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As the oldest child, I’ve experienced a lot of joy through my siblings. I have a younger sister and two younger brothers. I am the only child in my family that has provided the grand-babies. I’m not an aunt by blood, but I look forward to the opportunity. Having watched my siblings mature and grow, I feel it fair that I get to spoil their children since I’ve spent my life torturing them.

Tonight, Boyfriend and I had the privilege of going out to dinner with Brother. Brother has a girlfriend now, and it’s serious enough for the two of them to move in together. Family is very important to me. With that in mind, it doesn’t seem very odd for me to attempt sticking my nose in and requesting to get to know her a little bit better. After several weeks, and a few discussions, we went to a local restaurant and finally made it happen.

Life happens, it took a while to make it fit right and we made it work. I’m glad we were able to gather over food and talk about life and tell stories. I feel as though I should tell you a bit more of the background information. You see, this is not the first time we have met her. In fact, the first time we met was under very different and very creepy circumstances. So the fact that she was willing to join us for dinner absolutely astonished me. I knew she was a good fit from the moment of the invitation.

Back when Brother and his girlfriend started dating, the grapevine -(Mother)- told Boyfriend and I that Brother was seeing a new girl. We were intrigued. We have never known Brother to date. He works too much, works then comes home then goes to work again. He plays video games and he is a little too nerdy for my own understanding. He is a great guy, very strong willed and energetic, very compassionate and funny, and he is nerdy and hardworking.

Mother begins to tell us about this girl that has captured his attention. Her name is Girlfriend. She’s younger than he is and has a job over in the strip mall by Michael’s. She works in the little Edible Arrangement Shop. She’s shorter than I am and she has wildly colored hair that’s about shoulder length. She is quiet, and she adores him. When she isn’t with him, she is at work or at home.

Then we found out she was at work.

Boyfriend and I are weird and creepy. We are also curious. So we drove over to the shop she was working at. We walked in and started looking around. There she was. Beautiful, short, spunky, and a head full of wildly colored hair. I instantly saw her and knew that she was the girl. The girl that had peaked the interest of not only Brother but my whole family.

Boyfriend and I start looking around the little shop. We asked a couple of nonchalant questions about the arrangements. Made jokes about giving up college funds for a single one of them. We also asked her questions about her job and if she enjoyed it, did she work alone mostly, what was management like, did she do a lot of business and that sort of thing. We didn’t bother to tell her who we were. We were just a couple that walked in and started asking all of the things. She handled it with grace. Didn’t bat an eyelash at us. We lingered in a creepy fashion for a few minutes and then we left.

We discussed what creeps we were on our way home, and we giggled about it a little. It was a secret we had between the two of us, and Mother. A few days later, I received a text message from Brother. Telling me he knew that we had met Girlfriend. Telling me all about this very odd experience she had at work a few days prior. About a couple that came in and really gave her a weird vibe. That we had disturbed her a little bit. He also began to inform me that he had told her it was us. his sister and her Boyfriend. He was in good spirits. I did make sure to apologize, or at least send our apologies.

After that day, I have always felt bad when I see her. I was creepy. Boyfriend was creepy, and she still puts her foot forward. For that I am grateful. It was good to see them tonight. We laughed and told childhood stories. Talked about current events in our lives and even discovered that we both enjoy doing the crafty things. She moved forward from the creepy introduction that boyfriend and I secretly high-fived over. She is a delightful individual and I look forward to getting to know her a little bit better.

Family is all that matters and I am very happy to see that brother so elated. We have a great story of how we met her and an even better story on how we connected with her.

You can’t always judge a book by it’s cover. I’m grateful that Girlfriend obviously feels that way too, otherwise, we may not have gotten the chance to formally introduce ourselves and enjoy such a lovely night.

When I tell people I have five kids I usually get a look. That you’re crazy look, or a look of sympathy. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard the quip “You do know what causes that, right?”

When I was a teenager and kids were an abstract ideas, I wanted at least ten. Mostly, in twins and triplets, that would make it easier. As I got older, I still wanted a big family. Maybe, not ten and maybe only one pair of twins was on my wish list. Not to make it easier, but because I always wanted a twin and thought it would be fun.

With my last pregnancy there were issues and concerns with both A and myself.  My doctors told me, with weeks to go, that A should be my last.  I didn’t take that news very well.

I hadn’t been thinking about having more kids. I was still very pregnant with a baby that the doctors were concerned was going to basically go straight into surgery once he was born because they thought he had heart problems. So the thought of more kids wasn’t on my mind.

Until, I was told I shouldn’t have any more children. I spent the last few weeks of my pregnancy stressing about A and stressing about my choice being taken from me.  I know now that I was being a bit dramatic and hormonal. However, the feeling of not having the power to decide because something going on with my body took the choice out of my hands, was heartbreaking.

After A was born, healthy, no heart problems, and perfect, I finally started thinking, about being done without panicking.  Then my doctor basically pulled a “My bad” on me telling me that there’s really no reason why I couldn’t have more children.

Hubby and I never really talked about when we were going to stop having kids or how many was too many, because despite what people think, yes we know exactly what causes that to happen.  With both of us wanting a big family, we hadn’t talked about how big was big enough.

I’d never thought about a time when I would be done. I had read several women’s stories about them knowing when they were done. A feeling of completeness. Some days I look at my kids and I get that feeling.  Then some days I  look at A, who’s going to be 2 in a week, and I get that longing in my heart again.

Hubby came to me a few weeks ago though, and said that he’s done having kids. He’s happy with the size of our family. That was hard to hear. Whereas, I was on the fence of whether or not I was done. Hubby being solidly on the side of done wasn’t something I was ready for.

I’m not ready to make that call. I’m not ready to say officially I’m done. I feel that same panic coming over me, the same as when the doctors told me “no more.” I’m not ready for no more first steps, no more first words. The baby blues washed over me hard.

Then I became a sane and rational person, and thought about the reasons Hubby gave me. I took a deep breath and I agreed. Baby blues or not. No more firsts or not. If Hubby was done, then I was done too. It still stings a little. I still get a little teary eyed when I look at A and realize that he is the last.

I wasn’t ready to be done. I’m not ready. My head understands the logical side of things, but my heart yearns for more baby years.  For my Hubby, I’ll agree to A being my last baby, and I’ll work my way to the other side of the baby blues, hopefully well before I have to worry about the empty nest.

 

 

My dear sweet boy. You push my boundaries and my buttons. You wreck my nerves and my house. You make me laugh and you make me cry.

I see the memes on the Book of Face. Share if you’re Blessed to have a son. My Son is the best. Sons are a blessing especially mine. I periodically share them. Not because I periodically love you, but because I’m periodically amused by them.

You, Sweet Boy, are more than a blessing. Since the day you were born, I have incurred more memories with you than you can imagine. I have fought battles for you that you aren’t even aware of. I have prayed for your safety and health more times than I can personally count. I have been graced by your presence every single day of the life you live, plus nine extra months.

You teach me every single day. You teach me about what ever video game you are currently into, about whatever subject has captured your curiosity, and you teach me about myself. Every. Single. Day.

You’ve taught me to laugh at myself. You’ve taught me to have patience for the things I can not control, you’ve taught me how to have faith in even the smallest of beings, and you have taught me what it means to truly love someone unconditionally.

You’ve taught me to love the moments that you want me to hold you. They are slowly waning away, though. Those little moments. The silly snuggles and the sleepy hugs with the request for stories and lullabies are long gone.

You’ve taught me that jokes can be very literal, and still be hilarious. You’ve taught me what it means to stand by your convictions, with all seven years of your wisdom. You’ve been on this planet for so long that you’ve acquired all of the knowledge. Your logic and power for debate is unparalleled. You have taught me to always question, always seek answers, and to never back down from something I believe in.

You’ve taught me that even the smallest of gifts can have the biggest of impacts. It truly is the thought behind it. Who else would want to get an umbrella for a friends birthday so it wouldn’t rain on his parade. Sweet Boy, I don’t know where you get this insight from but I am so grateful you have it.

I feel as though I didn’t cherish those moments I had with you. I did, of course, but the yearning for them is still powerful. That doesn’t make the hurt of you growing up before my eyes, any less. It does, however, build the pride I have as I watch you grow into your own gigantic personality. I swell with excitement when you bring a brand new interesting fact to my attention. I feel as though I bust at the seams when you bring home yet another school project that closely resembles what you set out for it to be.

I know I embarrass you with my silly pride and joy over the little things that you do. Your accomplishments, your jokes and even the vocabulary you have. I tell you it’s my right as your mother and it is. I would scream from the mountain tops if I felt it would reach every person I could possibly encounter. I would move mountains for you to be able to feel the love I hold for you.

I would conquer your fears, stop vehicles, climb the highest of ladders, and even hold the tarantula at the Butterfly Pavilion. All for you, Sweet Boy. Your laugh is contagious and your curiosity is fierce. Your sadness breaks hearts and your energy compares to no other. Your thirst for knowledge is insatiable and your heart, Sweet Boy, is solid gold and on your sleeve.

I want you to know that even though you are sleeping right now, your little soul is capable of so many grander things in this life. I am here for you every step of the way. Only when I’m not, because there are lessons in this life that I could not possibly teach you. You are always enough, you are always wanted, loved and cherished. You will go on to succeed in this world. In whatever profession you choose. You will move mountains, will conquer your fears, will climb the highest of ladders.

My only wish for you Sweet Boy. Is a wish that every parent has. I wish for you to grow up and be respectful, compassionate, independent, and everything you can be. Just better. My love and pride for you is woven into the very fiber of my being. You are everything I could never be, and everything I want. You, Sweet Boy, have given me everything I could have ever hoped for.

Most of the world functions under the assumption that everything runs better from A.M. to P.M. The earlier the better. Kids have to be up and ready for school before the sun comes up. Adults have to drag themselves out of bed even earlier than that for work or the day ahead.

I have never been a morning person. There was one summer when coffee helped me pretend to be a morning person. It can occasionally still jump start my mind enough to get some things done earlier than 10 am. For the most part though, I don’t really hit my stride until noon or later. Way, way… later.

I am a night owl. I enjoy staying up late and doing all of the things. There for a time, I held a night time job that I hoped would stick. However, I already had kids, and they’re schedule, naturally, trumped mine.

People like to call me lazy because I’d rather sleep all day. I’m not. My clock, unlike others, would be better if the “morning” could happen between noon and 2 pm. With my afternoon being more in-line with everyone else’s dinner or even bedtime.

When everyone else is winding down, I’m just starting my to-do list. just starting the cleaning and the errands. The desire to do any of that, sadly, only kicks in when everyone else is closing up shop.

Everything in my life currently runs on a more “9 to 5” schedule. Well to be more specific, my day starts before 5 am and doesn’t end until 9 or 10 pm. Even with that schedule, my mind is just revving up. Just dying to get all of the things done. While during the day I don’t want to accomplish them. I want to be in bed during my bedtime.

I constantly wonder how I could get the rest of my family on my schedule. B and A would gladly sleep all day and then be up all night with me. D and G on the other hand are inherently morning people. Well… not on a school day, of course. C is hit or miss. Hubby is a solid morning person, though.

I do my best to be less of a “lazy” person in the morning. That’s when all the important things need doing. Getting Hubby off to work, and D and G off to school. These are important things.

The housework is also important, and the ideal time to get it done would be when everyone is at school or out of the house during the day. However, I like doing it later. Which is only mildly difficult because everyone else wants me to focus on them. Then it’s bedtime.

Instead of having my family switch to my schedule. I’m trying to conform to theirs. When I get the chance I easily slip back into my schedule.

Like this weekend D and G have a four day weekend. There was no early morning Friday. Breakfast was served at 11:30. PJs are so being worn at 1:30. Lunch hasn’t even crossed anyone’s minds.

Now once Hubby gets home, he might throw a wrench in the program. Having been up since 4:30, he’ll be expecting dinner and bedtime to fall at their regularly scheduled times. Thankfully he also understand that he married a night owl.

To him I say, I’m sorry that I’m not a morning person. I’m  not sorry that I’m a night owl.

Hi there! I know that we don’t personally know each other. However, we seem to be bound by a common person. Seven. Is that not the name you were considering? It should be. Seven is the beautiful soul that I am lucky enough to call my son. A son, by the way, that I share with My Past. That may be the name of the person you had assumed I was talking about.

Sure, we have My Past in common. That is neither here nor there, though. I have no interest in telling you my side of whatever story you have been given. I have no interest in belittling a man who quite possibly has been battling his own demons for years. Also, I have very little interest in you.

Now, I’m not trying to be rude. I’m sure that you are quite the lovely woman. I’m sure that My Past is happy, and healing from whatever wounds he just happens to have from his own past. Seven and I are healing from ours as well. It has been a long road and here we are. In the present.

My intent and curiosity purely stems and surrounds the fate of my child. Again, his name is Seven.

I’m curious why you are pushing My Past into the woes of a custody battle. Why after almost eight years, has he suddenly taken an interest in the general welfare of a child he could never even be bothered to send a birthday card too. A child he has never even thought to call, not once. We both know that he has had Sevens contact information for a minimum of four years.

I suppose you are wondering why I believe you are the force behind this. You have every right to know. I’ll make you a deal, of sorts. I will answer your questions, if you answer mine.

The simplest answer I can muster is, I spent a very long four years searching for My Past and trying to contact him. After several failed attempts, I decided to stop trying to make Sevens life better by trying to include My Past in it. Instead I focused on trying to give Seven his best chance, focus on helping him put his best foot forward.

I’m telling you this, not to change the opinion you have of your beloved. Instead, to enlighten you as to why I naturally assume you are the driving force behind the torture that my son and I are about to be subjected to. You, after all, are the woman by his side. You would like to think you know My Past better than anyone.

As a mother, wanting the very best for my son, part of me is excited-nervous about Seven getting this chance. I’m excited that he will finally have a chance to ask My Past all of his questions. Does he like cheese? Does he like Sponge Bob? Where does he work? Does he know anything about weather? Will Seven be able to teach My Past about hurricanes? I’m excited for the excitement that Seven is undoubtedly going to have at the idea of actually getting to know his biological father. You will note that I did not use the word Dad.

I’m incredibly nervous and uncomfortable. I’m nervous because Seven has special needs. He’s autistic. I worry. A LOT. I ask myself questions like How will My Past react when Seven doesn’t make eye contact? How will he handle Seven’s fascinating talk about weather? If Seven has a meltdown from being overwhelmed, will My Past just walk away again? Is he going to send Seven a birthday card? Will he want to call Seven? Will My Past and Seven be able to open up a relationship after so long?

I don’t know if you have children, but these thoughts are terrifying to this mother.

So I’m asking you. The woman who is with My Past. Is this something he really wants? Is my child in danger of a broken heart? Is My Past legitimately prepared to step up his game and help his son put his best foot forward? Does he want to be apart of the colorful world that Seven lives in?

Because if he isn’t willing to or doesn’t want that, there will be consequences. Not for My Past, I’m sure, but for his child. The one that will experience a set back and meltdown so traumatic that it will literally unravel years of hard work and dedication from myself and the loving people around him. The hard work that therapists of all kinds have diligently done with Seven and have been helping him to be the best possible version of himself.

I won’t lie to you, I’m terrified. I’m just a mother, His mother. Seven has been solely mine for almost eight years. The thought of sharing him with someone else who is unaware of the backlash this could cause if it goes south is terrifying. Subjecting a child who can not physically handle change to a brand new situation with minimal preparedness, is terrifying.

That being said, I’m not against sharing him. I believe he is a beautiful unique soul that everyone should splendor in and have the privilege of experiencing. I’m not sending you this message because I’m trying to sway you away. Not because I’m trying to be confrontational. I’m writing you with hope, that we can successfully co-parent. We can peacefully work towards a better tomorrow for Seven.

I have always said, and stand beside the opinion that a child has the right to know both parents. “Even a once a month Ice-Cream date is better than nothing at all.” “Seven needs to make up his own opinion and that’s why I don’t speak about My Past at all.” While I will admit that I harbor some animosity. My Past was able to use my contact information (from a minimum of four years ago) to start this process, I also know that he does in fact have it. This means that I know he has, in fact, not used it to contact Seven in any way.

I know not why. Is My Past afraid of what will happen? Maybe he has no idea that I have taken a collaborative stance on he and Seven having any kind of relationship. He legitimately has no idea that I am not one of those moms that will stand in the way. I do not believe that is in the best interest of my child. Does he just want to walk away for good? Does he not want in on this little piece of heaven that Seven and I have? That’s okay too. I pray that’s not the case, but if it is, we can prepare for that.

Does this mean that we, as mature adults, are going to open up that line of communication for Seven? Shall I add you to his Facebook messenger? Do we need to schedule some good time frames for you two to call him or visa-versa? Would you like to set up a meeting time? Do you want to go to his flag football games? Or any of his therapy, occupational therapy, or evaluations? To his school functions? Help him with his fundraisers? Parent teacher Conferences? Would you like to help plan and pay for his birthday? Or is this more of a “Once a month ice cream date” kind of deal for you and My Past.

Unfortunately I do not have these answers. I have all of the questions, but none of the responses. I have questions from Seven, questions from myself,  and questions from doctors and therapists. Zero Answers for anyone.

How do we move forward? Is this olive branch enough?

Honestly, I don’t really expect you to respond.

I just feel that for my benefit, more importantly Seven’s benefit, I needed to reach out to you. You, the woman who is with My Past.

I may need this for my own peace of mind, maybe more for Seven’s peace of mind. Maybe I’m even searching for the greater good, the silver-lining if you will.

Simply Signed,

A very loving Mother.

I’m writing for you today. You, Mama, the one trying to smile while panicking on the inside. I can probably guess a few of your thoughts.

Am I speaking another language? Why don’t my children just put their shoes on? How many things are on my list today? If I move my appointment for the third time this week, will it directly effect anyone else? I’m ashamed because my unique form of crazy effects everyone I love. For the love of cheese! Please put your dang shoes on. Should Boyfriend cook dinner since I won’t be home until seven? He worked all day though and I should be able to do this. Why am I panicking?

Mama, you need to take a breath. I know that it seems nearly impossible to take five minutes to yourself. Five very helpful minutes to sit with your eyes closed and focus on your breathing. I know because I have anxiety too.

I’m not a professional. I don’t want the pity. I want reassurance. It’s going to be okay, five simple words for our five minute break. I bet you’re a fan of lists. Check lists, to-do lists, grocery lists, I’ll admit it…. I even sometimes have a list for all of the lists I need to make. I even wake up with a list. Are you tired yet? I am.

I want you to know you’re not alone. My mental state may not be the exact same as yours. Never the less, you are not alone and it really is going to be okay.

I struggle with taking time for myself. I need to take those five minutes. I don’t have time. Today I woke up and immediately started going down my list of things to get done. Forty-one things later, the only thought I could come up with is It’s nap time.

I struggle with regulation and control. I panic when I can’t control it. When I can’t control the way my kids clean, can’t control the weather, can’t control the people around me. My brain automatically jumps to panic. When I panic, I struggle with regulating to help me cope. I don’t know why, I wish I did.

I struggle with letting go of my racing thoughts. I can’t keep up with them so my mouth moves just as fast. It makes for awkward social gatherings.

I struggle with obsessive behaviors, such as organizing my therapists waiting room. Cleaning or baking during movie night with my family, and not being capable of changes in my routine because it makes me uncomfortable.

That being said though, I still smile. I still go through the day-to-day motions that you do. I know how tiring it is. You are not alone.

Let us make a deal, so to speak.

Today, I’m going to make my list 10 things long. You do it too! Only the important things need to be done. Let the rest go. Together we will take five minutes. No matter where it is. In the grocery store parking lot, at home between loads of laundry, even while the littles nap. We will take five minutes to recenter ourselves. We will let go. Together.

Then we will go and get ourselves a treat. You name it! I’m going to eat my hidden chocolate that Kelli gave me. I’m going to turn on my salt lamp and just feel the negativity being sucked out while I focus on breathing.

Today, we will be okay.

It’s going to be okay. Just take five minutes.

Sitting here trying to be productive. We’re back to the “What do you want to do?”, “I don’t know, what do you want to do”.  However, B, is sitting here with all her fifteen year old wisdom.  Which is a lot of snark, sarcasm and I’m too cool for your old lady business. We can’t tell if she legitimately think’s that she is being helpful to us, or if she just think’s she’s hilarious.

She is giving us ideas to co-post on.  She says things along the lines of “Write about the Mom Hate group. You know that list that every mom has of people they don’t like and their kids can’t associate with.”,”Write about Blogger-Moms, because that’s what you are”, and  “Just tell the world all about your bagel, since you tell them about your life in your blog.”

Constructive criticism is a far cry from what she’s doing. We can’t even get her to open the website to read what we’re about. To her we’re about “Mom things” and that is said with all the disgust a teenager can muster towards her uncool mom and her mom’s uncool friend.

 As Mom’s of big clusters of hormones and angst, let us join forces for just a minute and discuss the finicky roller coaster that encompasses the various emotional outbursts of these wanna-be adults. We have C, who is 16, she is very supportive and encouraging. B, who is 15, quite clearly not interested in the slightest. Fourteen who is about to be fifteen, and she flops on a day-to-day basis.

B was Kelli’s first post. On B’s 15th birthday, Kelli wrote a post that both she and Kristina are very dang proud of. The pride Kelli has about how B is growing, struggles and all, is very evident. B has stated that she has better things to read. Literally she says “Supernatural Fan-fiction or whatever” with a classic eye-roll that we’re pretty sure we invented.

It wasn’t too terribly long ago that we ourselves were teenagers. We would like to think that we understand our teenage girls. Let’s be real, we do understand where they are coming from, in a generalized sense. What we don’t understand is why they refuse to believe that we actually know. Unlike when we were growing up, and our mother’s had no idea what we were going through. We are fully aware that between our daughters generation and our generation, things may have changed.

However, these things have not changed so much so that we have no clue what is going on. Our generation grew up in homes where the Mom was the ultimate authority figure.  There was no Mom/Friend balance. We like to pride ourselves on balancing the fine line of “We are here for you, nurturing, guiding to grow-up right, and can still be friends”, and “Pa is boss as everyone knows, but what Ma says ALWAYS goes!”

So where do we go from here? If you’ll excuse us, we’re not going to let the wanna-be-adults run our lives or our blog. We are obviously not going to take food-selfies with a fancy SnapChat filter and tell you every single detail about our breakfast . .This time. We’re also, in no uncertain terms, not going to create some random “Mom Hate List” on the advice of B.

What we will do, is simply say. “You do you, Mama!” You are not alone with your bossy, eye-rolling, emotional, and temperamental teenager. We get it. Eye-rolls, attitudes, hormones, and pure psychosis in a nifty fun-sized wanna-be-adult. You are not alone. Grab a glass of wine, a beer, or even a cup of coffee and put your feet up. You deserve it, we know that teenagers can be and will be…Well, Teenagers. There truly is no other way to describe them.

Dear Bestie,

You know when you came to my house on Sunday? When we were supposed to write a post together? I’m so sorry that I messed it up! Co-posting on a Sunday is not a very good idea. Between switching laundry and watching RedZone for the Football highlights, I felt completely brain-dead. I had no power to concentrate on writing a post with my bestie. I feel horrible. It isn’t that I am not interested. I have been looking forward to this for the better part of a week. Here we sit, and I am seemingly uninterested.  You had to sit at my table while I jumped around my house. Yelling at my television, begging and praying for a scoring play, and then apologizing to my television when I naturally assumed that I had angered the Football Gods.

Football makes me weak. It leaves me only motivated to cheer with my family and shirk my daily responsibilities. I did not finish my laundry, I did not start dinner on time, I did not co-post with you, and I may or may not have broken a piece of furniture. Much to my chagrin, you have never gotten to experience this side of me. I don’t even think Boyfriend has ever seen this side of me.

Football makes me crazy. Usually, I keep my frantic comments and pleas in my head. This time, I didn’t hold back. My team needed the win. I sported my coaches coat, and my fuzzy socks. I yelled, I was angry, and I was apologetic to you. I felt bad because I couldn’t even make it through a sentence without saying things to my television. Things such as, “Well that’s fantastic! (Not what I said but this is a family place.) I wonder why our defense thought they needed to hold hands and run down the field?” “Are you kidding me? I TOLD YOU NOT TO DO THAT!”

Football makes me so crazy that I convinced a seven year old D to root for the Raiders. While I fully encourage the amazing life choice that is, I feel a little bit abashed because I know her daddy is a die hard Broncos fan. Football makes me crazy. What can I say? Whether I am turning D into a Raiders fan, Folding laundry, watching the game, or even focusing on my fantasy team. You can always count on me to be ill accomplished on writing a post. I’m sorry, Sunday football will always be my go-to choice on a Sunday during Football Season. To You, I apologize. Also, I don’t apologize because I know you found it amusing.

 

Best Friends Forever,

Kristina

P.S~ We did, in fact, win that very intense game

.

When I was eighteen I met my first husband. Shortly after we met we moved in together, and even less time after that I found myself pregnant.  Nineteen and pregnant.  It sounds worse than it was.  I had a full-time job with good benefits.  Once I told my parents I had their support. I even had R’s, the first husband, support.

So for Nineteen and pregnant I wasn’t doing too bad.  Then I found out I was having a little girl and I was doing even better. I had a slight fear of having a boy. Don’t ask I don’t know. I just know that I was excited and over joyed to be having a little girl. I felt I could handle a girl better than a boy, because, you know, I’m a girl.

C was born two weeks late, a day after I was induced, and then taken for an emergency c-section.  I should’ve known then and there that this girl was going to give me a run for my money.  She did things on her own schedule. Still does.

She started talking way earlier than I was ready for. Started walking by the time she was 7 months old. C was more of a little adult than a baby.  She could work her way around anything she deemed a problem. Like child proof locks and sleeping in her crib when she really wanted to sleep with Mommy and Daddy or Nana and Papaw.

C always had a headstrong personality.  Something I feel I had a hand in giving her.  She has always been independent.  She likes her space and her things to be her space and her things.

I feel she had a hard time adjusting to having a younger sister. Her first interaction with B was to hold her for a bit and smell her. She was so serious when she looked up at my mom and I and said in her baby voice “She smells.” Then she was done with her baby sister.

Then there was another sister and another sister.  Her things and her space became more and more infringed upon.  Not to mention she was growing up, and becoming more and more of a mini me. We were butting heads more and more. When Hubby and I told all the kids that they were getting a little brother, that was the straw that broke the camels back, so to speak.

There were other factors, but those were some of the main reasons behind her choice to move in with her dad.  Part of me was okay with her wanting to go live with her dad. I didn’t know what to do to help her. She was angry. She was struggling in school. She was struggling with life.

The other part of me was heart-broken. I couldn’t help my baby. Nothing I was doing was making it better. In fact, I’m fairly certain the harder I tried to help her the more she pushed against my help. I felt like I had failed her. At thirteen/fourteen years old, we had come to a problem that I could not fix. A problem she didn’t want me to fix.

I knew the time was coming. With raising kids comes a time where they have that problem that Mom just can’t fix. No matter how much you want to be the solution.  So after talking with her and her father, the solution was moving in with Dad.

Now, we’re about two and a half years into this arrangement. At, sixteen, she is doing wonderfully.  Most days. She has friends

she would do anything for. A boyfriend who treats her like a queen. She’s doing great in school. Our relationship has improved greatly.

We talk daily about everything. Grades, school, boyfriend, friends, home-life, you name it she comes to me with it.  That’s something I’ve always told my kids they can do. Bring me all your problems, concerns, thoughts of any kind. I’m here for you.  B has always done that, she’s always talked to me about everything.  C finally started once there was space.

I’m so grateful for the relationship we have now and I know that if she wouldn’t have moved in with her father there’s a good possibility that we wouldn’t be here. Knowing that though doesn’t make me miss her less. It only makes it slightly easier to bare when she comes to visits, then goes back home.

I want her to come home to me though. I want her to want to be with us. I miss having my whole family all the time.  If I could I’d adopt her friend and boyfriend so that she would come home. Even though she’s been with her dad for two and a half years, and his house has been her home for two and a half years. I still consider myself her home, and I really hope she does too.

 

 

If a sailor and a trucker were to have foul-mouthed children I believe I’d be at least one of their top five results. I’d be doing my best to work my way up that ladder. My swearing game is wicked and on-point.

I, like most people, started testing the waters early. I remember as a child, younger than 4, my brother and sister did something to piss me off and instantly I let fly a cuss word. Of course being true older siblings, they immediately responded with “We’re telling Mom.”

Now, that did strike fear into my heart. Enough fear that even though our mom was on the phone and we knew not to mess with her, I still ran to the bathroom and washed my own mouth out with soap.

You would think that alone would’ve broken me. Punishing myself for such dirty language. Yet, It didn’t. I sure do enjoy using a well placed swear word to liven up all of my everyday sentences.

Bear with me a moment. Growing up, I didn’t much like reading, writing, spelling or words in general for that matter. They were the bane of my existence. Don’t get me wrong, I could verbally spar with the best. I needed all the words I could get to use against my siblings. Both of whom were well read and highly intelligent.

Words weren’t really my thing though, not until Jr. High. Then I really fell in love with words and all they are capable of. Imagine the variety of ways you could eviscerate a sister. How easily you could annihilate a brother. With just words you could over-power and out-wit a whole classroom in a debate.

My love of words didn’t stop with only the “good” ones, the appropriate acceptable ones. I gobbled up all of the “bad” words I could learn too. In all the languages anyone would teach me. Although, the ones that really stuck were the ones I learned in ASL, but that’s a whole different story.

I never really saw my love of cuss words as a problem. If the situation called for an F-bomb then it got one. If the “S” word needed out, I let it free.

When I had kids and I realized just how many cuss words left my mouth on a daily, heck, even hourly basis. I did what anyone would do. I tried to reform my wicked ways.

Then I said “F*** it.” and explained to C and B that there are Mommy words and there are Kid words. Mommy can say F*** in all of its marvelous variations, but they can’t. They can say “fudge” or “fudger nutters” or “flip”. Mommy can say S***, but they were restricted to “horse pucky” or “cow manure”.

That worked for three out of the five of my kids, and it was fantastic. C, B and D all knew there were Mommy words and then there were Kid words.

Along came G, oh man… what can I say? The child that’s too smart for her own good. The child that gives me a run for my money and reminds me of myself the most. She was two when she dropped her first F-bomb. I wasn’t sure whether I was more shocked that she said it, or that she’d used it correctly. Either way I’m pretty sure I laughed.

She was not getting on the Mommy Word bus. So I adapted, poorly I might add. I tried really hard to remove the worst of the Mommy words from my repertoire. So that the next time she stubbed her toe she would say “Sugar Plums” instead.

Bad habits die hard though, A made me realize just how much luck I wasn’t having with changing my ways. When I did something and I said “Mother!” With all of the emphasis and none of the intentions of following it up. His little baby voice floats up to me with “F***er.” All sweet as can be.

I’ve come to the conclusion that my mouth is a lost cause. The little girl who used to wash her own mouth out with soap has left the building. I’ve given up hope that I’ll ever change F*** to fudge or flip. S*** is only replaced with Shiitake Mushrooms on a hit or miss basis.

So that “S***” I let fly the other day at G’s Pre-K pick up, which I’m so sorry happened, A was quicker than I am and his little legs travel faster than mine. I’d say I’ll do better next time, but we all know it would be a lie. My Sailor-Trucker parenting heritage is strong. So let’s just be grateful it wasn’t “F***.”