Intervention of the Souls

Dave’s birthday is Friday.  He would have been 42 years old.  Half of his life remained, presumably.  That is such a long time.  I will live half my life with his decision affecting me, profoundly.  My kids will live just about their whole lives without a father.  Without a father.  I think about how often I’ve thought, “What would my dad think.”  How many times it may have stopped me from doing something stupid.  I can only pray that “What would my mom think” will be good enough to garner the same effect for my boys. 

The grief ninja is working overtime, in stealth mode.  He slaps me down at every turn.  Yesterday, out of nowhere, the tears began to fall.  They haven’t really stopped for any long duration.  I want to kick and scream and let it loose, but not in front of the boys.  They’ve seen me crying, and that’s ok, but the exorcist stuff is scary.  We have a busy day, with swim practice and a swim meet and stuff sandwiched in between, or I definitely would have shipped them off, maybe done a couple shots, smoked a few cigarettes that were left here by the muthas and cried and screamed until my tonsils bled.  

I feel him.  He is all around me.  He is sucking the breath right out of me.  When my head hit the pillow last night, the theme song from the movie “Ghost” played so vividly in my ears.  I don’t remember all of the words anymore, but the ones I remembered were enough.  Through gritted teeth I hissed at him to leave me alone.  You can’t be here.  I can’t take it.  I can’t think of you.   An incident that occurred shortly after he died was flashing in my brain too.  I think of it a lot when I walk into my bedroom at night.  The house is finally quiet.  Everyone is finally asleep.  I feel such a sense of peace at this time.  A lot of time this is when I write.  I never watch tv.  It’s too stupid. 

There was a night; I guess a week or so after he died.  It was after the funeral.  I woke up in the middle of the night, as I often did back then.  I always woke up at the time the robbery occurred.  I stood up in my bed, and looked out of the transom window.  I was looking under the tree in front of the house, the tree under which the robber had parked.  I was checking to make sure his car wasn’t there.  Just making sure he wasn’t coming back, because he told us he would come back for more money.  I did that for weeks or months periodically.  Only when I looked out the window that night, I was mesmerized by what I saw.  Lights.  Unlike anything I’d ever seen.  Maybe 50 of them.  They were floating in mid air.  They were in the shape of rectangles, but not with hard edges.  The edges were blurred.  They were opaque.  They were not small.  They were probably a foot long, maybe longer, and at least six to eight inches in height.  I stood there for a few minutes, staring.  Obviously, at first I thought I was going crazy.  I knew I was awake.  I looked down at the baby sleeping, as if to verify my reality.  I stared intently at every single thing I could see out there, looking for a good explanation.  Lights coming from the ground, from people, from something above.  I seriously thought it might even be some weird UFO thing.  Fucking aliens on the lawn would not have surprised me at this point.  There was nothing.  Just the lights, hovering. 

The feeling I had in that moment, deep inside me, was that it was an intervention of the souls.  He wanted to come back.  Only he couldn’t.  What does this mean?  I whispered to him, “You can’t come back.  You did this.  I don’t know what this means.  I can’t help you.  It can’t be undone now.  We have to learn to live with this.”  It was real.  It was as real as it could be.  I know it’s weird.  I knew no one would believe me.  I told people anyway.  No one said I was crazy.  They probably thought it, though.  I was awake and completely in touch with reality. 

The next day I googled it.   I couldn’t find anyone who described similar lights, although many people described similar circumstances following a death.  I remember thinking, this is great, some great sign, only what does it mean? 

A year later, I still know it really happened.  I wasn’t really medicated, other than ½ of a low dose Klonopin each day for anxiety.  I’m comforted by the experience.  It wasn’t scary in any way.   I feel honored that the veil was lifted in that moment.  He exists, somewhere.

Meanie Head

You all will crack up at this, but today is the first time I read the comments left by readers on the Top Mommy Blog site about my blog.  For some reason, Internet Explorer has never allowed me to see the comments.  I surfed with Chrome today so I was able to read them.  

People have written some amazing comments, and I feel unworthy of most of them.  A couple of people commented about my trashy, unbecoming language, and said it wasn’t necessary to get my point across.  Let me be clear that I don’t begrudge these people their feelings at all.  Everyone has a right to his or her own opinion, and I wholeheartedly respect these views.  We are all different, and that is what makes the world go ‘round.  I actually do wish I was a non-swearing person.  I have great respect for the non-swearing population.  Swearing is not a virtue. 

To be honest, I was glad to read those comments today, because this is actually a subject I have thought about addressing for a while.   I do disagree with the ‘not necessary’ part, though.  You see, I’m trying to get ‘my point’ across.  Not yours.  These are my thoughts.  My thoughts have curse words in them.  My girlfriends tell me their mom’s read the blog.  Some of my kid’s teachers read it.  I panic every day that the principal may find out about it.  But the truth is that I’m really not trying to please anyone.  I’m writing honestly about my life and I do use bad language sometimes.  It’s really just as simple as that.  I like to call it poetic cursing. 

Sometimes a swear word is the only way to say something that affects me deeply.  For example:  “I hate him.”  That conveys just regular hate.  “I fucking hate him.”  That conveys that I hate him more than average.  That the hate cuts me deeply.  Wounds me.  Affects me enough to lash out.  Perhaps it’s just in my own mind that the word ‘fuck’ implies all this meaning…but too many people tell me that it’s like I’m in their head for me to really believe that.  I personally don’t walk around swearing all the time. 

I’m not sitting here going, “Let me cook this fucking dinner.”  Now that is trashy, unbecoming and not necessary.  There is no reason to say ‘fuck’ about cooking dinner.  I don’t feel all that emotional about it.  Now, if someone threw their dinner at me….I would probably not say, “She threw her dinner at me.”  No, because that is some crazy shit right there.  I would definitely say, “She threw her fucking dinner at me!”  Just the addition of the word ‘fuck’ helps to explain how crazy throwing your dinner on someone is, right? 

So, why even address this, you may wonder.  The reason is because, in all seriousness, I really do not wish to offend people.  There is a side of me that is a tender mommy.  A volunteer.  A community activist.  A professional.  A room mom.  A mom’s club member at school.  A church goer.  A grand-daughter.  Trust me; I don’t walk around using the F word when I am wearing these hats.  (Well, maybe at mom’s club, but only because these muthas around here egg me on!)  This blog is an up close and personal view into my head.  Sometimes it’s twisted.  Sometimes it’s harsh.  Sometimes it’s tender.  Sometimes it’s boring.  Sometimes it’s hilarious.  You are privy to these thoughts because I allow it.  The risk is that people will judge me.  I mostly don’t care.  My self esteem is pretty rock solid.  I’m not sure why.  I recall being a child and not always feeling this way.  As I matured I somehow managed to convince myself that I am indeed the shit.   I happen to think the swearing is just my style.  I think it’s funny.  But most of all, it makes the words mine.  It makes them real.  Because these are my thoughts, curse words and all.

Nonsense

I’m so amused that when I don’t post to the blog frequently, people start saying they are stalking me, clicking the page repeatedly, and wondering if I have some way of knowing how obsessed they have become with the Madwoman’s antics.  I love that you guys care about what I’m doing.  And the answer is no.  I don’t know who reads it or how often they visit.  So you are safe, you bunch of hilarious, freaky stalkers.  I haven’t posted because I have nothing that I can safely write about, right now.  Some shit went down this week on the day we got home, but it’s family related drama I can’t write about because now my whole family reads the blog.  

You all can’t even imagine the stuff I would be saying if I would have done this on the sly.  I’ve learned my lesson about hurting people’s feelings in this venue, so I’m not doing it again.  I will just make this one tiny little public service announcement regarding this week’s incident:  If you hurt my boys’ feelings, I will fuck you up every time.  Without fail.   I will jump your shit.  I will do it in a way that probably no one else does.  I will curse and scream at you.  My babies have lost a lot.  Of everyone involved in this catastrophe, they have continued to suffer the most.  As a result, passive aggressive, sneaky shit that is just plain wrong on every level will be handled by the Madwoman, not in stealth ninja mode, but head on like the bat shit crazy bitch I am, with a side salad of I-don’t-give-a-fuck.  I hope now we’re clear on that. 

Am I overly emotional this month?  Maybe.  Do I give a shit?  Nope.   I’m in survival mode again.  I’m painfully aware that I’m different from everyone else right now.   I can’t help but think things like, “This is the last day he did this or that.”  It was at this time last year that everything was bursting forth like a volcano.  I was in do or die mode.  I just didn’t really think he would die, literally.  I know that for the next few weeks, I might be ok, or I might be a stark raving mad lunatic.  And I just don’t care. 

His birthday is next Sunday.  Like Father’s Day, I will likely pretend it doesn’t exist.  I keep a whiteboard in my kitchen where I write all of our appointments, parties, people’s birthdays, etc.  I couldn’t deal with writing Father’s Day and his birthday and our anniversary on it, so it’s blank.  I’ve never done that before.  It says only BEACH in giant letters over last week.  The allure of the blank calendar was too much for the baby, so he took it upon himself to scribble all over it.  I didn’t even erase the scribbles.  The month is nonsense.  Just like my life.

I’m having a hard time shocking my body back out of beach mode, too.  I don’t want to be here.  I want to drink beer at 10:30 a.m. and lay in the pool all day.  I’m currently hooked on a lovely Belgian brew, Stella Artois.  Thank God my housekeepers were scheduled for the day after our return, or we’d still be living on top of a car sized pile of dirty clothes. 

I went to the dermatologist Thursday and tried to wear almost winter clothes so she wouldn’t see how tan I am.  I didn’t want her to scream at me.  Why are we scared of our doctors?  A hilarious mutha once confided to me that she always wears professional work clothes to the dermatologist, even though she is simply coming from home.  She pretends to be coming from work because the doctor once made a snarky comment about women who don’t work.  Now that’s some funny shit, right there.

We spent the day at the swim club yesterday, a million kids swimming and a line of muthas lounging.   Then we all came back here.  The muthas dined on fresh red snapper, crab meat salad and wine.   The kids beat each other with swords until midnight.  There was a hysterical incident involving kids hiding in my closet and becoming concerned about a noise coming from an unfamiliar object, but again, I feel the noose around my neck because it seems all of Mayberry reads the blog.  So now I suffer with this dilemma.  The blog is popular.  Popularity is great, and I have a platform to hopefully launch a book.  The downside is that now people that I know in real life see me and gush about it, but that only makes me want to take it all down and pretend to be very normal.  The ironic thing is that the very reason people love it is because it’s honest.  Because I tell the truth.  Because I say what you all are thinking all the time anyway.   I don’t know why I’m suddenly concerned about what people think of me.  But I can tell you that I hate it, and I hope the feeling passes quickly, because not being me is totally boring, ya hurd me?

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Life's a Beach

I love my beach, and my beach loves me.  We are all tan and blonde and relaxed.  Many days of beaches, islands, snorkeling, boats and pools.  And crazy muthas.  Muthas that get robbed and kidnapped with me.  Muthas that know way too much about the Madwoman, but love her fiercely anyway.  I suppose I know way too much about those muthas too.  When the 3 of us get together, the rest of the world simply melts away. 

I left the darlings with a sitter so we could go out.   We are suddenly all single again, on account of being suckers.  Suckas.  We suck at love.  We love and lose repeatedly.  Maybe we are crazy.  But we are a happy lot.  I got out of the car to bring pullups in to the sitter before we left, and was gone about 30 seconds.  When I got back into the car, the first thing I said was, “Ya’ll talked about me, huh?  Ya’ll said I was crazy.”  Of course they laughed and denied it.  If I were crazy, these two would be the first to tell me.  My top advisors.  Upon arrival at the second bar, which was not a dancing place, I see one of them dancing.   Only right away I know she is not ‘dancing’, she is being way overly dramatic, making drag queen faces and mocking one of us.  This is how you dance, she cackles.  The mocking is immediately returned, as we turn her own moves into soul train gone bad.    We expertly made fun of one another, consoled one another, gave unsolicited advice, laughed way too loud and allowed a few tears to silently trickle all in a few hours time.  I can’t believe we are this old.  How did 20 years go by so quickly? 

What has struck me most about this trip is that we think we have changed so much over the years, matured so much, been through so much…all true….but we are really the same.  Not much has changed.  People don’t really change.  Their essence is essentially…their essence.  Forever.  It’s good to know I’ll always be a badass then.  Funny, strong, resilient.  Making my own rules.  Knowing that exactly what is meant to be is what shall be.  It's comforting to know I’ll be surrounded by those types of friends too.

I so needed this vacation, this escape from my reality.   I made a hasty decision to leave, made reservations, packed us and pulled out the driveway all in just a couple hours time.  The darlings chattered the whole way and kept me laughing at their silliness.  I had to stop them from bolting from the car and running headlong into the surf when I pulled up to check in.  If it weren’t for the baby, I would have just let them run, right into it.  It’s what I wanted to do too.  I’ve used the time wisely.  Allowing myself to purge some shit that’s been swimming around too much in my brain.  To listen to the voice in my head.  Vowing to tap the scales, and rebalance.  Father’s Day will come and go and my darlings will be oblivious…just as planned.  Our focus is on whether to go to the pool or the beach first, not on the fact that we would otherwise be left wondering what exactly is the protocol now on this awkward day?  I suppose I shall declare the protocol from this day forward will be to do just what we are doing now.  Living.  Having fun.  Not surrendering to the sadness.  Because it’s not necessary.

This morning, the boys were playing a made up game where one of them was a baby bird, and one was the daddy.  As the baby kept calling out, ‘Daddy, daddy bird!’ to the older boys, it struck me that they will always have one another.  They will always be close.  They know what it means to lose.  And they’ll never lose one another for that very reason.  That may be all the consolation I need to breeze through this day.  We have a fabulous day planned and another little party tonight.  What’s not to love about spending it on the most beautiful beach in the world surrounded by love.

The Brick Wall

We were walking out of the door for swim practice Friday when I just hit a brick wall.  I had a pop tart in my hand, which was to be my breakfast.  I hate pop tarts.  I didn’t want to eat it.  But as usual, I had fed everyone, loaded and unloaded the dishwasher, folded laundry, put wet clothes in the dryer, showered, and dressed myself and everyone else by 8:15.  Again, as usual, everyone had eaten except me.  I got to the door and said to myself, ‘Fuck this shit.  We’re not going.’  Because I’m not eating this pop tart for breakfast.  Because I’m sick of being last.  Because I hate your fucking daddy.  And my life.  And everyone.  I hate the shit bubbling through the pipes in my basement.  I hate that I pretend some fucking fairy is going to show up and handle my business.  I hate you, motherfucker, for doing this to me.  I’m tired of being a ninja.  I just want to be a girl.  Regular.  Not superhuman.  But still a goddess.  What will happen if I continue to do 12 things at once for the rest of my godforsaken life?  I look around and I see that things are starting to fall apart.  It’s obvious Dave doesn’t live here now.  The handle on my oven is broken and hanging.  Little darling’s artwork is still all over the kitchen wall.  There is a leg broken on a small table in my bedroom.  Fence boards are loose.  Gates are broken.  I think about how I would love to be oblivious to life.  Unconnected.  Uncharged.  Untethered.  Uncaring.  I guess this is why I don’t watch the news.  Don’t read the paper.  Don’t want to know.  Because this is all I can do.  This right here.  This family of four.

I need a break from these kids.  All of them at once.  I close my eyes and think about how carefree I once was.  How I took everything for granted.  How two people did what I do now by myself.  How I simply walked out the door when I wanted.  Went places.  Did things.  How I could say, “Look, I’m done, I need a break,” and a break was given.  And I came back recharged.  More patient.  Even if all I did was shop, visit a friend, or lose myself somewhere for a few hours.  I try hard not to think about the future.  Not to get panicked about my life that suddenly seems so unlike the life I want.  

I miss him.  It’s been almost a year since I touched him.  I feel alone.  Because I am.  I feel overburdened.  Because I am.  I’m angry, because I was powerless to help him.  It’s sneaking up on me like an enormous panic attack, and I’m powerless to stop it.  I feel it in my chest, in my heart, in the way that it hurts to breathe.  In the way that it strangles me, and hurts my throat.  I hold my breath.  I beg it to stop.  I hate that I can’t control it.  Why?  Why does the calendar have control over me?  I feel myself losing it.  Feel myself going back to how I was, right after.  Those first few months.  When I looked past everyone, and couldn’t listen or comprehend anything anyone said.  People spoke to me, and I just stared at them, blankly.  Because I was in a place where no one I knew had ever been.  And I’m there again.  I take a step closer to it each day.  I’m rageful, and full of hate.  My heart makes weird palpitations, and I worry I will die and leave my precious babies orphaned.  I walk past a photo.  It’s one of the only two photos we have of our whole complete family.  It says ‘family’ on the frame.  I’m powerless to stop myself from slinging it across the room.  Smashing it to smithereens.  It feels good.  I pray that when I turn it over, the glass has poked and ruined his face.  It has.  His mouth is white.  Because he is a liar.  Because everything he did was a lie.  It was all a lie.  My whole life was a lie.  Even my babies are bastards. 

In 25 days it is D-Day.  I know that if I get it all out now, that the blow will be softened that day.  I can’t look at the clock at 5:08.  5:08 is when he sent the suicide note to the printer.  It’s the only solid time I have.  The rest is a guess.  I hold onto something my therapist said a long time ago.  That the lows don’t undo all the progress you’ve made.  That when the lows are over, you pick up right back where you left off.  I force myself to admit that I’ve come a long way.  That I even surprised myself.  Exceeded even my own expectations.  I remind myself who I am.  The strongest person I know.  That it’s good to be me.  It feels like a lie.

Golly Gee Willikers

The gods are forcing another shit sammich down my throat today, and I’m none too thrilled.   I swear, I feel like Katniss in the Hunger Games.  I decided to tidy up the playroom in the basement yesterday.  There’s been this weird stain on the concrete slab for probably a year.  I’ve often wondered what it was.  Until yesterday.  Yesterday, instead of just a stain, there was a small puddle.  What the heck?  I touched it, to make sure it was ‘water.’  And then I did that weird thing that humans do.  I put my fingers to my nose and smelled the ‘water.’ My head began to spin and my stomach began to churn.  You all know what the fuck I’m going to say.  Because this is a blog about human excrement, right?  Shit rules the day here.  It was shit water.  Sewerage.  Oh my FACK!  Right away I know this is not good.  I immediately flash back to months of weird flushing shenanigans, shit backing up into the shower one time, etc.  I realize this stain has been here at least a year, because I noticed it shortly after Dave died.  I specifically remember noticing it and feeling single and helpless and wondering if something was very wrong.  So the plumbers are coming tomorrow.  And no, it is not the hot muscle-y plumber.  He doesn’t have the camera thing that goes into shitty pipes.  I can only hope my head has stopped throbbing by the time the jackhammers are cranked up and we are on water lockdown.  Oh how I can’t wait to spend summer vacation money on this shit salad.

It’s taken well over a hundred thousand page views, but some humorless prick finally riled me up with a comment on my blog.  He/she read my “How Not to Be an Asshole” blog and was compelled to tell me that the message was lost, because I lack charm and grace given my ‘situation.’   Here’s a public service announcement.  The blog is called “Diary of a MADwoman.”  Not “Diary of a Humorless, Passive Quitter.”  I’m not that girl.  If I dig deep, I can pull my June Cleaver alter ego from my sparkly silver handbag though.  How’s this?

“Well, gee willickers.  Tomorrow, the darlings and I will excrete our waste into buckets.  And gadzooks, I’ll get the day off from doing all sorts of chores.  Some rather plain looking gentlemen with their backsides showing will grace us with their presence while they seek resolution to our odorous dilemma.  Aww fiddlesticks, we love life all the same.”  Hmm.  Yeah.  That’s likely to be called Diary of a Fucktard.

Seriously, hataz gonna hate, right?!  I’m convinced this person is either the author of “Men Are From Mars” or a person with a lot of tangled up cock fro.  I’m not very good at accepting criticism, on account of my being perfect and all.  But I’m really great at always getting the last word, especially on my own blog.  So, dear asshat, let me know how that shit sandwich tastes, because you’ll be eating it soon.  It’s just the way the universe works.  I’d be in quite the panic, if I were you.  The gods tire of me from time to time, because I can’t be held down.  I’m grace under fire.  Your grace may look different.  What charms you probably doesn’t even register on my scale.  Actually, I’m fairly certain it would bore me to tears and then cause me to make all kinds of fun of you again.  But I assure you, I charm the pants off beautiful people all day.  Ya hurd me?

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How Not to Be An Asshole When You Grow Up

I have these three beautiful boys under my thumb and raising them is a task I take seriously.  I want them to be successful adults.  Everyone wants that for their kids.  But I want more.  I want them to be good husbands.  In fact, not just good husbands, but incredibly awesome, irresistible, can’t-live-without-you, can-you-believe-this-guy husbands.  Only I have to raise them without a husband as a role model, because they don’t have a daddy.  It’s suddenly occurring to me that this is not a damning scenario.  (Queen of spin.) 

If you’ve been reading my blog a while, you know that I have a fear of my geriatric years.  Why?  Because the bitches who marry my sons are going to determine whether I’m in a quaint mother-in-law cottage with some pretty flowers and a carafe of fresh water on my bedside table, or whether I succumb to death in a pee smelling nursing home with naked old men flashing me their putrid body parts that I certainly won’t want to see when I’m 98.  I want the cottage, baby.  Preferably near the ocean.  And to get the cottage, I need to make sure these boys know how to be men.  Not just men, but men that the madwoman herself would marry.  Who better to teach them how to be awesome men, than a woman who loves men, right?  I mean, granted, the madwoman has landed in unfamiliar territory.  The madwoman has loved and lost.  But, I have extracted superior knowledge from life’s lessons.  I know what I like.  Hence, the madwoman’s guide to being the perfect man:

1.)     Tell the truth.  Always.  Tell the truth when it hurts.  Tell it when it makes you look like a fucking clown.  Tell it even though it might ruin your day, and hers.  Tell it even though the world may crumble and fall apart around you.  There is no other option.  Truth.

2.)    Tell your woman what you love about her.  Don’t just say, “I love you.”  Everyone says that.  If her cooking is extraordinary, tell her.  If her ass is to die for, tell her.  If you like how it feels when she runs her fingers through your hair, tell her.  You can thank me for this later.  And you will.

3.)    Be a good daddy.  Play with your kids.  Play with everyone’s kids.  Encourage your kids to be like you used to be when you were little.  Show them how to climb trees, ride bikes, wrestle and play sports.  Build forts with them.  Sit down and have tea and dress a baby doll.  Your wife is sick of doing this shit.  Your kids will think you’re a rock star.

4.)    Whatever your career, be good at it.  Whether you’re the lawn guy or a rocket scientist, be great.  I get that we all can’t be the best, but we can all try damn hard.  Being lazy is not sexy.  Trying hard is.

5.)    Be sexy.  Very few women really like the hair on your back and shoulders.  If they love you they may lie and say it doesn’t matter.  It does.  Shave it.  And tidy up that cock fro while you have the clippers out.

6.)    Burn your copy of Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus.  Because that shit is over, that’s why.  If you want to slink off to your man cave everyday and pretend you don’t have a family, then go marry a cave woman.  This isn’t the fucking stone ages.

7.)    Put your family first.  Making lots of money is great, being non-existent because of it isn’t.  Every day is precious.  If you knew this was your last day on earth, would you really work till 7 pm?  Would you really stop for drinks on the way home?  Would you really just get your kids every other weekend like the court papers say?  Or would you come home and wrap yourself up like a pretzel around the ones you love?  Any old man will tell you the truth.  Ask one what he regrets.

8.)    Learn to cook.  Cooking is important, since without food we die.  Participate in meal planning, like you are shooting the fucking game yourself.  Women get overburdened when responsible for every meal.

9.)    Learn to be funny.  Humor is everything.  When your world is spinning out of control, a belly laugh is an anchor.  Some people are born comedians.  It’s in their genes.  If it’s not in your genes, then learn to relax enough to find the funny and laugh at yourself.

10.) Be positive.  Find the good in whatever you can.  Seek God.  If that doesn’t ‘speak to you,’ then find a good vibration and hang on to it for dear life.  Negative people suck.

I’m not even going to give a number to ‘don’t be an addict, don’t beat your wife or kids, don’t be a gambler, a cheater, or a thug.’  If you are, I hope your wife leaves you until you come to your senses.  Because ‘for better or for worse’ doesn’t mean living under the kind of oppression that comes from living with that shit.  Been there.  Done it.  Survived it.  I know what the hell I’m talking about.  There is no piece of paper marriage license worth living under the black cloud.  Sorry, but it’s true.  Get right or get out.

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That's Miss Bitch to YOU

I should probably be heading off to the moon lodge, because I’m a bitch with a capital B right now.  I said tonight, “My patience is very thin.” And big darling smiled and said, “Your patience is zero.”  Well said, little grasshopper. 

I did raise a little hell last night, because I’m sick of them not eating what I cook.  Some of these little bastards are now trying to say they won’t eat spaghetti and meatballs.  The hell you won’t!  When I declare bedtime, they are suddenly all starving and all kinds of ridiculousness ensues.  The familiar and annoying snack shenanigans went on again last night, only when one of them poured their cereal and milk, they spilled it and the bowl went flying across the kitchen, splattering every surface from here to kingdom come.  So I acted like an asshole, and I gritted my teeth and picked up the spidey bowl and smashed it into a million pieces on the side of the counter.  Out of control.  Seething.  Just done.  Done for the day.  I was immediately sorry.  So sorry.  They all started to cry, and I felt horrible.  I thought I would narrowly escape any weirdness on our anniversary, but it didn’t happen.  As if on cue, I just lost it.  I hugged and kissed and cuddled up with them, and cried.  Told them I made a bad mistake for getting too mad and losing my temper. 

The unconditional love from these tots is everything in the world to me.  Little darling has been saying lately that he ‘loves his new mommy.’  I’m not exactly sure what that means, but I swear I do feel like a new mommy.  Because although I lost it last night, day in and day out I have had more patience with them than ever before.  There is just so much love in this house.  I love these darlings in a way that almost physically hurts me.  Without having Dave and his mountains of bullshit here, my sole focus has been on us.  And it’s been so good for us.  My relationship with each one of them has blossomed.  I had no idea the love, the happiness, and the beauty of it all could be more intense.  But it is.  I’m still blown away by the realization that Dave’s bullshit was having such a negative impact on me.  I swear I may stay single the rest of my life for that reason alone.  I control the environment.  No one else can fuck me up with their bullshit.  Cynicism or reality?  I’m not sure.  I hate when I get tired and annoyed like I am now, but I know I can’t be perfect and ‘full on’ all the time.  No one can.  I do my best.  Sometimes I think no matter what I do, they will all be in therapy 20 years from now blaming their shit lives on their piece of shit father and their whacked out mom.  My therapist once told me that it doesn’t really matter what you do, your kids will blame it all on you one day, good, bad or indifferent.  Good to know.  Takes some of the pressure off.

We spent the day at the amusement park today on account of me being such a shit bag.  That spidey bowl ended up costing me quite a few ducks.  I was tempted to stay here and clean up because my house was disgusting, but I looked at the dirty dishes and just said screw it.  They’ll be here when we get back.  And they were.

Tequila Sunrise

Tomorrow is our wedding anniversary.  I keep waiting for this wave of sadness to wash over me.  It hasn’t so far.  I don’t know why I’m not feeling sad anymore.  Sometimes I get nervous that maybe I’m not really ‘dealing with this’ and it’s all going to bite me in the ass years down the line.  I have learned how to expertly pretend this never happened.  I guess that isn’t really true.  It’s just that I’ve done all the heavy grieving I can do, for now.  What else is there to say?  This is my life, it’s not the one I ordered, but I gotta live it.  Today I was in and out of the garage a couple times, and upon entering for the second time, I realized that the first time I went in, I didn’t ‘think about it.’  This is huge.  Fucking huge.  This has never happened.  It sort of backfired, though.  Because after I realized it, I got this weird feeling.  Like he was really slipping away.  For real.  I walked over to the bottle of rum we found stashed in the garage after he died.  It was half empty when I found it.  This is kind of funny, but every time I had to go into the garage, I took a big gulp.  I did that until it was empty.  I actually learned to accept the nasty, burn-y taste of it, and realized that he must have learned to accept it and probably even like it years ago.  I was sad when it was gone.  I felt it was just fitting to reward myself with a good shot every time I had to go in there.  Plus I knew his lips had been on it, his spit was probably in there too.  I stared at it today.  The bottle is mostly empty, maybe a tiny drop or two left, which I couldn’t bring myself to empty.  Perhaps I should store the half empty bottle of Patron I have down there.  Then I could keep being rewarded with some ridiculousness when I have to go in there. 

This reminds me of something funny.  Our neighbors stayed for Hurricane Katrina, they didn’t evacuate.  The city was largely deserted, very few people stayed, especially in this 'hood.  They were heavy drinkers at the time.  When the water started coming up, they managed to swipe a canoe from another neighbor.  Once the water was about to be over their heads in the house, they hopped into the canoe.  Over the next day or so, they were in shock, no doubt, traumatized and drunk off their asses.  They scavenged for supplies.  She casually said to me one day much later, “Did you know that almost everyone has a half empty bottle of tequila in their house?”  Good to know. 

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