AAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!

One of the guys here at work is always in and out of the office with his saying “Stupid is forever!” and damn if I don’t see eye to eye with him right about now!  Work is pissing me right off…well, not work, per se, but the idiots I work with.  I won’t bore you with all the details, as honestly, if you don’t work here you will have no idea what I’m talking about anyway, but shit royally hit the fan this morning for about 2 hours, and no one wanted to do a damn thing about it.  Have I mentioned how much stupidity and laziness bug me?

So, safety violations abound, creating more work than necessary for us on the receiving end, and putting planes, pilots, people, and equipment in mortal danger.  But who cares, right?  “Not I,” say the assholes whose asses aren’t on the line.  Just as long as they don’t actually have to make the smallest effort, they are happy as pigs in shit…and I don’t mean that entirely figuratively!  Even the new guy in training who knows little to nothing about what was going on, whose eyes glaze over when things get too complicated, not because he’s dumb (or at least hasn’t proven yet) but because he just doesn’t have the experience yet, even he knew things were messed up and could have easily been fixed with very little effort on the part of the assholes.  And oh, yeah…of course that certain someone who is always ready with a snide comment or two was there adding to my foul mood.  Gee, I feel blessed!

Besides that, I’m PMSing, my boobs hurt like I’m still nursing, and I’m sweating like a stuck pig for no apparent reason.  (Yet another wonderful blessing to go along with a mom’s post-baby body…unreasonable, out-of-nowhere sweating that refuses to respond to any sort of anti-persperant.  At least the deodorant part is working, so I don’t smell!) 

3 1/2 more hours of work to go!!  TGIF.  Seriously, TGIF!!

My kids drive me nuts on a regular basis.  My son…well, my son has this way of putting me on a permanent yo-yo string between nuts and awww…

Ignorance (or just plain out stupidity) in people drives me crazy.  More than that, pretending to be ignorant (or just plain stupid) out of sheer laziness makes me see red.  Unfortunately, my children 1) are children, constantly testing what they can and cannot get away with; and 2) share genes with my exes, two men who could easily pass for Webster’s definition of lazy.  Seriously.  Put one of their pictures there instead of the wordy explanation, and everyone would say, “oh, I get it now.” 

The boy is an expert at the acting-dumb-because-he-is-just-being-lazy thing.  He’s 5!  He has an endless supply of energy with which he has to navigate a mere 45 lbs for something like 12 hours a day.  That’s it!  (That is a serious design flaw in humans, by the way.  Give the kids, who don’t weight a thing, and get to sleep 12-15 hours a day ample amounts of energy, but sap all the energy out of adults within minutes of waking.  The adults who carry around two or three (or four) times that weight around and are lucky to get 6 hours on most nights.)  Anyway, this morning I asked him to do something, and he just gives me this dumb look like I’m speaking Portuguese to him or something.  I explain to him what I am asking him to do in great detail, employing colors, textures, pointing and fabulous direction…and still, Portuguese.  Finally, realizing this is going to be yet another example of him playing dumb in order to get out of a simple request, I threw my hands up and exclaimed:

“Fine!  If you don’t want to help me out, fine.  I know you are a smart kid, and understand exactly what I am asking you to do, but you just don’t want to help me, so…FINE!” 

Looking sheepish, he walked over to me, sat on the floor at my feet, and leaned in. 

“Oh, no.  Don’t come over here looking for love now.  You don’t want to help me and it hurts my feelings, so don’t come here looking for hugs and such.” 

But it was too late.  He continued to lean in, and I let him, and he hugged me.  That was it.  Awww moment.  Back up on the yo-yo string.  Dammit!  He then looked up at me with his big brown eyes and whispered, “I love you, mom,” sealing my fate.

Oh, no!  The double awww!  Have mercy on me!

He always does that crap!  Right in the middle of me being mad at him, or sometimes not even at him.  Sometimes it’s when I’m mad at his sister, or one of the ex-men, or Mr. W, or a stupid driver, or the mail man, or anybody, he hugs me or tells me he loves me out of nowhere.  But, when I want a hug or a kiss or an “I love you,” I have to beg and prod and all but force him into it.  And then I want to eat his face that much more!  (In a good way, not in a creepy zombie-movie way)  Damn, that boy is good.  He’s going to have girls swooning in his arms from all sides!  I’m in trouble…

Yea!  I finished my book…well, not my book, but the book I purchased and was reading, and have now finished: Rockabye, by blogger Rebecca Woolfe (of (This) Girls Gone Child and Straight From the Bottle fame).  It was great.  Maybe not great in the sense that literary masterpieces like War and Peace, or A Tale of Two Cities is great (two books I have not read, nor have much of an interest in…although I’m sure they are great…), but great in the sense that it made me feel so much less of a freak-of-a-mom.  Alone is a terrible place to be! 

Hmmm, reading that post from almost a year ago, I haven’t gotten very far have I?  Still thinking about/working on that book.  Still struggling through single-mommyhood and toddlers alone.  Still waiting for my divorce to be final.  That’s just all-together depressing!

Anyway, the book.  It’s nice to know I’m not the only one floundering in my mother’s perceived shadow, wondering why I can’t seem to find the time/energy/desire to wash the dishes, vacuum the floor, make the beds, help with homework, cook a healthy dinner, grocery shop, do laundry (including taking laundry out of the dryer, folding, ironing, and putting away laundry), pay bills, keep appointments organized, actually make appointments, make phone calls, write letters (send emails), participate in school stuff, get enough sleep, look decent for work everyday, never let my child out of the house with too-short pants or underwear-with-holes, do what I’m supposed to do, and do it well…the list goes on and on.  I’m lucky if I can get one or two of those things done in a day, let alone all of them. 

Most days I look around my house, look at the clutter of dirty dishes, stacked paperwork/bills, and overflowing laundry hampers, look at my son playing video games, look at my daughter’s picture when she’s at her dad’s or look at her playing quietly by herself, and I feel like a complete and total failure as a mother and a person.

Most days, 30 seconds into my yelling like a banshee because the kids won’t get out of bed, won’t eat their dinner, won’t clean up their toys, won’t stop whining/fighting/running in the house, I feel like the worst mother in the world…but I can’t stop then…I’ve already started and they will think they have the control…so I make silent promises to them that it won’t ever happen again…until it does.  Vicious circle. 

Most days I make plans on how I’m going to get organized, get motivated, get involved, be a good example for my kids, not yell, not smoke, not eat/drink junk, be creative, be fun, be healthy, and then I get home and flop on the couch, remote in hand until it’s time for bed.  Just too tired.

I fight with my own rebellion, refusing to put my daughter in pink, frilly dresses, yet scolding my son for wearing Hello, Kitty socks, refusing to let them watch Barney and learn those annoying kid songs, opting instead for Foo Fighters and The Beatles, but let them watch SpongeBob Squarepants when I just can’t deal, teaching them things like “dude, you’re a crack-head” or “that’s just crap,” but forcing them to have proper table manners. 

I hate followers.  I hate clones.  I hate “everyone else is doing it/has it/knows it, so I should too” mentalities…but is there really any room in this world for standing up for what you feel/want/whatever?  Is there really any room left for open expression and exploration and personal growth after all the “you shoulds” have been pushed upon you?  You should teach your child that.  You should know this.  You should get an iPod.  You should sit up straight, comb your hair, say please and thank-you.  And what about all the “you shouldn’ts?”  There just doesn’t seem to be any room left for the “I wants and I feels.”

I started out this morning writing a post on my un-popular political views and about half-way through changed my mind.  I will keep it safely tucked away in my drafts to be (maybe) published another day, but I don’t think I’m ready to walk down that road yet.  I’m not the most politically minded…I don’t really pay attention to it all as the lying and politically correct explanationsjust give me a headache, but I do have my opinions, be they un-popular or otherwise…but I will leave it at that.  obstacles

It’s much like the book, or books, that I’ve been meaning to write.  I started many, continued working on few, and finished none.  Yesterday I sat and wrote out thousands of words of a book idea on this site, re-accomplishing my Confessions of a Single Mom page, and today I’m considering taking it down.  Not that many, if any will read it, but I don’t feel ready to open myself up to the world, or more specifically I don’t feel ready to face whatever criticism or judgement on it, or even more specifically, I don’t feel ready to think about whatever criticism or judgement some stranger in the world who happened apon it has and keeps in his or her own head.  I may never be.  I get glints of inspiration from time to time and write a chapter or two on something, or a poem, or begin a drawing, but too soon the inspiration fades and my work goes unfinished, unpolished, and is soon forgotten.  What’s up with that?

Over the years I’ve been told I’m talented on many artistic-y levels…in my drawings, in my photographs (taken, not posed for), in my poetry, in my writing…but I don’t see it, and worse than that I don’t feel it.  I find myself far too concerned with criticism that I don’t get, and far too hurt by the praise that I do get, but don’t feel is genuine.  Even after selling my photographic work to a state agency and being commended over and over for my “eye” by a complete stranger, I still see snapshots where photographs should be.  Even after putting together a draft-drawing of a fairy for a friend to be permanently etched in her skin for all time, I find myself minimizing my work, telling her that she should get the tattoo artist to make changes here or there (or everywhere) to make it better.  And my writing…well, my writing has been a big secret to all those around me since I was in grade school for fear of judgement.  Even when I did share it, it was years ago, and it was only with my dad, who coincidentally praised me beyond words…but that is what parents are supposed to do, right?  So his praises couldn’t possibly be completely genuine…right?

Why is it so difficult for me to just accept and enjoy a compliment?  In this world where people all around think they are better than one another, where people think they are entitled to the maximum when all they put out is the minimum, where people are so diverse in their tastes and preferences that just about anything is considered some form of art and/or beautiful, why can’t I just sit back, bask in the praises and put myself out there? 

It’s a roadblock I must overcome if I ever hope to follow through on my dreams.  Problem is, I can’t seem to figure out how.

One of my pet peeves (pardon the pun) is when people leave their dogs outside for hours on end, especially when it is freaking cold.  There are some apartments adjacent to my neighborhood and in the winter when the trees are leafless, I can see the back corner of one of the buildings.  On the third floor of this building, the family recently got this adorable puppy (I’ve seen them walking him…once).  Right now, that poor puppy is sitting in a cat carrier on the balcony crying his little puppy heart out.  Seriously, crying.  This isn’t the first time, nor do I bet it will be the last.  Today isn’t very cold.  I was just outside with a t-shirt, so the weather isn’t bad.  But I have seen/heard him out there when the weather is sitting at about 35 degrees.  Seriously…who gets an adorable puppy and leaves him in a cat carrier outside for hours in 35 degree weather?!  Of course, that gets all the other dogs in the neighborhood barking like crazy and just amplifies the heartlessness of people.

There is another dog in my neighborhood who sits outside, barking, every night, until about 1030 when I assume he either passes out from hypothermia, or his owners finally bring him inside.  It’s just sad.  It’s one thing to get a dog and train him to go outside to use the bathroom.  It’s an entirely different thing to get a dog and make him an outside all-the-time dog.  Why bother?  What is the point of that?  Why get a pet at all?

I know dogs are a lot of responsibility.  I know dogs are a handful.  I don’t own a dog anymore for this fact exactly.  I don’t plan on getting a dog (much to my kids’ and Mr. W’s dismay) for this fact exactly…well that and I’m becoming fairly allergic to them…which is weird in itself as I had dogs for a great majority of my childhood and never felt the slightest twinge of an allergic reaction.  But these people, these heartless dog-owning people, just don’t have the sense to either resist getting a dog, or at least allow it in the house in it’s rightful place as part of the family.  WTF???

The boy: Bah rockin a mama (pause) Did you hear what I just said?

Me:  I heard you, but I didn’t understand.  What did you say?

The boy: Bah. rockin. a. mama!  He’s our first president.

Me: Oh, you mean Barack Obama.  He’s our first black president, not our first president.  (ok, I realize this isn’t entirely politically correct.  I apologize if I’ve offended, but really, he’s 5, and having spent the majority of his life with a racist step-father and step-granparents…this is about as good as it gets, for now)

The boy:  But why?

Me:  Why what?

The boy:  Why is he a woman?

Me:  He’s not a woman.  He’s a black man, and he’s our new president.

The boy:  (confused) Well, he has a funny name that sounds like a woman…and he’s pretty.  I’m pretty sure he’s a woman.

Me:  (holding back laughter) Ok, baby.  He is a man, and our president…but it’s ok.  You’ll get used to it just like everyone else.

I recently discovered Rebecca Woolf of (This) Girls Gone Child in my stumblings around the internet and subsequently ordered her book Rockabye from Amazon.  It arrived Friday, and I’m halfway through it already.  I am not a fast reader.  Well, I am a fast reader, but not when it comes to books.  I can do maybe a chapter a week, but that is only because I just don’t have the time.  About 10 minutes before bed is all my constantly sleep-deprived head will let me do…and even that is a stretch most nights.  But Rockabye has me up later than normal at night, as it’s one of those can’t-possibly-put-it-down-must-read-one-more-page/section/chapter books.  Dammit! 

It reads like a very intimate conversation with a close friend.  So far I’ve gotten through finding out, pregnancy, and Archer was born last night at about 1045pm, when I should have been sleeping.  But her all out honest retelling of her feelings and fears of those times is something right out of (I’m sure) every woman’s heart.  The part of the heart that we lock tight and never, ever talk about…at least not with other people.  This brave woman has broken all the rules and spoken our fears out loud (well, at least put in on paper for the masses to read) and I love it!

I’m sure I’ll find other favorite parts, but so far her recollection of the baby books is up there.  I remember buying every one of the books at Borders that my doctor recommended.  I remember three other girls at work were pregnant and reading all these same books, so I figure, hey, they must be the books to read when one is pregnant.  I remember how much I hated them!  Ok, What to Expect… and Your Pregnancy: Week by Week  have their place in the whole school-house version of being pregnant…but really, who 1) has the time or patience to sit through that kind of lecture, and 2) do those books actually provide any useful information to anyone?  I can’t remember a single thing from those books except possibly the weekly fetus pictures (Your Pregnancy: Week by Week) which were all together kind of disturbing to me. 

What I do remember is finding the one book that I read over and over, for both pregnancies, and got the most helpful information from.  The Girlfriend’s Guide to Pregnancy.  It was great.  Basically marketed as containing all the stuff your doctors/mothers/those books don’t tell you, it held true to claim.  Vicki Iovine, author, and her “girlfriends” capture most of those not-so-pleasant things about pregnancy and lay them out there in a frank, but still supportive manner, much the way a girlfriend would do.  (I’ve heard Jenny McCarthy’s book, Belly Laughs is also quite frank, funny, and fabulous…although I haven’t read it myself.  And with little likelihood of another pregnancy, it probably won’t be on my must-read list…unless of course my friend D is serious about her wanting another baby and me to surrogate…but that’s another post.)

I was also fascinated (part of why I was up until almost 11 still reading) by Woolf laying out her fears of motherhood vs. womanhood.  The vagina vs. the p****.  The breasts vs. the tits.  She may possibly have stumbled upon the core problem in all these marriages these days who have kids and completely stop having sex.  The woman’s sexuality is threatened, which puts sex into hiding.   Men don’t know about this.  Men simply assume their wives don’t wantsex anymore.  It was all a ploy.  These previously sex-crazed vixens that were so great in the beginning were just faking it for fun.  Now that they have the men locked in with babies and a ring…no need to keep up appearances.  Uh…not quite, fellas.

Woolf puts it so much more eloquently than I ever could.  There is a whole identity crisis that goes on, not only with the roles that we are suddenly faced with (woman, mother, lover, wife, etc) but also the roles which our various body parts are faced with (man-toys and nutrition providers, pleasure bringers and life bringers, etc).  Add to that the uncertainty about our bodies, the bodies that have just gone through an extreme makeover gone wrong, the bodies that have changed so drastically in the last 10ish months, and often not in a traditionally positive way, the bodies that don’t feel anything like what we have been used to for the past 15-25 years (toddlerhood and puberty aside).  In all this change and insecurity and ambiguousness, is it any wonder we push you men away, afraid of ourselves, afraid of the physical and emotional pain of the act possibly gone wrong, afraid of your rejection?  After all, we would reject ourselves in that state, so why should you be any different.  And the men, bless their hearts, let us.  They let us push them away until they are sit permanently at arms reach, not content to stay there, simply accepting that this is just the way it goes.  Years go by and that wonderful sex-crazed woman you once knew simply fades away.  Uh…not quite fellas.  Did I mention we are scared?  Quick, whip out your incessant need to protect and make us feel better.  We will resist for a while, but trust me, it’s worth it in the end, for everyone.  Mommy will feel better about herself, figure out all that role juggling, and in return…you will get some.  See, win-win. 

Ok, I can see all you men out there in internet-land shaking your heads doubtfully.  I know.  You think your wife/significant other is different.  You think your wife/significant other really just doesn’t like sex.  One question…did you actually marry/commit to someone who didn’t like sex?  If the answer is yes, smack yourself in the head for your ignorance and deal with your choice in life.  If, on the other hand, the answer is no…why the hell would it change now?  Barring some horrendous event, people don’t just stop liking sex.  It just doesn’t happen.  How the hell would the human race survive if that was a possibility?

I had a guy friend once who didn’t have sex anymore, after two kids.  They were a young, good-looking couple and they used to, all the time.  Their whole story was pretty romantic bordering right up against nauseating.  His bitch?  She would only have sex in the shower and he didn’t like it.  He expressed this to her, and immediately assumed she continued to request shower sex only because she knew he would say no, which would make it his fault.  He was ready for divorce.  His wife, one of the previously sex-crazed vixens turned mother, was nursing their second born at the time.  Their kids were pretty close in age so she had nursed the first even after she was pregnant with the second.  So she had been pregnant/nursing for about 3 years straight.  For those of you who don’t know, when a woman is milk-laden and has sex, there tends to be some mild leakage to all out spraying.  This was an embarrassing thing for me, so I can imagine it is for at least a few other women in this world.  Hence, the shower.  Easy clean up at the least, and at best, he won’t notice with the rest of the water spray and won’t get freaked out.  They have since moved away, but from pictures (Myspace) I deduce 1) she’s stopped nursing, 2) they are actually holding and touching and smiling, which means 3) they are still together.  Hmmm…

Having written way more than I intended, I will end here with one last note:  It isn’t all the men’s fault.  We women shut up far too much for fear and/or pride and refuse to tell our man what’s really going on.  If we chose right, there should never be fear or too much pride to express our feelings to him.  I chose wrong at first, and my expressions led to hurt and divorce…but I learned and moved on and chose right.  No fear, no secrets, no holding back…and lots and lots of glorious sex. 

The lottery is estimated at $16 million for tomorrow’s drawing.  Cash option pays about $11 million, so I figure after taxes that leaves me with at least $6 million.  My plans?

1. Bring Mr. W home.  An email to tell him to get his ass home asap, no matter the cost!
2. Get the girl.  A phone call to STBX informing him that I have quit my job to be a SAHM, so we need to renegotiate our custody terms, as currently he gets more time as he is home more.  Only if he refuses do I lay it on him that I just won the lottery and am prepared to put him and his family in the poor house (for all the lawyers he will have to hire) for the rest of their lives if that’s what it takes.
3. Help out the parents.  Once Mr. W is home, take a trip to each of our parents’ homes and hand them a check for $500,000 a piece…that’s $2 million total…the first real chunk out of the $6 million.
4. Set up the kids.  $500,000 a piece (mine and his) in high yield savings for the colleges of their choosing/trust fund money.  That’s another $2 million, leaving $2 million left.
5. Get comfortable.  Pay off all our debt…well, Mr. W’s debt and my student loans, sell/rent/whatever the house, and buy a bigger one.  Nothing huge, just comfortable with enough room for all four kids (when his want to visit), guests, and maybe a dog.  Get a minivan (yes, I will still get the minivan, but a much nicer one, I’m sure…all the bells and whistles) and something flashy for my man.  Get a couple Harleys.  I figure that will all eat another $600,000, leaving $1.4 million in the bank to live off.  Not too bad.
6. Live the dream.  We can both finish school, for what we really want to do.  I can be that SAHM, at least until the kids get well into school, then begin working towards the professional photographer dream.  I can’t imagine not working forever, but at least I could actually do something I will enjoy.

I know my dreams are small, but when you have most of what you want out of life already, there isn’t a whole lot more to ask for.    What would you do with lottery money?

*alternate title: the every guy I’ve ever dated and/or married in my oh-so-spectacular dating past post

I do love a good romantic comedy.  Maybe that is why I’m sitting vegged out watching movies when I should be cleaning my house.  Failure to Launch is a good example, and bonus…Matthew Mcconaughey (or Mcconaugh-hottie, as I’ve heard him called).    For those of you not in the know about this movie, basically ol’ Matthew is a 35 year old man who still lives with his parents.  His parents enable this behavior by taking care of all his needs, laundry, groceries, cleaning.  Of course he has his friends who also live with their parents and only serve to encourage each other that it’s totally ok.  Funny enough, the first time I saw this movie was with the STBX and his parents, and not one of us noticed the striking similarities.  Of course I don’t in anyway mean to imply that either of my ex-husbands are in anyway similar to Mr. Mcconaughey, for to him there is no comparison.  But the situation, ah, the parental-enabling situation, well, that is pretty damn close to a looking glass!

So I guess in this freakish similarity, I play Sarah Jessica Parker…ok with me as I’ve adored her since Sex and the City, but unfortunately neither of their launches resulted in true love, Hollywood style or otherwise.  And here I am, left much wiser in the end, never to date another man who lives in the same state as his parents again.  And there they are, back to living with their parents and being taken care of by their parents in a way that is just…aahh, sick!

Funny enough, Failure to Launch has so much in common with my exes…he has a huge room with his own personal entertainment center, they have huge rooms with their own personal entertainment centers.  He has a flashy black sports car, they have flashy black vehicles…one a 2008 Mustang, the other a 2008 Titan.  He lives in a big, beautiful house that he doesn’t own or even pay towards, they live in big, beautiful houses which they don’t own or pay one penny towards.  Yes, my heinously bad taste in men knows no bounds

Friday marked the day of my divorce with (yes still) the STBX.  Thanks to the fabulous court system, it will be 7-10 business days until the divorce is final.

I headed out of the house at 230 pm, dropping the Girl off at Mr. W’s daughter’s house for the couple hours I’d be gone.  From there, it was up the road to meet Ex#1 to drop the Boy off to him for the weekend.  Of course, he was late, so I had to take the Boy to the lawyer’s office with me and hope Ex#1 would show up before the proceeding…but no such luck.  Thankfully, my little prince is just that, and was quite content to sit quietly and eat his candy fish.  In hindsight, although I would never want to expose either of my children to any sort of legal proceedings, his un-intentional presence brought about a certain calm in the room that I’m sure wouldn’t have been there without him.

STBX brought his dad as his witness (big surprise there) and we were in his lawyer’s office with his lawyer, and some court-appointed something-or-another.  STBX and X-dad weren’t about to be their normal assey selves with the boy there (bonus #1) and sitting across from the Boy, his sweet little smiles kept my nerves in check so I could concentrate on answering what needed answering, listening to STBX’s testimony, and getting out of there as quickly as possible.

Letting my thoughts drift for a moment or two, I looked at STBX across that table, and wondered if I would ever regret my decision to leave.  He was kind at one point in our life.  We had laughs and shared pain.  He gave me a beautiful baby girl and welcomed my little boy into his life with open arms and an open heart.  So the question rises, will I ever miss him?  And the resounding answer…OH HELL NO! Without delving too far into my failed marriage (number 2) yeah, the laughs were nice, and the kids, irreplaceable, but really, there was nothing else there, except for pain and anger and tears.

And then I looked as his father, my STBX-father-in-law.  That’s when the loss was felt, not just for him, but for both my STBX-in-laws.  They are what I miss.  They are where my sadness lies.  I may not have had the husband of my dreams in those years, or a husband at all by normal expectation of the title, but I did have another set of parents who did a more than wonderful job of making up for his short-comings.

When STBX refused to cut our 1/4 acre lawn with the riding lawn mower I bought for him at his request, his dad drove an hour each way to do it.  When something needed fixed around the house, his dad was always there to take care of it.  If I or the kids ever had a problem or was in any sort of trouble, his dad was there to help us out.  When STBX gambled our rent/mortgage/food money away, his dad was there with his check book.

While we were staying with them and I was going through my post-partum (and then some) depression and freaked out in the middle of the night, STBX would go to his parents room to get his mom without a word to me.  She would lay with me on the floor, just holding me and rubbing my head until I was calm enough to fall back to sleep.  When the kids were taking turns waking up at night, leaving me with no sleep at all, his mom was there to take them off my hands for a bit and give me a nap.  When I needed a friend, she seemed to know and would take me to lunch where we would chat and laugh and share for hours until my worries seemed much less daunting.

Those are the people I will miss.  Those are the ones I do miss now.  I miss the comfort and the camaraderie.  I miss the love and friendship.  I miss the ones who made it so hard to leave in the first place.  I miss the ones who tried so hard to give me warmth when he covered my world with dark storm clouds.  While it wasn’t enough, I do appreciate their attempts and their hearts for trying.  And yes, I will always miss them, no matter what our differences today or in the future.

So in 7-10 business days, I will be Miss Writebrite once again.  It’s been a long road, through both marriages and divorces, but one that has allowed me to grow mentally and emotionally far beyond my 30 years.  I don’t know exactly what my future as a Miss holds, but I do know it’s mine to choose.  I choose to be happy.  I choose to be healthy.  I choose peace and harmony.  I choose to put my children first and my heart a close second.  And with that…I choose Mr. W, for as long as he shall have me.  (love you baby)