Here's a hard truth....God doesn't care what brand your purse is. God doesn't care how big your house is, what kind of car you drive, or how many presents are under your Christmas tree.

As a little girl, like tons of other little girls then and now, I dreamed of getting married. It wasn't just the dress, the flowers, the music, the people. I wanted the love. You know the kind; that dreamy sort of love that all the pop songs are written about. Mariah Carey's Vision of Love; that's what I wanted. But of course, being the awkward curly haired mess that I was (and still am some of the time) it just didn't happen. As a teenager, I was the popular topic of many a rumor but my imaginary life was much more exciting than my real one. I can honestly say I never once got asked to a school dance. Not even once. I always went with friends of friends or, like at my senior prom, I went with my friend's little brother. Yup, that was my life. In college, I didn't fair much better but I tried. My one gift when it came to relationships was trying to make one where one wasn't. I was always "the friend." You know, the kind with benefits who wasn't a girlfriend and would never get introduced to the friends or the parents but was around to hang out with and take advantage of. This never went well for me as it doesn't in many situations but the pattern was hard to break. Until junior year of college when I was taking a creative writing class. Creative writing classes are notoriously touchy feely and it can be a little uncomfortable for someone who avoids eye contact and talking about my life in front of strangers (me) but I did it anyway. It was credit for my major and it was relatively easy. When our professor made us set up the chairs in the classroom so that we were all facing each other in a makeshift circle, I was seated directly across from the most friendly face that I had ever seen in my life. I should mention, my chronic resting bitch face is not a recent condition. I've had it since I was little. Because of this I was particularly nervous about the friendly face before me but he didn't seem to care that I always looked like I was about to stab someone or that I rolled my eyes without noticing it sometimes. He smiled at me anyway. With his whole face. Eyes, mouth, cheeks, he almost seemed to exude happy and it was magnetic. It took almost the entire semester before we actually talked to each other and to be honest, I'm not sure who called whom or how it all went down but he invited me over to his apartment and from that day forward, I only went home when I absolutely had to. I had found it. Mariah Carey's vision and mine. Love. For the first time in my life, I was the best version of myself and someone really loved me for me. I didn't have to hide or fake it. I didn't have to run away before his friends showed up or stay quiet when his mom called. He loved me and he was proud of me and we were happy. And it lasted all of 8 weeks. I would like to tell you that we broke up, that the bubble burst. That he cheated on me. But that's not what happened. What happened was that he died. He died and he left me alone and I went from being the happiest that I'd ever been in my life to feeling the kind of grief that makes you feel like you're being buried alive. It was another major blow in my life that year. Having had an abortion and ending a relationship with someone who loved me but wasn't in love with me, I was already grieving when he came into my life and brought me to life and now I was grieving his death and my death and the death of any hope that I'd had that things were going to be ok for me, that I was going to be ok. That dreams do come true and love exists.

I'd like to say that in the 11 years that have passed, that I've found love again and love reigns supreme once more. And that's true in a way. I've never felt more perfect or terrifying love than I have for my children. When I see them, I see love. But I also see the what ifs. What if he had lived? What if these were the kids we were meant to have together? What if we had gotten our happily ever after? I have a husband. I love my husband but not the way I loved him. Our love is heavy. We our both hardened, jaded people and we struggle. And I sometimes feel like a fraud because the memory of the man that I loved first, that I loved easily, that I loved lightly, is in my mind and in my heart every day. I wonder if my husband knows that sometimes when I look at him, I'm wishing he was someone else. I wonder if he knows that sometimes I hold him to an impossible standard. I am hoping he can't tell that I still grieve and grieve hard. And I wonder if he knows that sometimes I feel like I'm cheating on my first love. The easy love. The fairy tale love. I wonder if he knows that sometimes, when the hurt is really bad, I feel like all of this is wrong.

Grief is a work in progress. It never really goes away and it can manifest itself in so many different ways. It's been 11 years and some days it feels like a lifetime ago. Some days I can barely remember his voice and other days it's like I just saw him yesterday. And I miss him. I miss the way he brought out the best in me when so often I feel like I'm falling short. I miss the way he truly believed that I could do anything. I miss the way he was always genuinely happy to see me. I miss it all. The logical side of me is very aware that at some point it might have gone away. We would have fought. Life would have gotten in the way. We would have gotten on each other's nerves or hurt each other's feelings and maybe the honeymoon would have ended. Those things could have happened but they didn't. We had 8 weeks of love the ripples of which I will feel the rest of my life. I have a lifetime of grief ahead of me but also a lifetime of memories. A lifetime of love.

Mourning Mom

I've always had a little bit of jealousy for people that have good relationships with their mothers. When I was little, I didn't know it was jealousy. I just knew that what I had in my mother wasn't what I saw around me. As I got older, I thought that maybe if I could just change myself I would be able to make my mom into the person I wanted her to be. The mom I needed her to be. But that wasn't the case. Nothing I did was ever good enough or extreme enough to jolt her into a state in which she was able to experience maternal instinct. Or at least let me experience some feeling of "mom" coming from her. The irony of the situation is that my mom is a teacher. I've watched her shower her students with affection for most of my life. Letting them hold her and touch her in the ways that I wanted too but wasn't allowed to because I was constantly in the way, or she didn't have time, or I was just too clingy too needy for her to pay any mind to. Some of my earliest memories of my mom aren't pleasant ones. I remember her smoking and crying in the dining room with all of the windows open. I remember her dismissing my tears and frustration by putting a belt on the door knob in front of my bedroom and telling me that if I continued to cry, she would give me a reason to cry. I remember wanting to touch her face and always being told that I couldn't because I would mess up her make up. I remember then watching one or another of her students touching her face and not knowing how to deal with the rejection. I remember being told that if she could go back in time, she never would have had kids. In other words, my sister and I had ruined her life and she would be happier if we didn't exist. What I don't remember is being held. Or encouraged. Or told that I was special or important or that I mattered.

As an awkward pre-teen, I remember being told that I had embarrassed her in front of one of her friends and getting back handed in the face so hard it made my nose bleed. Of course we were in the car and I bled on the upholstery so that was just more justification for her rejection. It was soon after that that I decided that I would do anything to try to please her. I had come to the conclusion that it was my fault that she couldn't or wouldn't act like a mom. So I set out to make her happy. Get good grades? Check! Lose weight? Check! Be popular and accepted by my peers? Check! I was on a quest to make her love me and would stop at nothing. It wasn't smooth sailing and by no means was I an easy child to love at this point. No. I didn't know how to accept kindness and I wasn't very good at returning it. I had a bit of a bad attitude and was "looking for love in all the wrong places" as the song goes. But I didn't know any better at this point in my life. It wasn't until my mom decided I needed therapy (in lieu of actually talking to me herself) when I was 16 that I began to get a better picture of what my family life was really like. It was that first therapist that called my mom into a session one day and explained to her that my problems wouldn't be solved by therapy alone but by her stepping up and being a better mom. Basically, what I needed was to be parented. This wasn't an easy pill to swallow for the woman who had been telling me that she was done raising her kids since my sister moved out. I was 10 when my sister moved out. Needless to say, I didn't ever go back to that particular therapist and nothing at home changed except my mother now had a reason to hate me. In her mind, I had lied to the therapist and now she had a justifiable reason to treat me the way she did. It was at this point that my mom decided that I am crazy and because I am crazy I don't deserve any respect or any thing at all really. In her eyes, I'm mentally deficient. I'm paranoid, I'm anxious, I'm angry, I'm depressed, I'm bitter. All accusations that have been hurled at me and used as justification for being treated like garbage. For my mother, this is reason enough to hate me. I won't deny that I've never felt these things. I have. We all have. I've been especially depressed, angry, and bitter when it comes to dealing with my relationship with her. I don't live there though. I don't live in my depression, I don't live in my anger, I don't live in my sadness. They are visitors in my life that show up on my door step on occasion but I don't let them stay. I refuse. My mother has never acknowledged this though and from this point on, I was not allowed to show emotion in front of her. Crying is only evidence that I am depressed. Yelling, that I am angry and bitter.

This got progressively worse through college. I moved into the dorms at 17 because she no longer wanted me at home. I did what she wanted me to do. I got good grades, I worked, I tried to be the person that she seemed to want me to be so that she would love me. And then I got pregnant. I was 19, I was a junior in college. I had gotten pregnant from a guy who was already in a relationship with somebody else (this I didn't find out until after I told him I was pregnant) and was never committed to me to begin with. I had moved back home at this point, having done a stint in the dorms and then in my sorority house. I remember very clearly the night that I told my mom I was pregnant. She actually guessed before I had said anything. My mom always anticipated the worst in me anyway, getting knocked up at 19 for the sole purpose of disgracing her was totally something that was on my agenda. And of course more fuel for her justification of her feelings toward me. I said, "I need to tell you something." She said, "Let me guess. You're pregnant." There was a long pause after which she said, "You need to get rid of it or you need to get out of my house." That was the end of it. Have an abortion or be homeless. Homeless with a kid. Of course, I was met with a similar reaction from the father of the baby. "I'm engaged to someone else, get rid of it...I'll get you the money." And sure enough, he coughed up the nearly $1,000 that it cost to have an abortion in 2004. On February 13th, 2004 I had an abortion. It was Friday the 13th. It was snowing. It was sad and it was scary and it happened.

I essentially chose between my mother and my baby and my mother won. That's how desperate I was to please her. In some way, I thought that if she saw how much I was willing to sacrifice, she would see that I loved her and she would love me back. But of course that wasn't the case and I was left now not only without the love and support of my mother, I no longer had my baby or the father of my baby in my life either. Don't get me wrong. I've come to accept that it was my decision and that it was the best decision at the time. It was also the loosening of the thread that would begin the unraveling of my desire to have my mother in my life and it was then that I gave myself permission to grieve the mom that I would never have. It was then that I came to the painful realization that she wasn't going to change and that I couldn't make her. Nothing that I could or would ever do would make her into the mom I needed so I began to let her go.

Grief in and of itself is a complicated process. The amount of time that it takes to go through the stages of grief is not set in stone and every one is different. Grieving someone who is still very much alive and well is even more complicated. There have been so many moments along the way that I've wanted my mom and I've called out for her. Begging for her help. For her love. For some sort of reassurance that everything is going to be ok. That I'm going to be ok. That I am ok. Of course, it doesn't happen and it only serves to hurt me in the process.

When I got married, I really wanted the whole experience. The wedding, the picking out dresses, the planning, the dreaming, the hoping. But it didn't happen. My mother's main concern when it came to my wedding was how she felt about it. After about the fifth conversation with her about how excited she was to take my nieces shopping for dresses for my wedding, I gave up. We couldn't afford a wedding and he was getting deployed. My husband and I got married at the courthouse. Neither one of my parents were invited.

Soon after we were married, I got pregnant. Not planned but I was married this time. I had a masters degree. I had a home. My husband was going to be on a yearlong deployment and here we were newlywed and expecting a baby. As an expectant, I longed for my mom to be there with me. To ease my anxiety, to hold my hand, to experience the pregnancy with me since my husband wouldn't be able to. Despite the fact her response to my news, "Are you stupid?" I still hoped that she would come around and want to be apart of the experience. But her idea of being involved was based more on what was convenient for her than anything else. My son was born via c-section after a failed induction because I developed pre-eclampsia at 37 weeks. Not terribly uncommon but he was early and my husband wasn't scheduled to come home on leave for another week. It was a situation that would have been difficult under the very best circumstances made more difficult because I just wanted my mom to be a mom and she couldn't or wouldn't do it. So I made up my mine to let her go again. Start the process of mourning mom all over again.

I'm like the dog that gets kicked and keeps coming back for more so powerful is my need or desire to be mothered. 

As my son has grown and especially when I had my daughter, the hurt of not having a mother has taken a new shape. The hurt is still there, the longing, the desire to share my experiences with someone who should be able to empathize or at least offer a kind word but also the realization that I could never do to my kids what my mother has done to me. I would never ever let me children feel like they were nothing, or that they were in the way, or that they weren't wanted. I love my children. My love for my children is fierce. They are very loved, very wanted, very special and I make sure that they know that. Part of my job as a mother is to protect my children from harm and now that includes making sure that my mother doesn't have the ability to them to do to them what she's done to me and that they are not made to witness the kind of verbal abuse that I've been subjected to my whole life. I used to think that it was important for my kids to have grandparents in their lives. My husband's family is just as screwed up as mine and his parents have no relationship with my kids so I figured my parents could fit the bill. I would let them be the grandparents. I have been willing to tolerate my mom's disapproval and hatred of me because she was good to my kids. She seemed to make them happy. But this is no longer the case.

A part of me feels guilty, like I'm robbing my children of something. And I guess, in a way, I am. They won't have a close relationship with any of their grandparents despite the fact that they are all still alive and able bodied. Grandparenting, like parenting, is a privilege. And when a privilege is abused, it should be taken away. As a parent, it's my responsibility to make that call. In doing so, I will be forced to mourn mom in a way that's permanent and hopefully after all of this time will finally lead to some real closure. My desire to protect my children outweighs my desire to have a mom.  For them I will be a mom. The kind of mom that they need. For them, I will let her go. I will let her go totally and completely and finally.

The Poop

My 3 year old is recently potty trained. Too recently perhaps. The traumatic memories are still pretty painful. One memory in particular still brings a tear to my eye and the red hot flush of humiliation to my cheeks. One Saturday, not long after I had given birth to my beautiful daughter, my BFF and her 3 year old invited us for a playdate at a local bookstore. It has a coffee shop and a kids area; the perfect combination. I was all for it. I left the baby with her dad, made sure my son had had one last trip to the potty, and headed out. I should mention that I completely forgot the emergency bag with wipes, Pull Ups, change of clothes, and extra undies. I should also mention that my son was not totally comfortable with the concept of public toilets. I'd like to say that it was because of the idea of putting his hands where someone else's ass had so recently been sitting grossed him out a little (like it does me) but it had more to do with how loud public toilets tend to be when they flush.

Soon after our arrival, my son let me know that he had to go potty. Usually, I was able to get him through a public toilet experience with some encouragement and hand holding but not today. Today he was adamant he was not going to use the public toilet. I explained to him that if he didn't go potty, we'd have to go home. He finally conceded and very quickly, hopped on, dripped a little pee, and hopped off begging me not to flush it. I sent him to stand by the sinks while I flushed, we washed hands, and headed back to the train table. As he and his friend were playing and me and my friend were talking, I saw a familiar look on his face. You know the one, we've all seen it. Perhaps it starts with a look of intense concentration followed by a red nose, or a slight squat and a determined glare.Whatever it looks like, any one who's ever parented a child knows it. It's the poop face. "NNOOOO!!!" I yelled as I reached for his hand to lead him to the potty. We very nearly made it but he did get a little on his undies. No big deal, I thought. He insisted that he did not need to sit on the toilet. Because of the new baby, I hadn't had a normal adult conversation with another woman in quite a few weeks and was desperate for the company so I very stupidly chose to trust my public potty paranoid son, tossed the dirty undies, cleaned him up, and headed back out once again this time with a toddler sans underpants.

Pretty soon the boys were playing again, I was starting to feel like a little of the newborn isolation haze was lifting, and things were looking up. Then once again, that face. This time it was accompanied with a little grunt. "NNOOOO!!!" I yelled again as I reached for his hand but this time it was too late. What was done, was done. And it was done sans underpants. More specifically, it was done in a just a loose pair of khaki shorts sans underpants. I told my friend to text me later and hustled out of there as fast his little legs would move. As we were nearing the exit to the children's section, I thought I saw a brown lump sneak out from his shorts. Can't be, I thought, my mind is playing tricks on me. I felt a rush of blood in my cheeks and tears began to well up in my eyes. Can't be, can't be, can't be, I thought as we continued to rush to the car. In the car, I of course proceeded to have a full on meltdown. Hormonal, exhausted, frustrated, I could see the concerned look on my son's face as we drove home but he didn't say a single word.

Once we got there, I passed him off to my very confused husband and explained what had happened through tears as I watched my husband stifle his laughter for my sake, I heard the text message alert on my phone. No, I thought, it's her. She's going to either confirm or deny what I may or may not have seen as we left the store. Can't be, can't be, can't be.

Oh but it could be. And it was. Not only had I in fact seen what I thought I had seen, someone had stepped in it and some poor store employee was left to clean it up. A part of me wanted to call the store and apologize; to send flowers to the poor store employee, to let them know that had I not had an underpantsless toddler and no back up clothes, I would have been happy to, ok not happy to, but I would have cleaned up the mess myself. The other part of me wanted to start looking at houses on the east coast and move immediately. I didn't call the store and I didn't move and eventually my son got over his fear of public toilets. I did however, avoid that store for many many months and I still consider placing a bag over my head any time I find that I have to go in there.

The thick of it....

I'm in the thick of it. Motherhood that is. I'm tired,  I live in work out clothes or in pajamas, I can't remember when I last washed my hair. I am either frantically trying to get something done (cooking, laundry, grading papers, a work out) or trying not to move so as not to disturb the sleeping baby and/or toddler in my arms. In my daydreams, my kids are older. They sleep through the night, they are potty trained, they don't need me to dress them or bathe them. They don't need me to buckle them into car seats or wipe their runny noses. Forget the empty nest, I'd just like to get passed the stage where diapers are a regular purchase and no one needs rails on their beds. I day dream about getting a massage or wearing pretty clothes. Buying a pair of high heels or spending an entire day in bed watching TV. I day dream about spending quality time with my husband without worrying if my kids are ok or if we've been gone too long. I daydream about sleep.

And then I feel guilty because so often I hear, "Enjoy it, it goes by too fast." Followed by a story about grown kids and the passage of time told by mothers who miss their babies. I know some day I will be that mother too. I will miss the feeling of a baby sleeping on my chest, the sticky hands of a toddler. I will miss tiny feet and seemingly endless energy. I will miss the firsts. First teeth and first steps. First haircuts. First birthdays. First days of pre-school. And countless other firsts that I haven't been privy to yet because as far as motherhood goes, I am still a newcomer to the club. 

But I'm in the thick of it and sometimes I want to scream, "I'm trying!" And I am trying, I really am. But I'm tired, I live in work out clothes or pajamas, I can't remember the last time I washed my hair. This morning I cried because I couldn't find my keys and my son was late to pre-school and the teacher doesn't like it when the kids interrupt circle time. I've rewashed the same load of laundry four times because I keep forgetting I'm supposed to be doing laundry. I smell like spit up because my newborn managed to puke down my shirt and into my bra and I don't have another clean bra that fits me right now. I have baby weight to lose and a husband who most definitely feels neglected but is doing his best to keep his mouth shut about his needs (mostly because he knows how easily I cry and doesn't like to be the cause of my tears). I have a horrible c-section scar on my abdomen that still hasn't healed properly and more stretch marks than smooth skin. The last time I showered I forgot to shave both legs. On top of having a house to run and kids to raise, I have 50 freshmen that are counting on me to get them through their very first English class which means countless emails to return and scoldings to dish out; pats on the back that sometimes require more effort than the "good job!" I throw my toddler's way when he's mastered a new task. I have a boss who more often than not calls when my house is in chaos and one kid is screaming and the other one is singing and a Thomas movie is playing for the nine hundreth time while the dishwasher is going and my phone was hidden under Elmo because "Elmo wanted to play the puzzle game on Mama's phone." 

And then there are those moments when I realize what it is I'm supposed to enjoy. I want to bottle the smell of my daughter's fuzzy hair as she sleeps on my chest. I want to never forget the face that my son makes when he tells me, "I love you so much too, Mama." I want to stop time and keep my two babies in my arms forever. I want to capture the feeling of a sticky little hand in mine and a tiny fist wrapped around my finger. I want to read the bed time stories and kiss the bumped heads and put a Band-Aid on the often imaginary wounds. I want to play trains with my son and watch my sweet baby girl figure out that the if she kicks hard enough, she can get her sock off. I want to look both ways before we cross the street and jump so high off of every curb. I want to laugh with my husband late at night in bed about the silly things our boy says or the funny faces our tiny girl makes.

I want to be totally and completely in the thick of it.

In my quest to not become my mother, I inadvertently became my mother. It finally struck me; 18 weeks pregnant, slippers, 2-year old playing on the floor, fully engaged in tackling the pile of ironing that I have to do every week to keep my husband in his business casual duds. It was like deja vu except instead of me being the kid playing on the floor, I was suddenly my mom. Not the kind of epiphany I wanted to have this early in the morning.

It wasn't the "mom" part that made me not want to be like my mom, it wasn't the cooking, cleaning, ironing; it was the loneliness and isolation. The fact that even though she was unhappy in her marriage for many years, she felt like she had to stick it out because she was uneducated and not prepared to tackle being the bread winner and the homemaker at the same time. I watched all of this unfold as a kid and then later as a teenager. My mom worked her ass of doing any little odd job that she could do from home to help supplement my dad's income. She took in ironing, she watched kids, she baked cakes, she even sometimes cleaned houses. This was her way of contributing. She was also horribly isolated. Back in the late 80s early 90s, there wasn't much support for the stay at home mom. No moms groups to join; no Stroller Strides or MOPS. The way I saw it, they just all trudged through it alone.

My mom's anxiety and unhappiness was often palpable in our house. It caused her to say things to me and my sister that would later shape us our personalities as adults. We knew that she was unhappy. And while my sister, who is 7 years older than I am, was able to rebel and kick and scream to cope, I just spent a lot of time reading and crying and hoping that I would be the kid she wanted me to be and that I could make her happy. This, of course, never happened. Eventually my mom got a job at the school that I went to and a few years after that she decided to go to college and she did graduate earn her bachelor's degree, 2 years after I did in 2007.

As a teenager, neither one of my parents were around much. My dad had never been around much because of his job and my mom had fully committed herself to her career and her studies. And yet I still did everything I could to get her approval. Which turned out to be to my benefit since I was on my own a lot and I never even considered getting in trouble. I just wanted her to be proud of me. So I worked my ass off in school. Took AP classes, participated in every thing I could, I went to conferences, and applied for scholarships and I did a lot of stuff that I probably shouldn't have done too. Don't get me wrong; I was no angel but my adolescent transgressions were few and far between and weren't anything out of the ordinary. I also knew that if I didn't somehow make myself spectacular and go to college, that I would wind up facing the same circumstances that she did.

But still I felt like my mom's past was haunting me. I managed to get out of college unscathed but at 19 I found myself pregnant. My mom having been a teen mom herself, couldn't fathom how this could happen since she had put on the pill at 14 as a way to prevent me from becoming a teen mom. This, of course, didn't go over well. At 19, I also lost my first love to a car accident; my mom went through a divorce at the same age. At 20, I finally accomplished my goal of finishing college. This was enough to make me once and for all decidedly not like my mom, right? Apparently not.

Nine years later, I'm a stay at home mom myself. I'm a wife to a man that works horrifically long hours most of the time and is rarely home. Much like my dad he has a 2 hour commute one way to work. I do what I can to supplement his income by working from home. Instead of taking in ironing and kids, I teach for probably much the same kind of wages my mom earned for her odd jobs. I'm often lonely, though thanks to years of therapy in my early 20s, I'm much better equipped to handle things than my mom was even if it's just reaching out through Facebook or email.

It wasn't all bad growing up; I think it's just sometimes easier to remember the hard stuff. My mom taught us a lot of things that I am really grateful for now. Thanks to my mom, I know how to clean and sew (although I hate sewing). I know how very very important education is; no matter how tight money was, my mom always found ways to buy my books that I so desperately clung to as a kid. I know that because I'm a wife/mother my husband, my kids, and my home are a reflection of me so even though my kid might throw a tantrum in the middle of Target, he's wearing clean clothes and he's bathed and he's probably also throwing a few thank yous and pleases in there.

My mom taught me how to crease pants and iron shirts.

We are expecting our second baby (together) in the spring. A much wanted, planned addition to our blended family that currently consists of my husband's two kids from his previous marriage and our two-year old and yet I'm struggling to find joy. I know, it sounds ridiculous, what's not to be happy about? A blessing we wanted is on it's way and I am having a hard time getting happy about it? What's wrong with me? What's wrong with me...I find myself wondering if I'm too old for this. Not chronologically. I realize that 29 is a perfectly appropriate age to be expanding our family but emotionally. Am I too emotionally spent to love and nurture another baby?

This year has been a year of hardship for our family. My marriage crumbling right before my eyes, I didn't think there would be another year of having an in tact family moreless a mutual decision to expand our family. In the back of my mind is the fear that if we could were once so capable of screwing up our marriage that we could very well do it again. Old habits die hard afterall. Worry is exhausting.

There's also guilt. Guilt that I won't be able to care for my son the way I once had. All of my time and effort (for the most part) dedicated to him. Will he be jealous? Will he feel neglected? Will I be doing a disservice to him by giving him a sibling? I've never spent a night away from him. No one else has ever put him to bed. Since my husband was deployed while he was born and during the first six months of his life and we lived apart for another six months, my son is only now starting to know what it's like to have both parents around. For much of his life there was only me and him. And I wasn't always the best mother to him. Dealing with my own turmoil and loneliness, there was a period of time when I just couldn't enjoy being a mother. The burden was too great. The exhaustion too debilitating. I still wonder if he will be sitting on a therapist's couch one day saying, "My mom cried a lot when I was a baby." Logically, I know this is stupid. He was too little to remember and he's absolutely fine. He's independent and stubborn and any time we're out and about someone will remark "What a happy boy!" And my boy is happy. I can't say that I want to go through any of what I went through with the separation and the impending divorce again but I can say that without that experience I wouldn't have had the chance to really stop and listen to God and realize that being a mother is a gift and one I should enjoy. With the very real possibility that I'd have to give up my part-time teaching gig to work full time and leave my son in daycare, I plunged head first into enjoying him when there was very little else I felt joy in. Don't get me wrong, he still drives me crazy sometimes. There are days when I just can't watch another episode of Thomas and Friends or I might pull my hair out if I step on another Goldfish cracker. But these things are apart of motherhood. It's a package deal. You don't get the funny faces and cuddles and milestones without the explosive diarrhea and inexplicable bad moods.

I know, I sound like a hypocrite, if one baby is a blessing then another baby is also a blessing. Trust me, I have considered this. I know that trying to talk myself out of having another baby after I'm already pregnant is ridiculous and I know that my worries are mostly unfounded. My son will be fine. He will enjoy having a sibling. My husband and I are now much better equipped to deal with the challenges of marriage than we were in the past and we will be ok. There's the very real possibility that this is just fear talking and not fear of any of the things I've mentioned. Fear of losing this baby. There are so many things that can possibly go wrong. I mean if you think about it, What To Expect When You're Expecting is just a big long list of things that you can flip out about. Since the pregnancy is still so new and it's still so early, I just don't want to get my hopes up. This has become my MO is the past 10 years or so. Don't get excited and you won't be disappointed when things don't work out. Only the strategy doesn't necessarily work and in the meantime, I lose out on a lot of missed opportunities to be joyful. Logically, I know what I need to do. I need to get up (this can be a challenge since the hungover/exhausted pregnant feeling is quite intense these days) and enjoy the last few months of being a mother of one. Then when the baby comes, all I have to do is enjoy being a mother of two. I don't just want to survive motherhood, I want to enjoy it.

Please, God, help me to find joy today. Help me to appreciate this blessing and know that no matter what happens, it is your will and everything will work out the way you intend it to in your time.

Mi Vida Loca (Or How I Was Introduced to Little Loca)

Yesterday was one of those rare March New Mexico days where it was just warm and not hot and the wind wasn't blowing at a speed that would cause a cow to blow pass your window. We took advantage and went out in the backyard to play in Sam's new sandbox and his little blow up swimming pool. While we were outside, the neighbor's extremely aggressive and obnoxious little dog come right up to our gate to bark at us and growl. My husband shooed him back into his yard but the dog kept coming back and snapping, growling and barking. Yes, in our yard. So we did what anyone would do. We called animal control. The neighbors weren't home in the middle of the morning on a weekday so there was really no other recourse unless we wanted to cut our fun short which we were not going to do for some stupid little dog. You better believe that they would have had hell to pay if that dog had attacked my son, especially if he had attacked my son in our yard. We had absolutely no reason not to call animal control. We didn't (and still don't) even know their names so obviously there was no cell or work number we could call and say, "Hey, your stupid, aggressive, needy-for-attention little dog is in our yard and hostile." Animal control came, chased the dog up the road and that's the last we heard of it until later that night. Around 8pm we were on our way home from picking up Sam at my mom's house. We knew something was up as soon as we turned the corner onto our street. The shitty dog neighbors and their next door neighbors (who also have shitty yappy dogs that get out all the time and bark even when you're no where near them) were all outside. Both sets of neighbors have school age kids, both sets of neighbors are rarely outside and when they are it's way after my kid is already in bed so there's really no common ground. As we pulled into our garage, before we were even fully out of our car, the neighbor who will from here on out be called Little Loca, came charging up our driveway in full on "I'm gonna kick your ass" mode.

Little Loca, she's down for Legends West. You better believe, ese. (Ok so this is not what Little Loca really looks like but I would guess that she probably did at some point in her life. It's like the old say goes "You can take the girl out of the hood, but you can't take the hood out of the girl.")

She didn't have anything productive to say. She was as angry, aggressive, and yes, as dumb as her dog. All she could do was yell, "You stupid fat bitch! You called animal control on my dog! That's a chicken shit way to solve the problem! My dog wouldn't have done anything to your kid; he doesn't do anything to my kids. What do you do all day besides sit on your ass at home? Are you even educated? You stupid fat bitch." This was her tirade. For what seemed like hours but was really minutes. "Put your baby down and come out in the street and fight me. Put your baby down, you stupid fat bitch." The only thing that stopped her from physically attacking me was that her husband had the sense to hand her their own infant son so in order to hit me, she would have had to have risked putting her own baby in the middle. Which clearly she was not prepared to do. "You better watch your back, bitch! I'm going to fuck you up! (as long as I'm not holding my baby and there are not witnesses like their are right now.)"

This is like one of those experiences you have when you go to public school in a bad part of, in my case, the state (it is debatable whether or not the entire state of New Mexico can be considered the bad part of the state but then you have places like Santa Fe with all the celebrities and artists and over priced real estate that just screw this whole scenario up). I was jumped in 7th grade by a group of girls who sounded not unlike Little Loca. Except in 7th grade, they were unlikely to call me a fat bitch (I wasn't fat at this point in my life, it's actually debatable whether or not I'm fat now, but I digress). More than likely those bullies called me a slut or something along those lines. I honestly don't remember. In that case, the physical altercation was one sided. I let them beat me up which really just resulted in some pulled hair and a couple of bruises (none of which were on my face). The girls that jumped me really didn't put any heart into. In a case of 5 on 1, they probably could have done a good bit of damage but they didn't. It's like they didn't actually want to do it but they were all probably egging each other on as 7th graders will do.


In this case however, you're talking about moms in what's essentially a suburb in their late 20s with kids (infants and toddlers alike) standing by and husbands (well mine anyway) trying to diffuse the situation. Let me set this scene up a little more clearly, we live at the end of a cul-de-sac. We all drive SUVs or mid-size cars which are parked inside our open two car garages, there's kids playing basketball outside. Can you see it? Are you grasping the ridiculousness of this altercation? Both of us are holding babies, both of us are wearing denim capris. Both of us have our brown hair tied back in pony tails. Both of us are Hispanic. My eyebrows are drawn on with a pencil but it's not a Sharpie and I don't shave them off and then draw them on so that hardly qualifies as part of my hidden chola mystique. Perhaps if I had been wearing black liquid eyeliner and some brown lipliner, but I wasn't. As far as I could tell, Little Loca wasn't wearing any makeup. Not surprising; given, you know, that we're moms, in a well to do neighborhood with small children. Here are some more photos I've Googled to help illustrate my point.

Little Loca continued to yell insults and, yes, I hurled some of my own right back at her. I'm not proud of that but I am only human and being totally blindsided by the severity of this attack, there wasn't much time to think about taking the higher road. She eventually shut up, but didn't calm down. I eventually realized that provoking her wasn't going to solve the problem. Her husband, though not able to actually do anything about her intense, psychotic rage was able to shut her up long enough to actually have a semi adult conversation with the rest of those present; Little Loca was mad dogging me the whole time. In case you don't know what mad dogging is (if you've never seen Mi Vida Loca) it's basically a stare down, you know, an intimidation tactic. I'm not easily intimidated by the human equivalent of an aggressive, stupid, yapping little dog so her attempts to get me quaking in my boots were futile at best (I'm not easily intimidated by anyone except those that I consider intellectually superior to me. My former professors, experts in my field. You know, educated people. Not surprising since, according to Little Loca, I must not be educated because I am at home most of the time.)

The whole stupid thing ended with her husband saying that the dog would never get out again and him ushering her inside quickly and without ceremony. We stayed outside talking to the other neighbor about his yapping dogs and explaining that his dogs get so wound up when we're outside that there have been times that one or the other of them has actually gotten stuck in the fence or wrapped up in it's chain, which is an unsafe situation for any dog to be in for an indeterminate amount of time. He seemed ok with it. Or as ok as you can be when someone is telling you that you suck as a pet owner because you never trained your dogs and they lack attention because you're never home so they get themselves into dangerous situations because the people whole live across the street are outside in their yard. We also had the opportunity to meet another neighbor was 100% not psychotic and was surprised at the aggressiveness of Little Loca because, although they've been neighbors for years, he'd never actually interacted with her. The other surprising little tidbit about her hostility and her threats is that we live in a neighborhood that is saturated with law enforcement (my husband included although unfortunately, he doesn't get to bring a marked car home). Little Loca didn't seem to process this. And since she had already decided that I am uneducated and fat and my husband is "retarded" (a word I loathe because I believe that only truly ignorant and stupid people use it as an insult) she didn't give a second thought to how we could afford to live in this neighborhood. Oh and speaking of chicken shits, she never gave us her name. Her husband offered up their first name but not their last and never offered up her name either. Since she didn't give us her name, I had no choice but to make an appropriate one up for the purposes of this blog post. Admittedly, last night was a rough night. When you're dealing with someone who has no control over their emotions, it's nearly impossible to predict what they are going to do. We did call dispatch and some police officers came over to make a report so there's documentation of what happened in case Little Loca does decide to make good on her threats. Besides the adrenaline rush which took quite a while to come down from, we we also on edge because my son's bedroom is in the front of the house and ours is in the back. So presumably, if she were to actually try anything stupid, it would have been my toddler that took the brunt of it. Today, we rest. Tomorrow, we are having a security system installed and the day after that, who knows? I hope this is the last I hear from Little Loca. I'm not the type to hold a grudge but I'm also not "uneducated" enough to try to reason with an aggressive, stupid, yapping chola.

The Note

There was a note on Sam's backpack when I picked him from school yesterday. I didn't even notice it until we were already at home. It said "Please bring Sam's Valentines by Wednesday. Thanks." That's it. Nothing more. And yet I felt like it was accusing me of something. It might as well have said "Hey lady! You know how you failed your husband? Now you've failed your kid too! Get your shit together, go to Walmart, and pick up some flippin Valentines for your kid!" It's amazing how one stupid yellow Post-It can send my mind into a tailspin. But I did what the note "said." I took Sam to Walmart, he/we picked out some Valentines and we were all set to pay and then the line was too long. The cashier was too slow. There were too many people. We waited in that stupid line for over 20 minutes. Sam kept kicking my legs, pulling my hair, trying to bite my fingers, anything to keep himself entertained. He was tired of sitting. Tired from an afternoon at school. Hungry for dinner. Hungry for home.  I was tired of standing, hungry for dinner, hungry for home. Hungry for the kind of normalcy that's been so disrupted the last few days and will probably continue to be for a long time to come. And I couldn't handle it. I stood in that line trying to convince myself to be patient, to wait, that the Valentines were all we needed and we should get what we came for. But I couldn't do it. While one part of me knew I should stick it out, the rest of me wanted to curl up in a little ball and cry or stand on top of the counter and yell. I was just so incredibly angry, in that moment. In line at freakin' Walmart. I am trying to give a shit. Trying to care about those Valentines  because my son needs them for school. But I don't care. Valentines is a huge crock and I'm too angry, too bitter, and too alone to even think about how cute it would be to watch him "sign" his cards. The wound is still too fresh. I haven't even begun to think about what bandaging it. It's just bloody and raw and exposed. So I did what any sane person would do, I took it out on the manager who came out of her office at the  behest of another frustrated Walmart patron to see what the problem was. If only I could have told her, "Look I'm not truly angry at you. Any other day the slow cashier and the long line would have just been a passing annoyance. But this just coincides with a whole list of things that are wrong in my life right now and I am incapable of the logical thought it would take to just stick it out and pay for my stuff. I'm really angry at myself and I apologize that you have to take the brunt of it. It's either sound off on you or cry and I really am tired of crying. If it makes you feel any better, I will cry later. When Sam is in carseat and can't see my face, after he's gone to bed and the house is quiet and I am truly and completely alone. I'll cry in bed before I go to sleep. I'll cry when I realize I can't reach the stupid fan to dust the blades. I'll cry when I am vacuuming to cover the sound. I'll cry when I wake up in the morning. When it's too early to move and  my eyes are heavy from not enough sleep. But I can't cry here in this line of angry people. I can't let anyone see my face and see how ashamed I am that this has happened. That I've let this happen. That I've failed. Because even though they won't know and probably won't care why I'm crying, I will." But I didn't tell her that. I handed her the bag of Goldfish crackers that I had opened to try to buy some time before Sam demanded dinner and I left my cart full of Valentines, odds and ends, and Drano to pour down the stupid slow moving drain in front of her and stormed out of the store. Nearly running with my 30 pound toddler in my arms. A race with myself, to see if I could make it to my car before the tears really started going. And I made it. That was my only victory yesterday; I made it to the car before anyone could see me cry. This morning, the note is still on Sam's backpack. That accusatory note that sent me on that failed mission. And today I have to try again.

Rock Bottom

A few months ago I wrote about some problems I was having with my husband. Things got better for a little while and now they are worse than ever. He just walked out and I don't honestly know if he's coming back. I don't have anyone to talk to about what's going on; it doesn't really seem like anyone can empathize with our situation and that's just how it is for now. Lately, I've been feeling like a huge failure as a wife and a mom, and now he's just confirmed it. I know that I suck right now. I'm not myself. I'm stressed out and tired all the time and I'm lonely. I know that I shouldn't take it out on him and I try really hard not too but sometimes I mess up and messing up always seems to lead to a gigantic fight with yelling and screaming and name calling. It's horrible. Horrible to go through it and horrible to watch my son watching us fight. Thank God, he doesn't understand yet what is really happening but that doesn't mean it's not damaging or painful for him to witness. And that is just one of the many ways I'm failing as a mother right now. What I wanted and needed was a little compassion. I am a single mom most of the time. Our situation is such that my husband lives and works two hours away and only comes home on his days. We only see him 6 or 7 days a month because every other "weekend" he has, he spends one day with his kids from his previous marriage who live in another town. That means that I handle the bills, the house, our son, my jobs, and the million other little odds and ends on my own the majority of the time. I also recently found out I have a herniated disc in my spine. Despite medication and a steroid injection to help with the pain, I'm still in pain the majority of the time. You can imagine how good I feel after a full day of chasing after a 30 pound toddler. The reason we chose this arrangement is because his job is in tiny little town and there's no opportunities there for me or my son. There aren't even any grocery stores open past 7pm. His job is extremely demanding. He's on his feet hiking 8-12 hours a day. We tried living in a bigger town that was only an hour away but that didn't work either. He was home more, but that basically translated into him being at home asleep more and I was then left to try to keep our son occupied while he slept. I was very lonely there as I am here but there was worse because there wasn't a mall or park to take Sam to when we needed to get out of the house. And of course, now there's my job. Teaching one class isn't much to a lot of people but it helps me stay sane and I enjoy doing it. I couldn't do that if we were still living a commutable distance to his job. I like it here, I like it here so much that I want my husband to be here. I want him to get a job that allows him more time to be at home with us without the commute and without the crappy schedule. He's unreliable and unreachable the majority of the time. He has no cell phone reception in the areas where he works and in order to get a message to him I would have to call the station and they would have to relay a message via radio. Calling the station is a last resort that I've only done twice in the history of our relationship. I can't just call every time I miss him or have something I want to share. A lot of the time, he's so tired when he gets back to his apartment from working that he doesn't have the energy to talk to me. He'll text me that he's off work and safe and that's pretty much the only communication I get from him most days.


Living apart is not a new thing for us. He was deployed in 2011 for the entire year, so we've done the separation thing As a matter of fact, at this point we've spent about as much time living together as we have living apart. It's hard. It's hard on me. It's hard on him. And we are struggling. Still. Still struggling. I know that if I feel lonely or tired that I can't blame him for it. I know that I shouldn't take it out on him. I need to learn to live my life the way it is and not get overwhelmed by the circumstances that are beyond my control. All I've asked him for time and time again is a little compassion. Some flowers would cheer me up and let me know that he does think of me even when he's not around. If he would let me sleep in or go get a pedicure and handle our son by himself, I'd have a chance to relax just for a little while. I'm exhausted. I've been raising our son, working, handling our finances, and the house and everything else by myself for a long time now and it's hard work. I'm not afraid of hard work. I'm just plain tired and what I want from him is a pat on the back once in a while and some time to myself. The only conclusion that I have come up with is that I'm being selfish. I have a really hard time asking for help. I've never been good at it but I figured if there was anyone I could ask for him, it should be him but it doesn't work and hasn't worked and I need to figure out a way to move past feeling like this so that it stops being so damaging to my marriage. I haven't come up with anything yet though. How do I feel appreciated on my own? How do I stop wanting the flowers or the pat on the back? How do I juggle everything without getting overwhelmed? My husband is angry with me because he says I'm stressed out and I try to stress him out too. Maybe he's right. Maybe I just need him to be stressed out with me. Or maybe I just need a full time there for me thick and thin husband and I'm not cut out for this. I feel like he's choosing his job over our son and me and in a lot of ways he is. At this point, he's not trying to transfer or find a job closer. He loves his job. He had the job before I was round so the job has seniority over me and the job usually wins. What's really heartbreaking is that I feel like he chooses the job because I'm not enough for him and maybe that is really what it is. I need to be better. I need to be a better wife, a better mom, a better woman in general and learn to let go of those negative feelings. I told him last night, long before this morning's fight, that I feel worn out right now and need some encouragement and support to get back to being me. At this point, I shouldn't ask for anything because I know that he can't give it and I don't think that he wants to. Why should he invest the time and energy here when here is not where he spends the majority of his time?



Maybe I just need to prepare myself for the possibility that he's not coming back. If he is unhappy then he has every right to leave. I just keep praying that God's will be done. I can't pray for him to come home and I can't pray for him to leave. He has to do whatever he feels is right and God will get me through whatever that is. Lord knows I need strength right now. Strength and patience and clarity to see what it is that I'm doing that needs to be fixed and the perseverance to change. I need God to teach me not to need the pats on the back and time off. I need to suck it up and keep moving because that's all I can do. I need to be my own shoulder to cry on and my own cheerleader. I didn't realize how weak I truly was until I couldn't be strong any more. My weakness has caused this and I can't do anything to change the past. All I can do now is be stronger, be better, be more than I have been because that is the only solution I can see right now. There is no light at the end of the tunnel, there is no better days are coming, this is the way life is and it might very well be this way for a very very long time.

This morning I think of all of the mothers who are sending their kids to school today in fear that they might not make it back home. It's an incredibly sad testament to a society that interprets the "right to bear arms" as the right to have as many guns in as many places as they choose regardless of who might get a hold of them. The fact of the matter is, we shouldn't have to worry for our children's safety when they leave for school. A scraped knee? Some hurt feelings over an intense game of tag? Sure. Those are the kinds of "wounds" I would expect my kid to come home with after a day at school. I'm sick of the argument that this tragedy shouldn't be politicized. It's not true. This is exactly the kind of tragedy that needs to be politicized. Yes, we need stronger gun laws. All of those ignorant NRA members who think that this is a violation of their rights need to educate themselves and realize that THEY are part of the problem that caused this tragedy. All of those ignorant people who say that Obamacare is ruining our healthcare system, ask someone who is caring for a family member with mental illness how important health insurance is. I'm not saying this as some bleeding heart liberal that comes from a family of liberals and has never touched a gun. As a matter of fact, I come from a long line of military and law enforcement and in the interest of full disclosure my husband and I do have a gun in our house. Yes, I know how to shoot it and load it. Also, in the interest of full disclosure; the gun case is locked, it's in a shelf out of reach to our children, and it's not loaded. There is absolutely no rational reason for anyone to own semi-automatic weapons for recreation. None. Could this tragedy have been prevented? Yes. A hundred times yes. Contrary to the Westboro Baptist Church and their odd belief that everything bad in this country can be blamed on the gays, I'm going to lay the blame squarely on the conservative Christian right. There's nothing Christian about owning a gun, there's nothing Christian about murder, and there is absolutely nothing Christian about putting your own selfish desires ahead of the common good. Maybe, just maybe, this is God's (Allah's, Buddah's, Yaweh's, etc) way of telling us the time for change is NOW.

As I write this, I look at my own young son and I think about all of the mothers who lost their babies to a person with mental illness who also had access to guns.  I pray that God brings peace to their hearts and I pray that their little ones did not die in vain and soon, very soon, we will be able to send our babies to school with the knowledge that guns should not fall into the wrong hands.

Nearly every Saturday night I think to myself, "Wouldn't it be nice to go to mass tomorrow?" and nearly every Sunday morning I wake up and think, "Where in the world would we go to worship where I wouldn't have to hear a message of hate and intolerance?" The truth is, I'm afraid to go to church and even more afraid to take my son to church. I'm a liberal and a Christian and being a liberal Christian is by no means an easy position to be in. I grew up in the Episcopalian church. Yes, Catholic-light. All of the stained glass and kneeling, none of the saints and guilt. I liked the church I grew up in. I liked the people although we were one of only a couple of Hispanic families to worship there we were never singled out or treated differently. We were Episcopalians because my mother was married previously and was never granted an annulment from the Catholic church so she was never able to marry my dad in a religious ceremony or take communion (I'm sure there were other things she couldn't do but I'm not well-versed in Catholicism) so they decided to convert and we did. I was baptized in the Catholic church as an infant and confirmed in the Episcopalian church as a teenager. I haven't attended church regularly since I graduated from high school not because of any strong religious feelings at this point in my life my priorities had shifted to partying, working, and school (it's possible I considered them in that order as well) and Sunday mornings were spent recovering. In college, I took a course called The Bible as Literature and it was amazingly eye opening. I now had an academic lens to view the bible from and it was awesome. I loved learning what was going on in the world at the time the book was put together and understanding what I was reading in context. My official position on the bible is that it was put together by men with less than genuine intentions and shouldn't be believed hook, line, and sinker since we all know that men are fallible even men of faith. That's not to say I don't look to the bible for guidance. I do, and I often find comfort in what I find there. I also like to read about Jesus' life specifically. Remember those ridiculous WWJD? bracelets that were popular for a while? I still like to ask myself that before I make a decision, what would Jesus do? You see, my Jesus is very different from the conservative Jesus. My Jesus is a liberal. He accepts and loves everyone. He is generous and giving and does not discriminate or hate. Jesus is the embodiment of love, truly unconditional love because as we know, he was God's gift of love to us. You know, that "for He so loved the world" thing. It's difficult for me to come to terms with the fact that Christianity has been so perverted that for many many Christians it's not a religion of love, it's a way to spread the message of hate and intolerance and when combined with politics, is used as a scapegoat to keep rich men in positions of power and authority. It's disappointing to see what blind faith and ignorance can cause. Just look at the Westboro Baptist Church (go to www.godhatesfags.com for more of that message of love), these people are sick and twisted and yet have thousands of followers. You hear all the time about those radical Muslims but the truth of the matter is both Islam and Christianity should be about love and peace but you get a bunch of ignorant people itching for a fight and what you have is a radical Christian or Muslim; doesn't really matter at that point. Look to Westboro for an example of an ignorant Christian, look to the pro-lifers who don't truly even understand what it is they are fighting for, look to the rape crew Republican candidates who don't seem to have a basic understanding of anything moreless Christianity. I saw a bumper sticker the other day that said "America is a Christian nation." If I had had a Sharpie on hand I would have replied, "No, it's not." In my head I was thinking, "Are people really that ignorant?" Yes, they are and it makes me sad. Maybe someday I'll learn the trick of tuning out what I know is wrong and don't want to hear and focusing on the "good" part of the message. For now, all I can do is focus on what I know is right in my heart and right now, I'm not ready to do that. Right now, I want my son to learn to take only what he needs and give even if he has nothing. I want him to learn to love whether he loves a man or a woman, it doesn't matter. Love is love. I want him to learn not to chase after material possessions. I want him to learn to trust in God no matter what is going on around him. I want him to learn how to listen to the voice in his heart that tells him right from wrong and I want him to learn to be forgiving. Above all, I want him to learn to think for himself and make his own decisions in life. I know that if he can do these things, he will not be swayed by any of the hate or intolerance around him. In the meantime, I plan to protect him as much as I can and in doing so, I know that I am making the right decision for both of us. In time, perhaps, God will lead me to worship again. Tonight, I pray in my heart and I know that He hears me and loves me.

Ongoing List of Student Excuses for Not Following Directions in an Entirely Online English Course

1) "I didn't read your email, I'm not one who reads email." 2) "I was sick and I couldn't access the internet" (Our LMS later revealed to me that this particular student had logged into the course 5 times during the two week period he was supposed to be on his death bed.) 3) "The readings are too hard, we're not like doctors or anything." 4) "I don't have the luxury of checking my email from work and I work 13 hours a week." 5) "I never read your syllabus because it was too long." 6) "I don't have assignments due on that day in any of my other classes." 7) "I had a dance competition over the weekend so I wasn't able to turn in my assignment." (Um...so turn it in EARLY?) 8) "I do try to get what you want done in a timely manner." ('Timely' doesn't really cut it unless your assignment is actually ON TIME.)

You can't control who you fall in love with, right? I mean, if you could we'd all probably saved ourselves some serious heartbreak and frustration along the way. I happened to fall in love with a man who serves his country, both in the military and with the Department of Homeland Security. Yes, me. The biggest control freak scaredy cat in all the land. I've survived a year long deployment. The first six months I was pregnant, the second six months I was caring for a newborn on my own. Luckily or unluckily depending on how you look at it, I was well prepared for the long periods of no communication and the daily not knowing what was going on. I was and am no stranger to being alone. The only constants in our lives are being apart and not knowing. I'm not complaining. It's the life we've chosen and someday we'll be able to see each other everyday and go to bed together every night. Today I'm trying to put on a happy face. One agent was killed and another wounded in a shoot out with some illegals. A couple of months ago an agent died in an ATV accident on the job and before that there was yet another shooting. My heart is heavy for their families and heavy for myself. I know what it feels like to lose the person you love in a tragic and sudden way. Before I was a wife and mother, I was a college kid in love and all of that changed on a hot summer day eight years ago when we were in a car accident and only one of us made it. Most of the time, I can get by without thinking about it. During the deployment, I didn't think about all of the things that could go wrong. I didn't think at all about a lot of things truth be told. I was like a robot, functioning on auto pilot to make sure my work got done, the house was taken care of and so was my baby. When something like this happens, it's almost impossible to not think about it. I have no choice but to think about the "What Ifs" that go along with a life like ours. What if this happened to us? All we can do is pray that it doesn't and pray that if it does, we find our way through it. The sudden reminder of how dangerous this job really is and how very real the possibility is that one day the chaplain could be knocking at my front door is a necessary evil. Or maybe evil isn't the right word. It's just a reminder that I need to appreciate what I have while I have it because someday it might be gone. I pray that when it is we are old and gray and have enjoyed watching our babies grow up and that it comes peacefully and quietly. And if it does happen all of the sudden, out of nowhere, I pray that I can handle it with grace and take comfort in the memories that we've made together and the time that we did have.

Help Wanted

Job Description: Cooking (points for foods that incorporate cheese as you will be caring for a toddler who refuses to eat anything but cheese and things covered in cheese), light cleaning (picking up toys off of the floor, especially ones with protrusions as you will probably step on at least two of these throughout the day and it is quite painful), laundry (at least one load a day because the toddler's security blanket must be washed before he goes to sleep less he spend the night rolling around in whatever crap he's managed to drag it through or boogers he's managed to wipe on it or slobber he's sopped up with it during pre-school). Also, you must watch Shrek over and over again until you want to strangle Donkey, you must know the ways of the mommy Samurai when trying to get the toddler to take some ibuprofen when he's grouchy from teething. Must have entire soundtrack to Super Why! committed to memory, particularly the pig's ABC song. Must be willing to spend hours on the phone talking to Century Link and Direct TV who will undoubtedly keep transferring you to new people which means you will have to explain the situation at your home over and over again until you're not really sure what you're saying anymore or why you were on the phone in the first place. Must be willing to wait for the Century Link guy or the Direct TV guy between the hours of 12 and 4 which basically means they will show up when they are good and ready and you are just supposed to postpone grocery shopping or whatever it was you needed to do that day that required actually leaving the house. While you're waiting for them to show up, you're going to be silently praying that they don't wake up the aforementioned Shrek-loving, Super Why! singing, grouchily teething toddler who has finally fallen asleep after much cajoling and convincing that a nap is not a punishment but a necessity. You will also have to wake up by at least 6:30 in the morning to wait for the electrician who is usually here sometime around 7:30 and who has limited knowledge of the English language but usually brings along a goofy looking assistant who does speak English but probably isn't any older than 16 which will make you question why he's not at school in the middle of the week. Century Link guy, Direct TV guy, and electrician will all keep blaming one another for the issue but will never commit to being at the same place at the same time so you will be left to deliver messages which will undoubtedly make the receiver of the message angry and make you fear a little for your safety as you will be alone in the house with the toddler and an angry stranger. You will also be responsible for bathing the toddler, which will happen when the Direct TV guy or the Century Link guy makes his appearance around 6 and is now angered by the message left for him. The toddler will not take a bath in the bath tub thanks to a traumatic experience one night when Daddy was responsible for bath time involving water in the nose, so you must bathe him in the kitchen sink and keep the phone handy because he's quite large for a toddler and you will live in fear that he will actually get stuck in the kitchen sink and you will have to call the fire department to dislodge him. After a while, usually while you are fighting with the toddler to get dressed (sitting still long enough to put on a diaper and pajamas is just not penciled into his schedule) the Direct TV guy or the Century Link guy will begin talking to you about things you don't understand and will ask you to deliver a message to the electrician who will probably be there around 7:30 the next morning. You will receive a daily call from the Crazy Lady. According to her, she's your mother. You refuse to believe it and will cling to the belief that you were hatched from an egg. She will usually call when the toddler has finally agreed to take a nap during which time you will be working (oh did I mention that part? you have an outside job too) or trying to regain your sanity by sitting quietly with a glass of wine in your hand. She will also call whenever the toddler is having a meltdown during which time she will proceed to tell you about everything your are doing wrong that has lead to said meltdown and how you are to correct it (basically by giving in to whatever the toddler wants even if you are unsure of the reason for the meltdown to begin with). If you don't answer the phone, she will continue to call until you do then she will give you a guilt trip about how worried she gets when you don't answer. She will also drop by your house with little warning at which point she will comment on your eyes (you should really invest in some under eye cream and concealer for those dark circles), your clothing (you should definitely not wear anything that's less than a size XXL, if it does not fit you like a tent, it will be considered too form fitting and inappropriate for a wife and mother your age, 28). You tolerate these things because she babysits the toddler for free and he seems to like her. You will report to the husband. His job (which is way more important than anything that you do because his job actually "pays the bills") keeps him away from home the majority of the time. He will call when you are too tired to hold on to the phone and he will expect you to sound happy and eager to speak with him which you usually are, you are also just exhausted and hungry so it's hard to express those emotions on little sleep or sustenance. Occasionally he will make an appearance during which times he will expect sex. You are not under any obligation to provide this to him despite his argument that the ring on his finger is a contract stating that you are required to put out whenever he’s in the mood. If he plays his cards right (and by cards, I mean he actually bathes the baby and puts him to bed thus giving you time to shower but not enough time to lay down and fall asleep), you may actually have the energy to grant his request. You will not be compensated monetarily. Your compensation will be in the form of boogers, and slobbery kisses, the joy on the toddler’s face when you’re singing (off key and out of tune) the ABC song, and the tears you will hold back as you spy on him from the pre-school classroom door and try to figure out how he has managed to grow so fast. Occasionally, you will get a date night with your husband during which time you will get a nice dinner (food always tastes better when someone else cooks it) and, if you can promise to stay awake, a movie. He will also remember to thank you for all of your hard work from time to time, which can get you through a particularly rough day (when accompanied by a glass of wine). Serious inquiries only.

After moving every 6 months to a year for my entire adult life (and my adult I mean since I was 16, when my parents decided I was old enough to be on my own even though I was barely old enough to drive a car) I will finally be living in an house that I own. Well, that WE own anyway. Although my husband and I are still not living together, we have made a lot of progress on our marriage. I attribute a lot of the progress we've made to prayer and hard work. I've always been a believer, albeit not in the conservative sense and I often hesitate to label myself a Christian because of the negative connotations that (thanks in large part to the tea party) that word has gained over the past few years. I believe in God and I believe in Christ. I believe that the bible was a book that was written by man and men are fallible and I believe that a lot has probably been lost in translation when it comes to this particular text. But I'll get off of my soap box. The big news here is that we bought a house! And we're both very excited. My husband will still be closer to work during the week and he'll come home on his days off. We're hoping that within the next two years he'll be able to transfer closer to home. I love love love saying that word. There is a big difference between having a place to live and having a home and I want my little boy to grow up in a home. He's been our real motivator throughout this whole process along with the fact that my husband had a goal to purchase his first home before he turned 30. He reached his goal with 11 months to spare! This is just a celebratory post so that I can share our good news. Hopefully, I'll be able to post more regularly now that I can get our little family on a schedule.

We made a decision today that is going to change our lives completely. We will be living apart for an indefinite amount of time. This was an extremely complicated decision to make but it definitely seems necessary for our family at this point. My husband works out of a very small town in western New Mexico. There is nothing there but a couple of truck stops, motels, and a McDonald's. It's not a family friendly place to live. When we first met, this is where he was living and either he but more often I would make the two hour commute from my hometown to see him as often as I could. When we decided to move in together, I moved into his apartment there and things went down hill as far as our relationship was concerned. At the time, his shift changed every four weeks, it was the dead of winter and he was working midnights. Needless to say I was very lonely. We decided, given the situation, and the fact that he has two kids from a previous relationship that we would move to his hometown which would add a two hour daily commute to his schedule but afford him the opportunity to see his kids more often and me the opportunity to live in a place with more than one stoplight and actual job opportunities. We lived there for nearly a year before he was activated and deployed during which time we found out that we were expecting Sam. In light of the fact that my relationship with his family turned very very sour after we were married, we decided that it would be best for me to move back home during his deployment. We struggled terribly during the year that he was gone. Being a young couple, newly married, with a baby on the way added to the already stressful situation. When he got home last December things took a turn for the worst as far as our marriage was concerned and we seriously had to sit down and talk about if we were going to continue trying to make it work and how. We decided that despite all the arguments and drama, we did/do love eachother and want to make our marriage work. When it came time for him to return to his civilian job, we had to make a decision as to where we were going to live. I adamantly refused to go back to Silver and deal with his mother and his ex-wife so we decided that Deming was a fair compromise. In the six months we've lived here, we've made great strides in improving our relationship with each other. Obviously things aren't perfect and they will never be but we are getting a lot better about dealing with the challenges we face as a family. Living here is not easy on him as he still has a two hour daily commute but it has been especially hard on me being an hour or more away from my friends and family. This probably wouldn't be so bad if he worked a regular 8-5 with Saturday and Sunday off, at least then we'd know what to expect. The fact of the matter is, he doesn't. His shift changes every eight weeks, he works 12-14 hours a day not including his commute, and his days off change weekly. When he comes home, he's exhausted. Sam and I are home all day so if he's working midnights and needs to sleep during the day, it's up to me to figure out how to keep Sam quiet which more often than not, results in me making the hour long trek to Cruces to find something for us to do. The decision to live apart isn't a decision at all for a lot of his co-workers. Wives have moved down here only to bail and move back east because they can't handle small town life, some of his co-worker's families live in El Paso so commuting isn't even really an option. I used to say that this wasn't ever going to be us, but after trying and falling really hard on my face living in the situation we're in now, we've decided that we too are ready to go this route. He has put in for a transfer and applied to other jobs but the federal government works slower than slow and neither one of these options is guaranteed. I'm pretty terrified about this. Not about the fact that Sam and I will be on our own, that we've done before and realistically we do it more often than not out here too but that my husband will be happier living alone than living with us, that he'll choose not to spend his days off with us, that we'll grow apart (not that we're not dealing with some of this right now, resentment has a way of becoming a pretty solid wedge), that he'll discover he doesn't love me. I know that this sounds crazy and probably doesn't make a whole lot of sense and I'd like to be able to say they are legitimate fears but I'm not really sure that they are. After surviving the deployment (just barely) it seems counter intuitive to live apart but we're willing to take the risk at this point. My faith is being tested in a way that it hasn't been in a very long time. I'm a pretty big control freak and letting go and letting God has never been one of my strong suits but maybe that is why He is putting this challenge before me now. Right now, what I really need is a lot of prayer and a lot of support.

My husband and I were cleaning out some boxes in the garage the other night and I found some artifacts from my past that I had completely forgotten about. Once upon a time, I worked for Seventeen magazine, had a column in a local newspaper and was published in a few anthologies. By once upon a time, I mean when I was in high school. Growing up for me was more difficult than my parents had anticipated. Instead of the normal aches and pains of adolescence, life was complicated by real adult situations that at the ripe old age of 16 when I graduated from high school, I was in no way emotionally prepared to deal with any of it. The irony here is that through it all, all I really ever wanted was to be a wife and a mother. I had no fantasies of being a career woman although all signs at the time pointed to a great career in something writing related. At every turn, I knew how disappointed and disillusioned my parents had become because I was headed in the opposite direction of the great life they had planned for me. My mom never wanted me to be "ordinary" and although I think of a lot her plans had to do with the fact that she was in many ways trying to live her life vicariously through me, I understand now why she has been so frustrated with many of the choices I have made. As I was going through an old file folder with acceptance letters from many of the universities I had gotten into, my husband interrupted my nostalgia and asked, "If you had all of these things going for you, how did you end up here with me?" Now there is the million dollar question...

On baby's first birthday...

My son will turn one this weekend and I couldn't be more thrilled or more sad. It's strange. Since being a mother I have a real appreciation for the term "bittersweet." It seems as though every milestone is just that, bittersweet. I am so proud of my baby's accomplishments (walking, self-feeding, crawling, rolling over, burping, pooping on a particularly stressful day, all the things moms applaud their infants for that seem insane to people sans infants) that sometimes I feel as though my heart may burst. So here we go... To My Beautiful Baby Boy on his First Birthday, Thank you for choosing me to be your mama. You are the biggest blessing in mine and daddy's life together and we thank God everyday that we have you. You are so independent and outgoing. Silly and smart. I can see such amazing things in your future. You and I have been through so much in our short time together and I know I will never forget or regret any of it. As you continue to grow I pray that you continue to be independent and confident. With those two attributes on your side you can accomplish whatever it is your heart desires. I pray that you grow into a good man. Remember, it's not your place to judge others. We are placed on this Earth to love on another. Remember to be forgiving. Holding a grudge will only allow hate to grow in your heart and it is never ever ever ok to hate anyone. Don't forget to offer a smile and a wave to anyone you meet. A smile goes a long way. Always be polite and be honest. You should always treat others with honesty and respect. Remember that mama and daddy are here to support you. We are always on your side to hold your hand, to listen, to cheer your name, or hug you. Our love for you will never falter and never end. You will be loved forever. You are the joy of my life and I am so proud that I get to be your mama. Love, Mama

Better Late Than Never? (Breastfeeding and being a cheapskate)

My New Year's Resolution was to blog once a week. As you can see that didn't work out so well but in the past 3 months, I've had the opportunity to ponder some mom (non) issues that annoy the crap out of me almost as much as the "I birthed my kid in a wading pool in my living room with my entire family watching and while my 2-year old breastfed so I'm a WAY better mom than you" scenario. I just read a post on Baby Center about the appropriate length of time to breastfeed. Here's a newsflash you aren't under ANY obligation to breastfeed at all if you don't want to. NONE. Surprised? I think most moms-to-be would be. Ok so say you do decide to breastfeed; great. But whatever you do, don't do it just because you think formula is too expensive. I'm sick of parents trying to cheap their way out of everything. The cost of formula should have NOTHING to do with your decision. Just like you wouldn't buy a used carseat (or would you?), you shouldn't cheap out on FEEDING your kid. Yes, breastmilk is free but let's say you decide you're going to do it because you can't afford formula and then lo and behold! some issue prevents you from breastfeeding? Then what?

There are things you can be frugal about. Baby clothes? Definitely. Baby wipes? Sure if you find a brand you like. Diapers? I personally will only use Pampers (I have attitude about a lot of things including my diapers and wipes) but I know plenty of people that are content with generics. You may be able to be cheap about some other things too. If you don't have a need to use expensive bottles, by all means go with the cheap bottles and nipples. BUT if you have a colicky or gassy baby, then you need to invest in some Playtex Drop-Ins or Dr. Browns. (Speaking of Drop-Ins, you do not want to buy the generic liners. Stick with the actual Playtex ones.)  I guess you could say this is the "gray area" of baby gear. Things that depend more on the needs of your individual baby. There are things you should NEVER cheap out on. Car seats, cribs, baby food, formula and anything related to the safety of your child. I want a Britax car seat now that my son is outgrowing his infant seat (S1 by Safety First). It's well over $200, I've been saving since Christmas. Drop-side cribs are now illegal. Baby food might be an iffy subject. I feed my son primarily organics. I made his food for a while until he became picky and I no longer had the time to steam and food process all the fruits and veggies (nope not feeling guilty about this one either). I  have  known moms who will buy whatever formula is on sale instead of using the same one. This is not good for your baby. The only time you should switch formula is if your BABY needs a different formula. I'm not saying don't use the generic, what I'm saying is be consistent. I honestly don't know what the difference is if there is a different. I started my son out on Enfamil Newborn and when he got super gassy at one month, we switch to Enfamil Gentlease and all has been well since then. The bottom line here is that parenthood is expensive. Babies are expensive. Use coupons and make educated choices about what you are doing and why but if you tell me the only reason you're breastfeeding is because it's free then you should re-evaluate why your commitment to parenthood in the first place. Kind of reminds me of when teachers say they got into teaching so that they could have summers off. See my point?