This one's for Mike...

I met Mike in fourth grade; he was standing in the doorway with his mom and step dad, Bruce.  He was, I found out later, 5'7", and a head taller than both of his parents.  I remember that day as clear as the ring of a bell.  We used to walk to GATE together and I knew he had a crush on me.  Eight years later, I told him I loved him and we started another eight year journey.  I just realized what the number is to Mike and I; 8.  8 years to start and another 8 to finish.
Mike taught me to be loyal. He taught me to be open with my feelings and to love someone out in the open.  Mike taught me to laugh more and to sleep harder.  My first restful night of sleep was laying next to Mike.  I felt safe and loved.  He did that for me.
Mike and I gave each other three magnificent children.  Magnificent is a fairly descriptive word and yet I fail to find one significant enough to describe the true magnitude of my childrens' exulted existence.  They are the result of a misguided, troubled, yet fully lived love.  I gave it everything I had and I know and knew as I left him that he had given everything he knew how to.  We were nineteen the day we promised forever.  And we meant it; what we didn't mean was at the expense of our own needs.  I thought he could fill every hold inside of me and I think he thought I could assuage every insecurity he had.  We couldn't.  But not for a lack of trying.  There are some things that simply cannot be mended by another.
I am a better person for those eight years.  I learned a lot from Mike.  I couldn't possibly list them all but here's a few and I say them with the assurance that comes with the resignation of an end;
I learned to make someone laugh when they are mad at you; he always did that to me and goddammit if it didn't work until that last year.
He taught me to love  myself.  He set the example that I still call upon to this day; he loved me no matter how I looked or what I said.  At least, he loved me the only way he knew how.
My marriage is over.  I mourned it's death for two years before I buried it.  My biggest regret is the casualty of three children who will continue to feel the after shocks long after I do.  The only thing I can hope is that they learn to emulate the best parts of us and to walk away from the worst.  I wish I could have provided more of the best.  There were allot of laughs in our house.  A lot of love. 
It was eight years yesterday that we stood there, in the rain, with only a handful of our family members willing to support us as we promised forever.  I meant it.  I just didn't know what I know now; about myself, mostly.  That was still a pretty wonderful day.  It was full of hope and the intention of perseverance.

So, here's to September 9th.  I promised.  I tried.  That path wasn't meant to be the last one; I hope this one is.  Here's to Mike for the lessons he taught me andto the ones he gave to the person I love now.

Thanks, Mikey.

P is for Potty....or Prozac

Let the peeing begin!

My youngest, Ruby aka 'Tootie', aka 'Spawn of Satan' aka 'La Diabla" aka...okay, you get the picture, needs to be potty trained.  Soon.  She will turn 3 in December and somewhere along the line somebody-- probably a stay at home mom with one child and a nanny, housekeeper, cook, and personal trainer--decided that it was 'unacceptable' to still be in diapers once you have started pre-school.  Really?! Most of 'em are still sucking their thumb and speaking unintelligibly but an innocent Pull Up isn't kosher? Pre-School (and dance class, for that matter) you're killin' me! 
Side bar: Tootie desperately wants to dance; she climbs into our over sized tub and touches the bottom with both hands while waving one leg in the air.  I think this is her way of 'break-dancing'.  Or she has been watching dogs pee one too many times.  Either way, the dance school has two rules for instructing three year olds in the art of ballet and tapping; be potty trained and be able to follow instruction.  Now, I need some clarification here; follow instruction singular?  Like, if she listens at least once throughout the course of a day then I can send her to class?  Or are we using this word in its plural form? In which I  must then ask, directions consistently or at least twice in a day?  And further, who's instruction?  Her own?Is that an option???  Okay. Deep Breath.  Back to rule number one; potty training.

Not wanting my sweet, chubby cheeked Beelzebub to have further reason to lay prone on a therapists' couch because she was harassed and taunted for the cursed Pull-Up by her fellow toddlers, we began the long and arduous process of pee pee on the potty.

And then Cam decided to regress by no longer peeing in the toilet but rather on the carpet in his room.  Repeatedly--even when I didn't have the door secured with panty hose after three hours of continued escapes peppered with the breaking of glass and random nakedness (it's like a frat party gone bad)--he would whip it out and pee on the carpet.  Any spot will do, he's not picky.  And because one male need to urinate any where but the bathroom isn't enough, the cats will then pee on the same spot.  Frankly, you'd think Tootie would have caught on by now and she'd simply drop her drawers, pop a squat , and pee on the ground at whim.  But no, no one is looking to cut Mommy a break.

I scoured the Internet for tips on how to potty train your toddler when the only time you see her is for three hours at night during the week and every other weekend.  Consistency, consistency, consistency, they all claimed.  Yeah, well screw you, too, Parents magazine.  Daycare won't touch the process but they will 'ask her if she needs to go potty every hour'.  Gee, thanks.  And how many changes of clothes shall I send each day? Because by the time I've asked her, she's naked from the waist down and running madly through the house, which is all bad when I know she was wearing panties just a minute ago.

Ah, the storied panties.  This was another gem from the parenting sites.  Incentive, they call it.  I'm supposed to purchase cute little chonies for my monster as a bribe to convince her that she really does want to pee in the potty, she just doesn't know that yet.  Except that Ruby is nobody's fool.  Parental bribery has turned into a heated game of negotiations.  Gone are the days of one M&M for each trickle Paris made into her singing potty.  No, now Ruby demands a 'Popacle" (Tootie talk for Popsicle or better yet, an Otter Pop that she can trail all over the carpet) for even entertaining the idea of sitting on the potty. So, broken and weary,  I bought a mega-sized bag of M&Ms and explained our strategy to Isaac like a war-time general leading his troops into battle; we'd ask her to go potty, she'd happily run to said potty, and execute her task with grace and expediency.  She'd then earn the coveted M&M.  Riiiight, except Isaac put the bag of 'sorta mushy because they were in the car while I did my errands' M&Ms into the freezer.  And Tootie saw. 
20 minutes later.....
Enter a naked (why can't  my babies stay clothed?!) and cracked-out Ruby covered with a suspicious brown and red substance that appears to be regurgitated M&Ms. Never NEVER let them see you hide the goods! Parenting 101, my dear Watson, parenting 101. But poor Isaac missed that day of university and subsequently the ones before and after.  So, he's learning by trial and error riddled with a need to secure reason and logic from the kids.  Sigh. Amateurs.
Anyway, that first day ended with Ruby passed out in a pool of her own multi-colored saliva because her system couldn't handle the mega-sized bag of M&Ms and she finally succumbed to the abhorrent need for sleep.  I assured my shell-shocked boyfriend--who by the way, cannot stand anything being spilled on the floor much less the urine of a two year old puddling on the tile--that this was a normal first day of the potty process and that tomorrow would surely be a better day.  Yes, I'm a liar.  No, I have no shame.
One week has gone by since that fateful day.  Much pee was shed.  Many tears were wiped (Isaac took the madness like a champ but in the end, this pee pee war was simply too much for him; and the multiple cases of Coors Light). And Ruby aka "Tootie' aka "Spawn of Satan' aka "La Diabla" aka.... well, you get the idea, still sports her pink Pull-Up like a boxer strutting into the ring; she knows she got to us. 

And I'm fairly certain that when no one is looking, when no one can hear, Tootie slinks into the bathroom and does, in fact, execute her pee pee business with grace and expediency.  And she's silently laughing, maniacally, to herself the entire time.

Stepping off of the Merry-Go-Round

It's time to reassess.  Or maybe it's just time to sit down, with a strong long drink, and replay the last year.  Sounds fun!
I'm fucking with you. 
It sounds awful.
My divorce was final on August 2nd.  Talk about anti-climactic.  After two or three 'false alarms' and a entire night devoted to reveling in my new found singledom (which turned out to be the exact opposite of the truth) the actual realization of a hellish year ended with a take n' bake pizza and a houseful of kids.  It's probably fitting, really, because life moved on long ago in some ways; the kids and I moved homes--three times--I'm working full-time, Paris started another school year, Ruby learned to tell people to 'shut up', and Cam took up whining as a new past time.  Being a 'sensitive' person, read--dramatic and over-emotional--I expected some sort of symbolic closing of that chapter of my life.  Maybe a white dove would fly across my path, a rainbow would appear in the sky despite the dry weather, or a MISSING poster of a certain someone would grace the telephone poles of our fair city. 
But alas, nada.Zip.Zilch. 
This week I've decided to figure out just what I did , or did not, learn from the past ten months.
It will be the implementation that I struggle with.