing up to you), but I wouldn’t even let you talk.

“Do you think this is the 19 fucking 50’s?  Do you think that women are supposed to be cookie cutter wives, and our purpose for existence is to look good for our men?”

“Where in the fuck did you learn to act like this?  Dad has never treated you like this, and I sure as hell know that Grammie never treated you like this!!”

“You are fucking nuts, and there is something fucking wrong with you!  Who treats their daughter like this?”

“Do you think guys only fucking marry women because of their looks?”

When I finally said everything I had ever wanted to say to you I realized exactly how much anger I had toward you and how much I hated you then.

Your response mother? You cried.

You cried out “I am a terrible mom, I don’t know why I did that.” It was almost like you were begging me to feel sorry for you.  You pulled the most passive aggressive bullshit and tried to get me to feel sorry for YOU.

When I got pregnant it wasn’t planned.  I knew you were disappointed.  You kept bringing up that I should REALLY consider an abortion.  I fucking wanted to hit you every time you brought it up.  I was 24-years old and responsible for my own actions.  I had a college degree from a stellar private school, my own house, and a fucking job.  In reality you were embarrassed that your daughter was knocked up and hadn’t done things the “right” way.  You were pissed that you didn’t have control. Mother your mind fuck game ended when I got pregnant.  You became the LEAST of my concerns.  Fuck you for trying to pressure me into having an abortion. I loved that baby from the minute I knew I was pregnant.

I will never forget when I was crowned homecoming queen.  I scanned the crowd for you and dad, and dad was already walking towards me with the biggest smile on his face.  This wasn’t about me being the “prettiest.”  I was chosen because I was liked by my classmates, I was kind, people looked up to me, and THAT was what was important.  You didn’t say one word to me that day.  Dad was so proud of his little girl, who had grown into a kind and beautiful soul inside AND out.  You…who knew what the fuck you thought.  But you certainly weren’t happy.

These rivers run deep, and there are miles and miles of distance to cover, but I don’t think the waters are as rough as they used to be.  I think and hope that my sense of self has calmed those waters mother.

I am a good mother, unconditional, and incredibly proud of my son.  I hope he grows up to be like me.  Kind, loving, considerate, and empathetic.  Mother my son will always know that people are not their shells.  He will know that we are all SO much more than that.

DIY PVC Fort

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Okay so I said I wasn’t going to get all crafty on here, but I am.  Noah is always wanting me to build forts.  I would have begged my parents to help me, but fortunately I had a younger brother to boss around.

At our old house everything was closer together so it was easier to throw sheets over random pieces of furniture.  Now that we have moved to a larger place, which I am DEFINITELY not complaining about,  there just hasn’t been much “fort time” since we moved.  So I decided to build one.  Not going to lie, little disappointed that this didn’t turn out anything like the whimsical looking fort in the photo I was trying to recreate.

Today consisted of two trips to Lowe’s, a lot of cursing under my breath, cursing at the blogger whose instructions I was trying to follow (she left out some very important information such as “pieces” and directions), but HEY we are all human.  After all that I finally got the “fort” assembled.  So if you have a little one that needs his or her own “space” or frequently requests you build a “fort” then you are capable of making this!  Tomorrow I will post instructions for the fort, and hopefully if anyone reads this and decides to build one they won’t be cursing me under their breath 🙂

Oh and BEST PART is this whole deal costs only $22.  I used some sheets I had lying around, and maybe one day soon will splurge on some fancy fort sheets for that whimsical look I was going for.

Don’t Judge This Photo Until You Try It (Promise)

ImageOkay, okay if you have even gotten to this point of reading then you are trusting me so far…I know this looks pretty nasty.  But it is DELICIOUS.  Probably not the liner to open a conversation about a recipe I want you to try 🙂  The main ingredients in this recipe are spaghetti squash, chicken (I throw some mango rub on it), spinach, avocados, and lemon juice.  I got this recipe from my favorite paleo blogger Julia from paleomg.com  I would HIGHLY suggest you check her out.  With that being said take my word on this and give it a try.  My cousin begs me to make it…although I haven’t gotten my son on board with it yet.  He is 4, it is green, he freaks out.  He did try a bite of the chicken, I will take that.  Here is the link to the recipe and if you make it please let me know your thoughts!  I would eat this everyday I swear.  Thanks for reading, happy cooking!!

PaleOMG – Paleo Recipes – Creamy Avocado and Spinach Chicken Pasta

Letter to My Fatherless Son-The Truth May Hurt. A Lot.

Snugglebug,

You are only 4 right now, and it will be a long time before I sit you down and tell you the truth about your dad.  I dread that day because I want to keep you in the oblivious bubble of your little world that I keep such a tight seal on.  Mommy never wants to see you hurt.  This is one truth that will hurt, but I hope one day will give you closure and understanding surrounding the mystery of “him.”

When I met your dad mommy was not in a very good place.  I had just graduated from a great private college.  I got a degree in Psychology because mommy always was interested in how people worked.  Mommy got a really stressful job working with abused kids.  I wanted to save them all, I couldn’t save a single one.  I drank a lot.  So did your dad.  So we would drink together. Your dad had good qualities.  He was funny, the life of the party. It was too late before mommy realized he was the life of the party because the party was inside him fueled by things that are not good for your body.   In the beginning he made mommy feel special.  You dad had a lot of problems, but that was part of what drew me to him.  He had a really rough life, and I think I thought he needed someone to love him and he would become a better person.  Snugglebug if there is another lesson I want you to really understand that you can’t change ANYBODY.  When I found out I was pregnant with you, mommy was super scared.  Your dad wasn’t the “daddy” type and I was worried early on that he wouldn’t do the “daddy” stuff a dad should do. I was unfortunately right.

After I got over being scared, I got really excited.  I knew I would be a great mom and love you and protect you and teach you all kinds of amazing things about this world.

Mommy had a high risk pregnancy.  I had a blood factor that caused me to be at risk of losing you at anytime.  Mommy was worried about you all the time.  I would drive two hours a week to the special hospital where they monitored me.  Your dad never came to an appointment.  Wait, actually he did come to the appointment when I found out if you were going to be a boy or a girl.  He was happy you were a boy, and emailed and facebooked every person he knew, before I had a chance to even tell our family.  I was lying on the ultrasound table and he left the room to share the news.  When mommy was getting ready to have you, I took birthing classes.  Your Nana came with me because daddy thought that was “stupid.”

The day you were born was the best day of my life, but also a day that I felt so sad for you. Mommy was in labor for 48-hours. I think you thought my belly was comfy and didn’t want to come out.  My epidural came out (you will understand all of this one day), and your dad came to the hospital 15 minutes before they took me in for a c-section.  Your Nana and Papa never left my side.

Your dad saw you for 20 minutes after you were born.  Then he left.  He wanted to go out and celebrate with his friends.  I remember sitting there holding you looking into the most beautiful face I had ever laid eyes on, my heart ready to burst with all the love I had for you.  After all, I loved you before you were even born.  I didn’t even know you could love someone so much.  The next day all of our family and friends came to see you.  Your dad didn’t show up.  He was still out celebrating.  That night I held you and cried because I felt so sad for you when I looked at your precious face.  How could anyone even set you down, let alone not see you for your first two days of life?  From that day and to this day I have worried about you not feeling wanted.  I worry that you will feel there wasn’t something good enough about you for your dad to want to stay, to get healthy, and be a part of your beautiful life. I knew at that moment your dad and i would never be together, and knew the chances of him being around to be a dad to you were slim to none.

When we got home from the hospital I tried so hard to breastfeed you.  It was much easier in the hospital with the nurses getting me all set up.  Your dad was screaming at me telling me you had to eat.  He went to the store and bought bottles.  Then he left.  Your dad was never home.  He went out every single night drinking and doing drugs.  If he came home before morning, he would go into the bedroom (I was sleeping on the couch with you next to me because it was easier after surgery for me to get up), turn the fan on as loud as it would go, shut the door and pass out.  I know he did this because when you woke up every two hours he didn’t want to hear you cry.

I want you to know you were the easiest baby.  You only cried when you were hungry or needed your diaper changed.  You never, ever frustrated me when you were an infant.  When you would wake up crying ready to eat, I would happily change your diaper in my sleep stupor and gaze into your eyes as you sucked down that bottle.  I was fascinated by you.  I would sit and hold you and stare at you and cry, not because I was sad but because I couldn’t believe that this beautiful boy was mine.

I told your dad he had to move out.  Dads are supposed to feed their babies, change their diapers and bathe them.  But those weren’t even the important things.  They are supposed to hold you, tickle you, ooh and ahh over every face, noise and fart you make.  Mommy sure did.  Do you know that I have over 14,000 photos of you?  You were growing so fast, I think I took so many pictures because I wanted to preserve every minute of you growing up that I could.  Your dad started sleeping in the dirty unfinished basement.  Liquor bottles were everywhere down there.  He didn’t come up unless it was to leave.  Mommy was tired, I would go to Nana and Papa’s house and they would hold you and rock you and cuddle you while mommy would sleep.  They were there through everything.

Papa and I gave you your first bath.  We called Papa the “baby hog.”  Nana would have to tell him when people were coming over that he needed to “share” you because he wanted to hold you all day long.  He was so proud of you.  He immediately started calling you “my boy.”  He was just like a daddy to you.  He adored you and jumped at the chance to change you, feed you, rock you, and snuggle you.

When you were 7-weeks-old something really scary happened.  You started running a fever.  Mommy called the doctor and he told us to meet him on the pediatric unit at the hospital.  You dad was furious with me.  See he had these fear of hospitals and thought I was being dramatic by calling the doctor.  When we got there (and your dad did ride with), there were no other kids on the unit.  Mommy still wasn’t worried I figured your doctor was on call and needed to see you there.  He came into see us and his face had a look that terrified me.  He said we need to do a spinal tap on him immediately.  I told that doctor absolutely not.  I wasn’t going to let them hurt you.  He told me that at your age having a fever can be very serious.  There was a baby with meningitis in the week before and he was worried you could have that too.  I asked him if he had a son what he would do.  He said I would do the spinal tap immediately.  He said you could die in 24 hours.  I told him to do it.  I called Nana and Papa and they came immediately.  Did the doctor just say you could die?  I just met the love of my life and he was telling me you could be gone.  They wouldn’t let mommy go in the room with you for the procedure.  I learned later Papa had convinced them to let him go in.  I heard the most blood curdling scream coming from you.   I had never heard you cry like that.  When they brought you back to me your face was covered with broken blood vessels from crying so hard.  Mommy was a wreck.  Your dad was a wreck of sorts too but his questions to the doctor were “Could I get the meningitis too?” Then he asked the nurse for a POPSICLE and left.  They put you in a crib that looked like a mini jail cell.  Tubes and wires and you looked so fragile.  I slept in the chair next to your bed.  The next day they said that there was something in your fluid but they didn’t think it was meningitis.  They wanted to keep you on the antibiotics for 5 days and make sure nothing developed.  That day I learned I could sleep in the crib with you.  I never left your side those first four days.  I had Nana stop at the house and bring up your Sami the seahorse that played music that you slept with every night.  Also your heartbeat bear.  We were a team, just like we had been from the beginning.  By the fourth day mommy started getting sick.  You see I wasn’t getting much sleep because the nurses would come to check on you every hour, and you would wake up every two hours for your bottle.  Papa told me to go home and get some sleep.  I refused to leave you until he told me that if I got sick I wouldn’t be able to take care of you.  I knew he was right.  If there was anyone to stay with you, Papa was the closest thing to your mommy.  I cried when I left you that night, but I knew you were safe with Papa.  I woke up early the next morning and when I walked in the room I knew Papa had taken GREAT care of you.  We joked that you boys had had a “party” because there were bottles all over the room, the bed, the floor.  There were paci’s everywhere too.  I wish I could tell you that your dad stayed up there those six days watching over you like we did.  He was there for 2 hours total while you were there.  He blamed it on his fear of hospitals.  When you have your own child one day you will realize that you would DIE for your child, and never let ANY kind of fear keep you from them.

Papa finally told your dad he HAD to move out.  He told him that mommy didn’t love him anymore and he had to find a new place in 2 days.  Papa told him to go to rehab for his drinking problem.  He said he would and he moved out.  Your dad was scared of your Papa because he knew that your Papa was more of a dad to you then he had ever been.

When he moved out our house turned into our sanctuary.  There was no more tension, him yelling at me, or talking down to me.  Your dad was not very nice to me.  He said a lot of really, really nasty things to me.  I brushed them off because i had YOU.  I no longer walked on eggshells and we began the real journey of me and you.

It was actually less work for me when your dad moved out.  He had never fed you, bathed you, rocked you, held you or played with you.  He had never been alone with you because I didn’t trust him that he wouldn’t pass out or put you in the car if he had been drinking.  I was used to doing everything for you so nothing changed.  I loved every minute I had with you.

I want you to know I tried to let your dad be a part of your life.  I really did.  I would let him come over to visit you, but he didn’t show up much.  When he came to see you I would try to get the laundry done, the bottles cleaned, because when I was with you I spent all my time WITH you.  His visits consisted of him putting you in your bouncer and getting on the computer saying he was looking for jobs.  He never got one.  It pissed me off so much because how could he not be jumping to hold you when he hardly saw you.  Your dad was sporadic with his visits.  Sometimes it would be months between visits.  He missed your first Christmas, Easter, and Fourth of July.  Your first birthday came and went and he was drinking a lot so I didn’t invite him to your party.  He never even dropped a present off for you. Ever.  Nana and Papa and mommy were always there for those.

You won’t remember when you are older but mommy makes a BIG deal about your birthdays.  I make your cake, 1st birthday was a big dump truck full of “dirt” cake, your 2nd a dinosaur, your 3rd a robot, your 4th a Lightning McQueen race track.  I make all of your invitations.  Don’t worry about remembering I have LOTS of pictures.  I do this for your parties because I want you to know how special you were and are.  You deserve the world, and mommy is trying to give it to you.

When you were about 14 months old your dad hadn’t seen you in awhile and I let him stop by for a visit after verifying he was sober.  He tried to pick you up and you ran and clung to me.  He started screaming at me “that I was turning you against him.”  You didn’t KNOW him.  I know and you know that I have never said a bad thing about your father to you in your life.  I hope I have been doing things right.

A week later your dad was supposed to come see you.  I told you “daddy is coming” you stood by the front door saying “daddy?” for an hour.  He never showed, and that is when I closed the door on your father’s relationship with you.

You see Snugglebug, I think it would be much worse to have a “sort of dad” than to not have one at all.  You deserved and still do deserve a full-time dad.  Not someone who might keep a promise, might show up, might follow through, might but never did come help me when you were sick.  Having no dad was not what I wanted for you, but it was the best way to keep you safe, physically and emotionally.  You had your Papa who treated you like his own, and you had a mommy who was willing to make up and do whatever I could to make up for your dad not being around.  Double love, double snuggles, double everything. I know it doesn’t really make up for it.  After all I am a mommy not a daddy but I really, really try my best.

I told your dad he had to go to rehab if he wanted to see you anymore.  I was serious about it.  After watching you stand at the door I couldn’t ever let that happen to you again.  You quickly forgot about that incident and that stranger faded from your mind once again.  You were at your aunts the day I was going to take your dad to rehab, he drank as much alcohol as he could consume and drove to your Nana’s house to meet me.  I got him in the car and we started driving to the hospital.  I gave him a really clear talk on the ramifications of him not following through on this.  He jumped out of the car at a stop sign.  Said he couldn’t do it, but then he got back in.  I want you to know sweet boy how hard I tried to help your dad so he could have a relationship with you.  When we walked in the hospital I had pictures I had just taken of you in my purse.  I thought if I gave them to him while he was in rehab it would help motivate him to get better.  While he was checking in, he started shaking bad.  He turned to me and said “I can’t do this, I don’t want to do this.” I looked at him calmly and said “you know what this means, you can’t see him.” “I know” he said.

I walked out of the hospital and started crying in the parking lot. I looked at the pictures I had brought for him and cried some more.  The pictures of you in the overalls playing in Nana and Papa’s back yard.  I wanted him to want to get better so bad.  The problem was Snugglebug I wanted it more than he did.  Like I said earlier, you can’t make people change no matter how hard you try.  I never looked back.

A year passed and I stuck to my word.  I wouldn’t let him see you.  He would call, email me, text me, saying he was going to change.  I didn’t want to hear about what he was GOING to do, I needed to see results.  It was the only way he would ever be a part of your life.  Eventually I had to block him from my phone, my email, and facebook.  I thought he knew I was serious.

One day when Nana went to pick you up from daycare and I was going to meet her at home to get you, your dad showed up.  I hadn’t seen him in a year and he just walked into Nana and Papa’s house.  He was so drunk he could barely walk.  Papa’s truck was parked outside and I couldn’t believe he had just come in like that.  He scared mommy really bad. I asked him what he thought he was doing.  He said that “he wanted to see you, he was your daddy, and that he was dying from cancer.”  Snugglebug I didn’t tell you this yet but your dad was a compulsive liar.  He couldn’t keep his lies straight.  Twice he told me had cancer and was dying, all lies.  You hadn’t seen him for a year, you were 2 1/2.  The psychological effects on you of him just showing up ready to stake his claim on you could have been devastating.  I had worked so hard to keep this bubble of safety around you and he planned to literally walk in and pop it.  Do you know what that could have emotionally done to you?   I was so thankful you weren’t there and I was furious with him.  He was getting really angry and mommy had to call the police.  They arrested your dad and mommy got an OP against him.  He can’t come near us for 2 years.

I want you to know that every moment I have with you is beautiful.  We are each other’s Snugglebugs.  You are my super pal and I am yours.  I have been here for all of your firsts. I fix your owies, and when you are naughty I put you in time out because I love you.  You are going to grow up to be a great daddy. You tell me that you will be a great daddy and  I know that.

You have done so much in such a short time, and I was there for it all.  First faces, first smiles, first crawls, first walks.  First new foods, you really liked your veggies when you were little.  Learning to count, your alphabet, writing your name, all the songs you know.  You recently went through a “call me maybe” song phase.  Don’t worry I have that on video for when you are older. Maybe your wedding day? Acorn and rock collections, learning to pump your legs and swing by yourself.  Finally learning to dress yourself, putting your dishes on the counter (we are still working on that).  Your beautiful drawings, you really have a talent.  You are so smart, when you were 3 you started talking about concepts like God and angels.  You can think in abstract ways that truly baffle and amaze me.   We are expert lego builders, and can recite the Lightning McQueen movies by heart together.  Your car collection is vast, and you have always been obsessed with wheels.  Before you could sit up you would lay on the floor with your cars, and organize them.  You would check each wheel methodically to ensure that they spun correctly.  You are a play-doh fanatic, you prefer to make animal prints and tracks then to build with them.  You love puzzles and board games.

You are a beautiful boy, and not just because I am your mom but because people tell me all the time.  But above all your soul is beautiful.  You are a mommas boy, and you always run to me for comfort. You are kind, lovey, snuggly, and cautious.  You ask so many questions mommy can’t keep them all straight. You are kind and love your family.  You adore your cousins and they adore you.  We have our routines.  Pancakes for breakfast, stories every night before bed.  You love the water.  You just finished your first year of t-ball, and just started swimming lessons.  You love to dance and have a sense of humor that is very infectious.  You can be a handful and mommy could be more patient, but we make a good team.   You are so incredibly smart, you score a year and a half above kids your age in school.  Your memory is shocking.  You will talk about things that happened over two years ago with such detail that you even remember the clothes we were wearing. But you don’t remember “him.”

I hope when you are older you remember me answering your questions the best I could.  I never spoke poorly of your dad because everything I have read, studied and researched says never to do so.  I try to simplify the situation for you as best I can.  I tell you that some people don’t just know how to be mommies and daddies.  That they have to learn how to be them.  That adults can make bad choices, and when they do this they have to learn to make good choices before they can be around their kids.  I tell you I hope he is working on things.  You ask me when you will see him again, and I answer you honestly that I don’t know.  But I do make it clear every time that I am so sorry that it is the way it is.  You deserve a real daddy and you deserve the world.  I hope when you grow up you understand why mommy made the choices I did.  I hope you see I tried to help your dad, and I hope that you never, ever blame yourself for any of this.  You were the best thing to ever happen to me, you made mommy want to be a better person.  Mommy is in school now getting her master’s so I can be an Occupational Therapist and help other kids.  All because of you.  As we say in bed..

Me: “I love you”

You: “I love you more”

Me: “I love you most”

You: “Yeah well mommy I love you all the way to pluto even though it isn’t even a real planet anymore!”

I love you more than you will ever understand.  Maybe when you have your own child you will understand.  I am so proud of you and I thank you from the deepest part of my soul for saving my life.

Love,

Your Snugglebug

I shot a compound bow, and I am pretty sure I am going to take up archery

ImageSo for awhile now I have had it in my head that I want to shoot a bow and arrow.  Dream fulfilled yesterday.  I march into our local bait and tackle shop with my friend who is awesome enough to let me use his compound bow.  Mind you he is 6 3′ and I am 5 6′ I am wearing a dress because it is freaking hot and I don’t really know what you wear to shoot a bow and arrow aside from camouflage, and my closet was fresh out of that kind of clothing.

So I waltz in like a giddy kid and these people just look at me like “this could be a huge disaster.”  I started to wonder if it could be a huge disaster.  I asked a lot of questions to my friend about if this was a “closed” range, because I am highly uncoordinated, and do not even allow myself to play darts at the bar because my aim could maim or blind someone across the room.  Yes it is that bad.  Terrifying in fact.  So in the “tunnel” which I am happy to say was inclosed completely, they have fluorescent lights on the ceiling.  I have visions of me blowing out these lightbulbs creating a scene.

I also realize you don’t just pay for the “tunnel” but you pay for the arrows, the tips all that stuff.  I mean sheesh I could fashion a bow and arrow myself for cheaper than that. Like I said I am crafty.  As we are looking through the aisles they have deer urine (disgusting) and the most disturbing hollow point tips that frankly are terrifying.  They explode in their target and look very scary.  I am way over my head here.

Did I mention that he got this compound bow when he was 12?  We are now 30.  So there I am so excited to “do this.” I go to pull back the string and I can’t even freaking do it.  It is made for a 12 year old!  Huge fail.  So each time I go to shoot he has to help me pull it back.  I’m like” jesus christ how many pounds is this to pull back?” I jokingly said it’s probably like 30 lbs.  He looks and says it’s actually 31.  Mortified.  My kid weighs 42lbs and I can carry him in one arm.  It was actually 50 but I obviously need to get some serious fitness on.  Anyways he would help me pull it back and I got to shoot it and not going to lie I am pretty damn good! I kept it on the paper target except for once, and now I am obsessed.  I only shot about 15 arrows before my arm was starting to shake just from holding the bow up.  Made for a 12-year-old my ass.  I want to go everyday.

I highly encourage people to try this out.  If hunting is your thing that is fine, but I most certainly have no intentions of ever aiming at anything live.   I want to continue to target shoot, and need to get a compound bow that I can actually handle myself.  Without getting manhandled, which I can’t say I actually minded 🙂

Off to do some bicep curls.  Have a great night everyone.

A Beautiful Moment with My Boy

Tonight we were leaving my parent’s after having dinner and the sky was really pretty.  I spotted this and pointed it out to Noah.  He was in complete awe.  I took a picture of his first rainbow sighting when he was probably 2.  Tonight he kept saying “that is sooo pretty, that is sooo beautiful.”  I pulled the car over got him out of his car seat and we stood in some random persons yard mesmerized watching this rainbow.  I love when I share beautiful moments like this with him. Image

Kids out there: Don’t Mess With Mine

So I have this issue.  At least I think it is an issue.  I am super protective of Noah.  Ever since he was up toddling around I thought “it will be the worst thing to see him get his feelings hurt.”  I remember when he was not even two and we were at Greek Fest.  I watched as he danced with a group of kids his big brown eyes, blond curls, chunky cheeks and a toothy little smile.  He was having such a good time.  I watched him as the lights twinkled around him with a feeling of pure honest to goodness joy in my heart.  It was beautiful.  Then in an instant the other kids were gone.  The music played on and my sweet little boy stood there with a look of confusion.  No,  He hadn’t known those kids, no one “left” him, and no his feelings weren’t hurt…yet.   For momma bear it was my first glimpse into the reality that one day some kid is REALLY going to hurt his feelings, and the thought made me sick.

Why are some of us so scared to see our children hurt?  For me I think part of it is that childhood should be about innocence, goodness, and not having a care in the world.  When kids learn that other children can be mean, and that they can too, it really opens up a whole new dimension in their world.

I have always stuck up for people.  From a young age if someone was being a bully I would call them on it right away.  That isn’t to say I was never the bully, but for the most part I was the anti-bully.  I wasn’t scared of the bullies turning on me, I was protective of the quiet, the different, the kids in my school who had special needs.  Mess with them and  I will make you feel like a total shit head for being such a jerk.

I went to a grade school with a special education program.  Seeing someone in a wheelchair, or someone who had severe developmental difficulties was nothing to me.  I didn’t look twice, make comments or gawk, and it was because it had always been a part of my life.  Come junior high when they integrated the grade schools together it was very apparent that my peers hadn’t been exposed or educated by anyone on others who were different from them..  Just like in grade school I called assholes out on it again in junior high.

One day Noah says to me, “Brady* always stares at me, he stares at me for a long time and I don’t like it.” I asked “well what do you do when he stares at you.”  He replied “I stick my tongue out at him.” I had to stifle a laugh, but gave him a brief talk about ignoring people who are trying to make you mad he seemed to grasp it.

The next day I am walking my sweet little boy into preschool and these two little fellas are sitting at a table.  I hear one of them say “Ughh it’s Noah!” as he turned snickering to his little accomplice.  I felt a rage inside me. My response: I gave those two 3-year-olds the a look that could have knocked them off their kiddie sized chairs.  I might have even hissed something at them like “maybe you stare to much.”  As I walked Noah to hang up his backpack I felt good, I felt MEAN, I felt like a victory had been won against these little shits trying to start my sons day off bad.  When I got in my car I felt like a 3-year-old, and realized I had acted just like one.

My cousin and I have discussed my “protective” nature towards Noah.  She brings up some excellent points like “I don’t think you can always jump in because how will he learn to stick up for himself if you are always there.” or “what is he going to do when he is in a situation and turns to look for you to step in and he can’t find you?”  She really got me thinking.  In my overeagerness to protect Noah from “meanies” I was likely making him an easier target for those type of kids in the future.  I have really tried to back off and let him deal with his own issues since.  Like today at the pool when this kid intentionally flung water in  his face.  He stood up leaned in and yelled “stop that! I don’t like that!”  Here I was watching my son smiling for sticking up for himself. I should throw in the disclaimer that Noah can also be the bully, which I immediately call him out on.

So now when I see a conflict rising between Noah and other kids, I pause and do my best to stand back and let the little minds and little voices work it out together.

What I REALLY, REALLY want is for Noah to grow up to be like me.  I want him to be the anti-bully. I want Noah to not only stand up for himself, but to stand up for the other kids who can’t or won’t stand up for themselves.

BUT I will still yell at the BIG kids playing rough on the little kids playground, and if you are cursing around my son I will tell you to watch your mouth because there are “kids present.”  I mean…right?  For now I will stay in the shadows restraining myself unless necessary.