My doorbell rings after dinner one night last week and as usual, I have no pants on (does anyone else see a theme here? Why am I so often without proper clothing? Oh, that's right, I never get to finish a task because I'M A MOM) and my kids are racing eachother to the door, fighting over who gets to open it, heedless of my multiple warnings about Strangers and kidnapping etc. Strangers aside, I'm more concerned at the moment about the door flying open wide for the hot FedEx guy to see me in my panties. Of course, they were cute panties. But still.
I manage to hold the kids off long enough for me to wrap a blanket around my waist while I try to remember what exactly I look like at the moment. This proves too difficult a task so I say Eff It and open the door anyway. Lucky for me, it's just two 8-year-old neighborhood boys, one with the most intricate cornrows I've ever seen and the other with startlingly orange hair. And both of them are into their second can of Mt. Dew since school let out, but the looks of their inability to sit still long enough to complete a single, coherent thought. As they talk over one another, interrupting, stumbling and repeating random thoughts I realize they're trying to sell me something from a massive armful of fundraiser catalogs. I listen politely and do my level best to hold them back with my knee - they seem determined to come in for a visit and perhaps a Cherry Coke.
"So, whaddya gonna buy?" says the tall one with the braids that I want to touch, but won't, because it just showcases my ignorant white side. The red-head is out of breath and I take advantage of the moment of quiet, not to get my checkbook, but to hit them where it hurts.
"Sorry guys, not today. But thanks for stopping."
They stand, bewildered but not broken. Yet. Says the red-head, gesturing with his thumb to my next-door neighbors house, "Well, uh, your neighbors said you're rich. Soooo...?" Eyebrows raised, lip curled in confused expectation, he waits for me to recant my polite refusal and open my pocketbook to allow the stacks of Benjamins to flutter down into his outstretched palms.
It takes everything I have not to burst into hysterical laughter; instead I offer a bemused "Really? Well, that's nice. Have a great night, boys." I turn and close the door as they walk away, rejected by the Rich Lady in the 'hood.
Greyson looks to me and says, "Who's Rich?
"You know, Great-Uncle Rich? The one that looks like Grandpa D?"
"Uh-huh. But he's not here, Mom."
"I know, buddy. Maybe someday he'll come and visit us. Wouldn't that be nice?"
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Monday, September 19, 2011
I call him, The Negotiator
It's the Monday Morning Mad Dash and I'm still naked, hair dripping wet and exactly one and a half of my children are dressed. We're late, 'cause we're always late, but I'm not Frantic Late. Yet. Tuesday is having a hard time getting her socks on so I ask Grey to give her a hand.
"No, mom, 'cause I'll scratch her with my cheetah claws."
"Well, she's a cheetah too, so she'll be fine."
"But I'm the giant cheetah, so my claws will make her bleed all over the carpet. And that would make a mess."
He's got me here; I really hate messes. Meanwhile, Tuesday chimes in with "I got it" and continues on, dressing herself in true 2-year-old fashion: everything on backwards. The poor, neglected middle child, always having to fend for herself. I chase down the naked baby and wrestle him into his clothes, all the while being accosted by a never-ending refrain of "Can I open the gate, can I open the gate, can I open the gate, can I open the gate NOW MOM?!"
As we head down the stairs, Grey informs me that he's Spiderman, Tuesday is Batman and Fynn is Ironman. Who the hell is Ironman, by the way? I point them all to the shoe closet and tell them to put on shoes and grab their hoodies from the pile so we can leave. And every time I call my child by his name I am politely redirected, "You mean, Spiderman?" "Yeah, Spiderman, get your Crocs on and grab your orange hoodie."
"Can I go outside now, can I go outside now, can I go outside now, can I go outside now, can I go outside NOW MOM?!"
"Yeah, Grey, we're all ready now. Go ahead and go out to the car."
"You mean, Spiderman?"
"Right. Spiderman. Hey Batman, you ready too? How about you, Ironman?"
Oh, Monday, I'm so glad to see you.
"No, mom, 'cause I'll scratch her with my cheetah claws."
"Well, she's a cheetah too, so she'll be fine."
"But I'm the giant cheetah, so my claws will make her bleed all over the carpet. And that would make a mess."
He's got me here; I really hate messes. Meanwhile, Tuesday chimes in with "I got it" and continues on, dressing herself in true 2-year-old fashion: everything on backwards. The poor, neglected middle child, always having to fend for herself. I chase down the naked baby and wrestle him into his clothes, all the while being accosted by a never-ending refrain of "Can I open the gate, can I open the gate, can I open the gate, can I open the gate NOW MOM?!"
As we head down the stairs, Grey informs me that he's Spiderman, Tuesday is Batman and Fynn is Ironman. Who the hell is Ironman, by the way? I point them all to the shoe closet and tell them to put on shoes and grab their hoodies from the pile so we can leave. And every time I call my child by his name I am politely redirected, "You mean, Spiderman?" "Yeah, Spiderman, get your Crocs on and grab your orange hoodie."
"Can I go outside now, can I go outside now, can I go outside now, can I go outside now, can I go outside NOW MOM?!"
"Yeah, Grey, we're all ready now. Go ahead and go out to the car."
"You mean, Spiderman?"
"Right. Spiderman. Hey Batman, you ready too? How about you, Ironman?"
Oh, Monday, I'm so glad to see you.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Things I Love:
Meddling strangers at the grocery store.
I recently took the trip from hell to Super One in Kenwood. And let's be honest, most any trip by yourself with three tiny kids sucks, but this one was Extra rotten. It started out ok, except for my already foul mood. We grabbed one of the car carts and I thought my kiddos would be so delighted with the novelty that this quick trip would go off without a hitch. What a novel idea. I made my way through the produce section without incident. As we round the refrigerated juice corner, a woman stops me to tell me that I have "the most gorgeous children." Why thank you! You can have one if you'd like. Another woman standing nearby echoes lady #1's sentiment and proceeds to follow me through the store and comment on their remarkable beauty every other aisle or so.
By now Greyson and Tuesday have heard how beautiful they are enough times to feel that any behavior is darling and thus acceptable. Including but not limited to: jumping in and out of the cart, running away from the mom, pulling one another's hair, emptying shelves on the floor - glass jars in particular, and loudly sharing all the hilarious potty vocabularly recently learned from friends. Awesome. My specially formulated, for-public-use-only Rage Whisper is rapidly becoming an out-loud, constant reprimand that borders on out-and-out hysteria. I'm moments away from my own Mom Tantrum so I give up and race through the store, running over customers and my children alike in order to grab the items we absolutely have to have.
By the time we make it out to the car, in true Duluth fashion, it is at least 30 degrees warmer than when we went in the store and the humidity has risen to 400%. My wool sweater immediately sticks to my body and threatens to shrink and fuse to my skin. I rip my sweater off and race to the car, (praying that I rememered to put a bra on under my tank top) Grey with a leg hanging out the door of the car cart and Tuesday doing her level best to jump ship. Fynn is bawling but he's strapped in so he doesn't matter right now.
Grey hops out of the cart and the magnetic force of a giant puddle pulls him in, causing him to lose his mind and jump in with his brand new tennis shoes. While I'm yelling at him and trying to rangle him into the car, now soaking wet, Tuesday escapes and runs out into traffic, laughing maniacally and enjoying her freedom and ability to make her mother shoot fire out of her eyes. I slam the door on Grey and race to grab Tuesday, screaming about roads and cars and danger and "SQUISH YOU LIKE A BUG" and stuff her into the car. Meanwhile, my giant cart rolls into the middle of the road, Fynn still strapped in and bawling, and a nice gentleman gives me a dirty look and kicks at the cart to change its' path, lest it crash into his Buick.
My blood pressure is approximately 300/220 and I can feel a stroke in my very near future. With the groceries and Fynn safely in the car I go back to strap in the big ones, by now hysterical with the injustice of life as a child. Much shoving and stuffing commence as they pull out the trademark Flex Move, the one where their butt comes all the way up and out of the seat, rendering the strap-buckling impossible. About an hour later I have all three buckled, bawling and ready to get the hell out of there. My hair is sticking to my face, I'm sweaty and my eyes are bugging out of my head, pulsing in time with my blood pressure - imagine The Hulk, minus the greenish hue.
And it just gets better. The woman parked next to us has slammed both of my car doors in order to get by and is chain smoking with the windows rolled up in her truck, just enjoying the show. When I get the last door shut after my wrestling match with my kids, she rolls down the window, allowing me to share in her quest for emphysema, and holds out two suckers.
"Hey, can your kids have these?"
"No, they can't. But thanks." How cliche is that? Strangers offering candy? I mean, really...
"Well, they sure don't look very happy."
Yep, they aren't very happy. 'Cause I'm a horrible parent. And I thought I could get through Super One before lunch. By myself. With all three kids. And a car cart.
I recently took the trip from hell to Super One in Kenwood. And let's be honest, most any trip by yourself with three tiny kids sucks, but this one was Extra rotten. It started out ok, except for my already foul mood. We grabbed one of the car carts and I thought my kiddos would be so delighted with the novelty that this quick trip would go off without a hitch. What a novel idea. I made my way through the produce section without incident. As we round the refrigerated juice corner, a woman stops me to tell me that I have "the most gorgeous children." Why thank you! You can have one if you'd like. Another woman standing nearby echoes lady #1's sentiment and proceeds to follow me through the store and comment on their remarkable beauty every other aisle or so.
By now Greyson and Tuesday have heard how beautiful they are enough times to feel that any behavior is darling and thus acceptable. Including but not limited to: jumping in and out of the cart, running away from the mom, pulling one another's hair, emptying shelves on the floor - glass jars in particular, and loudly sharing all the hilarious potty vocabularly recently learned from friends. Awesome. My specially formulated, for-public-use-only Rage Whisper is rapidly becoming an out-loud, constant reprimand that borders on out-and-out hysteria. I'm moments away from my own Mom Tantrum so I give up and race through the store, running over customers and my children alike in order to grab the items we absolutely have to have.
By the time we make it out to the car, in true Duluth fashion, it is at least 30 degrees warmer than when we went in the store and the humidity has risen to 400%. My wool sweater immediately sticks to my body and threatens to shrink and fuse to my skin. I rip my sweater off and race to the car, (praying that I rememered to put a bra on under my tank top) Grey with a leg hanging out the door of the car cart and Tuesday doing her level best to jump ship. Fynn is bawling but he's strapped in so he doesn't matter right now.
Grey hops out of the cart and the magnetic force of a giant puddle pulls him in, causing him to lose his mind and jump in with his brand new tennis shoes. While I'm yelling at him and trying to rangle him into the car, now soaking wet, Tuesday escapes and runs out into traffic, laughing maniacally and enjoying her freedom and ability to make her mother shoot fire out of her eyes. I slam the door on Grey and race to grab Tuesday, screaming about roads and cars and danger and "SQUISH YOU LIKE A BUG" and stuff her into the car. Meanwhile, my giant cart rolls into the middle of the road, Fynn still strapped in and bawling, and a nice gentleman gives me a dirty look and kicks at the cart to change its' path, lest it crash into his Buick.
My blood pressure is approximately 300/220 and I can feel a stroke in my very near future. With the groceries and Fynn safely in the car I go back to strap in the big ones, by now hysterical with the injustice of life as a child. Much shoving and stuffing commence as they pull out the trademark Flex Move, the one where their butt comes all the way up and out of the seat, rendering the strap-buckling impossible. About an hour later I have all three buckled, bawling and ready to get the hell out of there. My hair is sticking to my face, I'm sweaty and my eyes are bugging out of my head, pulsing in time with my blood pressure - imagine The Hulk, minus the greenish hue.
And it just gets better. The woman parked next to us has slammed both of my car doors in order to get by and is chain smoking with the windows rolled up in her truck, just enjoying the show. When I get the last door shut after my wrestling match with my kids, she rolls down the window, allowing me to share in her quest for emphysema, and holds out two suckers.
"Hey, can your kids have these?"
"No, they can't. But thanks." How cliche is that? Strangers offering candy? I mean, really...
"Well, they sure don't look very happy."
Yep, they aren't very happy. 'Cause I'm a horrible parent. And I thought I could get through Super One before lunch. By myself. With all three kids. And a car cart.
Dear Conan O'Brien,
I've been a fan since my early days in college - the first time around, that is. I was so excited, like many others, to see you make the move to The Tonight Show. And like the rest of the world, I thought the show sucked. But don't worry, Conan, I have the answers to all of your problems.
You'll be relieved to hear that you aren't the problem, nor are the writers. You are a New Yorker, through and through and your appeal stayed in New York. The west coast is material, superficial and vacant, while the east coast is cerebral, ironic and witty. Am I the only one that can see why this is a problem? Hello? An audience who doesn't get the jokes, doesn't laugh. Take your freakishly tall, red headed self back to New York and have a cool show again. Because really, I can't watch you on TBS any more than I could watch you tank on The Tonight Show.
Someone should pay me for this stuff.
Love,
Not Laughing Leah
You'll be relieved to hear that you aren't the problem, nor are the writers. You are a New Yorker, through and through and your appeal stayed in New York. The west coast is material, superficial and vacant, while the east coast is cerebral, ironic and witty. Am I the only one that can see why this is a problem? Hello? An audience who doesn't get the jokes, doesn't laugh. Take your freakishly tall, red headed self back to New York and have a cool show again. Because really, I can't watch you on TBS any more than I could watch you tank on The Tonight Show.
Someone should pay me for this stuff.
Love,
Not Laughing Leah
So sue me...
Yeah, yeah, I've been absent for like a million years. Sue me. I can be counted on only for my unreliability, chronic lateness (although D says my lateness has not reached "annoyingly late" status yet, merely predictably late - so I guess I'm predictable if not reliable) and my charm and sharp wit. So stay tuned and you just might laugh 'til you pee.
I was at Walgreen's picking up some Sudaphed yesterday so as to minimize the chance of my left cheek and eye socket exploding and making a mess while I was at work. And it only took an hour, what with the DNA swab, blood sample and criminal background check. Thanks a heap, meth users; couldn't you have used something like Pepto Bismol? I never buy that shit.
While I was waiting to be frisked by the meth police, a brother and sister came back to the pharmacy, presumably to pick up something to do with the ginormous cast on his arm. Imagine my horror when he threw his arm around her and started to slurp on her lower lip while they waited. Seriously, there is NO WAY they weren't related. They looked IDENTICAL. Same nose, same eyes, same coloring. Opposites attract? Not so, with this couple. I went into full-on Inappropriate Stare state; I couldn't help myself, it was THAT disturbing. And if I'm being totally honest, I actually had to put on some lip gloss to keep my mouth busy so I couldn't ask them what the deal was with them lookin' all related and stuff. Creeeeeeeeepppppyyyyyy. Oh, and if you're wondering, yeah, I took my time getting out to my car so I could do a little more staring when they came out together. There was something not quite right about that pair. I wonder if their parent's know what they're up to?
I was at Walgreen's picking up some Sudaphed yesterday so as to minimize the chance of my left cheek and eye socket exploding and making a mess while I was at work. And it only took an hour, what with the DNA swab, blood sample and criminal background check. Thanks a heap, meth users; couldn't you have used something like Pepto Bismol? I never buy that shit.
While I was waiting to be frisked by the meth police, a brother and sister came back to the pharmacy, presumably to pick up something to do with the ginormous cast on his arm. Imagine my horror when he threw his arm around her and started to slurp on her lower lip while they waited. Seriously, there is NO WAY they weren't related. They looked IDENTICAL. Same nose, same eyes, same coloring. Opposites attract? Not so, with this couple. I went into full-on Inappropriate Stare state; I couldn't help myself, it was THAT disturbing. And if I'm being totally honest, I actually had to put on some lip gloss to keep my mouth busy so I couldn't ask them what the deal was with them lookin' all related and stuff. Creeeeeeeeepppppyyyyyy. Oh, and if you're wondering, yeah, I took my time getting out to my car so I could do a little more staring when they came out together. There was something not quite right about that pair. I wonder if their parent's know what they're up to?
Monday, July 25, 2011
Mid-Week, Midnight Tobie's
A few weeks ago my job took me to Ham Lake for an evening and on the drive home I found myself blinking for what some might consider "too long". After two, count them, TWO failed attempts at finding an open McDonald's I decided to hit up Tobie's. I figured I could get a good cup of coffee and something to munch on while I tried to wake up enough to get myself home. Alive.
Jessica seated me in the booth across from the 70-somethings and right behind the young couple who were very enamored of one another. So much so, in fact, that I think he ate his entire meal out of her mouth. Fran came to take my order and brought me a steaming cup of brown water. Tobie's is known for their caramel rolls and various other delicious baked goods, right? Right... In my delirious state I seem to have forgotten that and instead ordered some sort of club-ish sandwich and a side-salad consisting of four pieces of brown, iceberg lettuce and one radish. It was just as delicious as it sounds.
By now it's about 12:45 am and for the life of me I can't figure out what the 70-somethings are still doing in a restaurant, besides enjoying their pancakes and scratch-offs. A lovely couple comes in as Fran brings me a to-go cup of hot, musty water to keep me company on the ride home. The newcomers take a seat and my night is now complete. She's wearing biker shorts that I'm pretty sure were purchased in 1993 along with a halter top that may have been black at one point but is now a dusty, dirty grey-brown. Her ensemble is topped off nicely with a neon green fanny pack. His ponytail is longer than hers and his chaps seem a bit unnecessary considering they rolled up in a Buick. But who am I to judge?
Thanks for a great evening, Tobie's. I credit the brown water for getting me home safely.
Jessica seated me in the booth across from the 70-somethings and right behind the young couple who were very enamored of one another. So much so, in fact, that I think he ate his entire meal out of her mouth. Fran came to take my order and brought me a steaming cup of brown water. Tobie's is known for their caramel rolls and various other delicious baked goods, right? Right... In my delirious state I seem to have forgotten that and instead ordered some sort of club-ish sandwich and a side-salad consisting of four pieces of brown, iceberg lettuce and one radish. It was just as delicious as it sounds.
By now it's about 12:45 am and for the life of me I can't figure out what the 70-somethings are still doing in a restaurant, besides enjoying their pancakes and scratch-offs. A lovely couple comes in as Fran brings me a to-go cup of hot, musty water to keep me company on the ride home. The newcomers take a seat and my night is now complete. She's wearing biker shorts that I'm pretty sure were purchased in 1993 along with a halter top that may have been black at one point but is now a dusty, dirty grey-brown. Her ensemble is topped off nicely with a neon green fanny pack. His ponytail is longer than hers and his chaps seem a bit unnecessary considering they rolled up in a Buick. But who am I to judge?
Thanks for a great evening, Tobie's. I credit the brown water for getting me home safely.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
A little of this, a little of that...
"Kraft Singles: The *American* Cheese." Yeah, I think I can agree with that ad campaign. In fact, I would go so far as to say that this commercial personifies the American legacy. Pasteurized prepared cheese product - now if that isn't the American dream, I don't know what is.
My kids were squealing with unrestrained glee and I was loathe to walk into the living room lest I spoil their fun. Ok, let's be honest: I didn't want to go in there because I knew something gnarly was going down. True to form, they were playing leap-frog with two ottomans as the lily pads. Baby brother also happened to be lying dangerously close to the fracas and I attempted to ward off a cardiac episode as I growled "This better not be what I think it is." Tuesday throws me an exasperated look over her shoulder and without missing a beat says "Go back in the kitchen, Ma. Make dinner." Sweet girl, huh? What a lovely bunch of people I'm bringing up. I'm so proud.
I love Flipping Out with Jeff Lewis but I spend every episode with sweaty palms and nervous bowels, as if I'm next on the list for an ass-chewing that leaves me sobbing off my mascara in his immaculate bathroom. I love you, Jeffrey, but you make me nervous.
It's a very satisfying feeling to complete an at-home waxing. Particularly because every time I attempt a session there is no certainty that I'll finish. There are no two ways around it: waxing effing hurts. Like, a lot. Like, I get irrationally angry (at myself?) because it hurts like a mother. And if you quit in the middle, the joke's on you. Try explaining that to someone who gets close enough to your half-waxed bits. "Oh, haha, it just grows like that." Awwwkward...
I've been thinking about joining an online dating site. But on further examination, I'm pretty sure I would spend a good deal of any date with my lip curled up in disgust and my brow furrowed, full of judgment. What do you mean, you don't have a fully vested 401k? I'd also have to make it a dry date because no way am I going to let a stranger come to my house. I mean really... And then I'd have to pay for parking. And a babysitter. I think I'm too broke to date. And too out-of-practice to hide the unimpressed look that is my new normal. A fancy dinner and expensive wine? Not so much. How about a foot rub and a venti dark-roast from Starbucks while I read a magazine and you don't talk. Now that sounds lovely.
My kids were squealing with unrestrained glee and I was loathe to walk into the living room lest I spoil their fun. Ok, let's be honest: I didn't want to go in there because I knew something gnarly was going down. True to form, they were playing leap-frog with two ottomans as the lily pads. Baby brother also happened to be lying dangerously close to the fracas and I attempted to ward off a cardiac episode as I growled "This better not be what I think it is." Tuesday throws me an exasperated look over her shoulder and without missing a beat says "Go back in the kitchen, Ma. Make dinner." Sweet girl, huh? What a lovely bunch of people I'm bringing up. I'm so proud.
I love Flipping Out with Jeff Lewis but I spend every episode with sweaty palms and nervous bowels, as if I'm next on the list for an ass-chewing that leaves me sobbing off my mascara in his immaculate bathroom. I love you, Jeffrey, but you make me nervous.
It's a very satisfying feeling to complete an at-home waxing. Particularly because every time I attempt a session there is no certainty that I'll finish. There are no two ways around it: waxing effing hurts. Like, a lot. Like, I get irrationally angry (at myself?) because it hurts like a mother. And if you quit in the middle, the joke's on you. Try explaining that to someone who gets close enough to your half-waxed bits. "Oh, haha, it just grows like that." Awwwkward...
I've been thinking about joining an online dating site. But on further examination, I'm pretty sure I would spend a good deal of any date with my lip curled up in disgust and my brow furrowed, full of judgment. What do you mean, you don't have a fully vested 401k? I'd also have to make it a dry date because no way am I going to let a stranger come to my house. I mean really... And then I'd have to pay for parking. And a babysitter. I think I'm too broke to date. And too out-of-practice to hide the unimpressed look that is my new normal. A fancy dinner and expensive wine? Not so much. How about a foot rub and a venti dark-roast from Starbucks while I read a magazine and you don't talk. Now that sounds lovely.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Dear high-efficiency, top-loader washing machine,
You are a miserable piece of shit. I cannot say as I've ever found a more useless piece of machinery in my life, and that includes the infamous vibrator from '02 with the missing on/off dial. But I digress... You sell yourself as the God of clean, eco-friendly cleansing but I object. In fact, I Strenuously Object. (A Few Good Men, anyone?)
I've washed a fair bit of laundry in my day and I have certain expectations, namely, clean clothing. I noticed the obvious ketchup stains on my daughter's white shirt and gave you a pass. Likewise for the (small, pea-sized) chunk of pink Play-Doh that had cemented my son's sleeves together. Now, the real problem for me came while folding a load of my infant son's clothes. The blind rage that accompanied the discovery of still-present baby drool complete with flecks of infant oatmeal nearly did me in. Are you fricking kidding me?! You can't handle drool and pureed oatmeal??? What the hell kind of WASHING machine are you? You're like the meteorologist of washing machines - wrong every time yet the masses stay faithful.
Big shot, name-brand washer/dryer set that cost upwards of $2000 and I'm ready to pull out a washboard and start using my bathtub. I'll say it again, miserable piece of shit.
Disgusted and wearing dirty, clean clothes,
Leah
I've washed a fair bit of laundry in my day and I have certain expectations, namely, clean clothing. I noticed the obvious ketchup stains on my daughter's white shirt and gave you a pass. Likewise for the (small, pea-sized) chunk of pink Play-Doh that had cemented my son's sleeves together. Now, the real problem for me came while folding a load of my infant son's clothes. The blind rage that accompanied the discovery of still-present baby drool complete with flecks of infant oatmeal nearly did me in. Are you fricking kidding me?! You can't handle drool and pureed oatmeal??? What the hell kind of WASHING machine are you? You're like the meteorologist of washing machines - wrong every time yet the masses stay faithful.
Big shot, name-brand washer/dryer set that cost upwards of $2000 and I'm ready to pull out a washboard and start using my bathtub. I'll say it again, miserable piece of shit.
Disgusted and wearing dirty, clean clothes,
Leah
Friday, June 10, 2011
Pity? Party of One...
Yes, I'm having a total pity party for myself today and I think I deserve it. I had my ex-husband and his girlfriend over for dinner tonight. I wanted to clear the air of some serious missteps on her part and discuss parenting boundaries with the hope that we can all move forward and create a great environment in which to raise my three babes. Dinner was delicious - wild sockeye salmon with dill, caesar salad, ciabatta rolls with dill butter and dairy-free chocolate cake for dessert, thoughtfully provided by said girlfriend.
I asked the ex to do baths and bedtime with the kiddos and he came down no less than six times to make certain I wasn't beating his 6'2" girlfriend or berating her while holding her down and spitting in her eyes. Rest assured, I didn't have time enough to fit any of those things in. I had what I thought to be a perfectly civil, honest and open come-to-Jesus talk with her about some of the seriously bad choices/decisions she's made since arriving in our lives, mere weeks before I delivered our third child and several months before my ex and I separated. I wasn't confrontational, rude or unkind in any way. The sheer horror of welcoming this person into my home, my haven, and making her a meal to enjoy with my family and ex-husband was enough to take any fight out of me.
While tidying up after dinner I explain my position and how I'd like to move forward so that my children can benefit from and not be upset by the new reality of our family. And while it felt good to say what I'd been rehearsing for three days straight it would have been much more gratifying to have actually received some feedback. New girl sat with my baby boy in her lap while I swept and prattled on and she never once made any attempt to clarify her past actions or acknowledge my concerns and wishes.
Leah, Brick wall; brick wall, Leah. Eventually I got about 45 seconds of comment from her, including mention of her sister who is also a single mom and how she knows more about my position as the ex-wife than her own position as new girlfriend. Then what the hell are you doing?!?! Lemme tell ya, your sister sure isn't doing you any favors if she's whispering in your ear advice for how not to enrage your boyfriend's second ex-wife.
When the evening was reaching its' end I found myself having said what I needed to say with absolutely no idea if my words had been heard, will be heeded or merely discarded as the rantings of a crazy ex-wife. At any rate, I tried. I want my children to grow up with a loving, supportive family - no matter the make-up of said family - and my pride aside, I'll do what it takes to make that happen.
That said, I'm pretty sure I don't have the strength for any more "family dinners." I am physically and emotionally drained, exhausted, spent... I should cry but I don't even have the strength to make that happen. I'm lonely and never have I been more aware of my new status as divorcee. There's nothing like watching your ex-husband (jackass though he may be) leave your home with another woman as you turn back to your own empty living room. No one to review the night with, no one to fold me up in a big hug and tell me I was great and dinner was delicious. Yuck, blech, ugh, gross. I don't want him back, not for a minute, not for all the money in the world; I know that I deserve better. But Better, are you out there?
I asked the ex to do baths and bedtime with the kiddos and he came down no less than six times to make certain I wasn't beating his 6'2" girlfriend or berating her while holding her down and spitting in her eyes. Rest assured, I didn't have time enough to fit any of those things in. I had what I thought to be a perfectly civil, honest and open come-to-Jesus talk with her about some of the seriously bad choices/decisions she's made since arriving in our lives, mere weeks before I delivered our third child and several months before my ex and I separated. I wasn't confrontational, rude or unkind in any way. The sheer horror of welcoming this person into my home, my haven, and making her a meal to enjoy with my family and ex-husband was enough to take any fight out of me.
While tidying up after dinner I explain my position and how I'd like to move forward so that my children can benefit from and not be upset by the new reality of our family. And while it felt good to say what I'd been rehearsing for three days straight it would have been much more gratifying to have actually received some feedback. New girl sat with my baby boy in her lap while I swept and prattled on and she never once made any attempt to clarify her past actions or acknowledge my concerns and wishes.
Leah, Brick wall; brick wall, Leah. Eventually I got about 45 seconds of comment from her, including mention of her sister who is also a single mom and how she knows more about my position as the ex-wife than her own position as new girlfriend. Then what the hell are you doing?!?! Lemme tell ya, your sister sure isn't doing you any favors if she's whispering in your ear advice for how not to enrage your boyfriend's second ex-wife.
When the evening was reaching its' end I found myself having said what I needed to say with absolutely no idea if my words had been heard, will be heeded or merely discarded as the rantings of a crazy ex-wife. At any rate, I tried. I want my children to grow up with a loving, supportive family - no matter the make-up of said family - and my pride aside, I'll do what it takes to make that happen.
That said, I'm pretty sure I don't have the strength for any more "family dinners." I am physically and emotionally drained, exhausted, spent... I should cry but I don't even have the strength to make that happen. I'm lonely and never have I been more aware of my new status as divorcee. There's nothing like watching your ex-husband (jackass though he may be) leave your home with another woman as you turn back to your own empty living room. No one to review the night with, no one to fold me up in a big hug and tell me I was great and dinner was delicious. Yuck, blech, ugh, gross. I don't want him back, not for a minute, not for all the money in the world; I know that I deserve better. But Better, are you out there?
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