Just like most little girls, when I was young I believed whole-heartedly in fairytales and “Happily Ever Afters.”  Despite my parents’ efforts and a long (really long) string of bad relationships and broken hearts, my dreams of happily-ever-after continued through my teen years into my early twenties.  Then I met ex#1.  Sometime during our twisted courtship (probably having something to do with my dorm-dazed, alcohol-soaked, man (boy)-crazed, promiscuous tendencies) fairytales drifted off and left me in the “real world.”  When I finally got that (less-than) fairytale proposal, my thoughts weren’t of birds singing and how I’d be “Happily Ever After,” they were of “would I learn to love this man” and “will he ever hurt me.” Yeah, true love in it’s finest hour, right?  But all wasn’t lost, yet.  There was hope.  There was possibility.  Wasn’t there?

Maybe not.  We tried to get pregnant (yeah, I know…the horribly misguided thoughts of desperate couples looking for a way to make it work).  We didn’t get pregnant.  For months we didn’t get pregnant.  Then we separated.  First by our hearts, then our minds, then we made it official and we both moved out.  And then I got pregnant! Figures, right.  By that point, alone, pregnant, failed marriage, the last glimmer of “fairytales” faded into the night.  I had my beautiful son and realized no one wants a twenty-something single mom so I settled for who I thought was the first decent guy to show interest in me.  He had a daughter and a failed marriage too, so he understood and would love me…right?  We got pregnant, got married, and got unhappy very quickly and with the birth of my little girl, I realized I couldn’t teach her about fairytales because quite frankly I didn’t have a clue what they were anymore.  I even decorated her room with Tinkerbell, because Tink gets her heart broken, but is still sassy and happy and totally fabulous.  But, much like my parents before me, I failed and the girl is totally obsessed with Princesses and all that fairytale crap.

Yes, I’ve found my prince charming, finally, in Mr. W, but fairytales? Can I get behind them again?  Can any woman, no, mother in this day and age?  I specify mothers because as a woman, there is still hope.  There is still freedom to dream and fantasize about the possibility.  But with motherhood comes responsibility, the all powerful time suck.  When there are diapers and sleep deprivation and cooking and cleaning and laundry and school lunches and homework and activities and “mommy, mommy, mommy…” around the clock, there leaves little time, or energy for dreaming.  When you become a mother, there is just no room for being a princess.

Let’s look at Disney, the king of fairytale princesses, responsible for bringing them full-force into our hearts and minds today.  When “she” finally gets her “he,” that’s usually the end of the story.  If we are given a glimpse into their life together, it is just that.  A glimpse.  And then it’s with dogs.  You know, Perdita and Pongo meet, fall in true love, “marry,” and then they have kids (in the end 99 of them) but that’s it.  No follow up.  Lady and the Tramp have kids at the end of their “fairytale” romance.  End of movie.  What happens next?  Ah, but then Disney gives us the sequels, the not-quite-as-good-but-still-Disney-Magic follow-ups.  There is Scamp, Mr. and Mrs. Tramp’s little scoundrel who gets into an adventure all his own…but wait, where are the parents?  What happened to them?  Arial and her Mister get married and apparently have a little princess of their very own, who we meet in another wonderful sequel.  But wait.  Ariel is the princess (of the sea) and the queen (of the people-world), right?  Shouldn’t she be a little more than a side-note to this story?  Even in the great fairytale world of Disney, you become a mother and all that princess-ly wonder goes right out the window.  (Lady and Ariel are probably doing their very romantic laundry and making meatloaf filled with sweet songs of love.)

So even in the dawn of true love, there is no fairytale left for me.  It’s all rather disappointing isn’t it.  Well, at times, yes.  But not always.  While I may not have that fairytale whirlwind romance going on.  While I may not be able to let go and be totally wrapped up in the moment with my very own Mr. Wonderful.  While I may not live a care-free and glamorous life full of romance, there is still beauty.  I have two beautiful babies.  Just looking at them makes my heart leap and flutter.  I have a wonderful man.  He treats me like a princess whenever life allows, even when I’m not acting much like a princess.  And I have hope for our future, all of our futures.  In the still of the night, when the babies are sleeping and there is no laundry to do or lunches to make, I can sit back an dream about the possibility of a fairytale ending for us all…maybe.

I’m not the best at expressing my feelings.  The commonality in my various bouts with counselors has been that I 1) hold everything in too much, 2) desperately need to find a way to express those pent up feelings, and 3) if I don’t, I’m going to have a breakdown.  Mind you, this part-diagnosis has been steady since my first visit to a “professional” back when I was 14, for reasons having less to do with me and more to do with my parents’ concern with me after their (much needed) break-up. 

Last night I had an epiphany-like moment with Mr. W after a couple days of building on a fight.  And an explosion of emotion ensued.

I’m a cranky person at times.  Yesterday was particularly bad.  I had a rough day at work, entering conflicts with a couple of my resident assholes towards the end of the day.  Mr. W had plans with his kids, as he does every Wednesday, so I knew it was just me and mine after work.  And they started from the moment I picked them up. 

I’m the sort who needs a little downtime in the transition from work to home life.  Yesterday was a sore example of that.  I didn’t get it.  I tried, but it was Mommy-this, and Mommy-that from the moment I walked in the door of daycare, and it just multiplied from there.  By the time Mr. W got home, I had resigned to full on frustration and screaming (never a good moment for me) which of course led to guilt and more frustration over screaming.  He was at a loss at the situation, trying to avoid conflict, keep quiet, and help, although in the wrong way, but he tried. 

Kids in bed, the night went on fairly uneventfully, until we turned of LOST and decided to head to bed…and it started.  That tension.  That half-fighting thing we do so well.  The knowledge that he would not sleep, but instead creep out of bed once he thought I was asleep to head to the computer, leaving me to come find him at about 1130pm, pull a conversation out of him, and end up resolved and back to bed by 2am.  I wasn’t going to let that happen.  We climbed into bed and I made him talk.  And talk we did…and fight…and get frustrated and angry.  I tried to explain, he tried to explain, and we both spun up to  a place of no eye-contact and bitten tongues. 

He made a comment that I was punishing him for all the pent up anger that I don’t take out on the ex-men, and possibly a little for my dad.  He said it’s not fair, and I realized he was right on that note, but I wasn’t angry at anyone…or was I.

And then it happened, my epiphany.

I am angry.  I’m angry at the ex-men.  I’m angry at Mr. W.  I’m angry at just about everyone.  I’m angry because I am jealous.  It’s not fair.  I’m a mom.  I’m a single-mom and pretty much always have been.  Everything I do is for someone else.  My life is not my own.  I don’t get to make choices based on my wants or needs, it’s always about someone else.  First and foremost, my kids, then Mr. W, then my dad and my mom, then everyone else just falls in line.  I don’t get choices.  I don’t get to have anything that is just for me, just because that is what I want.  I don’t get a space, a thing that’s mine, an outlet, a time for me because all my spaces and things and times are wrapped up in someone else and it’s just not fair!  The ex-men have their parents to back them up at every turn, to support them and give them what they need when they need it, to give them whatever breaks they need or want whenever they may-possibly-in-th-sometime-near-future want it.  Mr. W gets his space in the basement, gets to go to the gym for his outlet, gets to work whenever he wants, gets to see his kids whenever he wants, or not hang out with them if that’s what he wants, to take classes and know he will have time to do his work.  No one else has to think of the kids first because it’s my responsibility to bear alone.  So, yes.  I am angry. 

In an effort to share my epiphany with Mr. W, the tears came like a torrent, wracking my body with forced words and ragged breathing.  The whole thing came spilling out of me, uncontrolled, like a volcanic eruption.  It’s like all that emotion and feeling I’d been holding in for however long all came rushing to the surface at once, unbridled and uncontrolled, leaving me struggling to even breathe. 

After my ragged explaination, he held me (the most perfect thing to do at that time…seriously, boys.  If she’s crying, don’t ever just sit there.  Hold her.  Even if she begins to push you away, hold her.) and the tears slowed.  My breath began to normalize again.  My tremors in my chest and body began to subside.  He loves me, completely, unconditionally, (even when I’m a little crazed with snot spewing from my nose) he loves me.

And I love him.  The night ended *ahem* nicely, twice.    And we slept, soundly.  This morning I felt refreshed, although physically a little tired.  My mind and my heart felt cleansed and new again.  Over coffee, he confirmed that he heard me, and that is good.  I love him, too.