Suburban Goddess

The bad thing about living your life on the Internet is how quickly you are judged. So much of what I write is misinterpreted, misunderstood, and taken out of context. It frustrates me sometimes. As the blog gained followers, I became excited…. but soon friends and family found it. I don’t mind that friends and family read it; it’s a great way for them to be part of my life. But sometimes they forget that the communication is only one way, and that occasionally I’d love to hear how their life is going as well.

With more family and friends comes more censoring. It’s easy to spill your guts out to a billion strangers, but when people you know and love follow you so closely, you have to be careful about what you say.  I know, many people would ask why I had the courage to say it behind their back, but not to their faces.

Easy. I don’t want to hurt anybody.

Sometimes the things you do and say are funny, but you may not realize that. Sometimes the things you do and say are hurtful to others, but I know you did not mean it. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t make for a good story, though. And in the end, it’s just a way for me to remember you; the good times, the bad times, and how we got through it all. As the years fade into one another, more and more memories slip away… and it may be strange, but the bad ones mean just as much to me as the good ones. Because without the bad ones, you can’t appreciate how wonderful the good ones are. 

There’s so much I don’t say; so much I can’t say. The things I do say occasionally come out all wrong. But the worst thing is knowing that you don’t know the whole story… yet you read and judge. You judge me by the things that do make it here… you judge me by the things I write in the heat of a moment. You judge my decisions, my reactions, my thoughts, my dreams…. behind this keyboard sits a living, breathing human being. A person with thoughts and feelings, a person with experiences and mistakes.

A person who is just trying to get by, and make the most of the things I’ve been given.

[12:42] D: so, gotham is a bastard child of arial and helvetica… nuff said
[12:44] Me: lol… font snob
[12:45] D: i am NOWHERE near the font snob that you are
[12:47] Me: What??? I’m not a font snob… I am a font GURU
[12:47] Me: Difference!
[12:47] D: its called ego

On Monday, I dropped Alex off at her daycare and called the ex to let him know she was developing an ear infection. Since she had tubes put in her ears, it’s imperative that we put special drops in them when she goes swimming to prevent water from traveling into her inner ear. I explained to him that he needed to fill the prescription for these drops, especially since she’d be doing a lot of swimming at his house. He assured me he would take care of it, and I put my faith in his word that he would.

Fast forward, four days later… I walked into the daycare to pick up my baby girl today, and when she got within a foot of me, I smelled a horrible stench; I recognized it immediately. I pulled back her hair to find a goopy brown mess crusted around her left ear…

Immediately, I felt a flash of anger. This, in my eyes, was completely unacceptable. As I tried to pull her earlobe down lightly to peer into the ear canal, she yelped in pain. The flash of anger rose to a cold blue flame. I called the ex, put he did not answer… I left the calmest message I could muster, and set about to try to take care of my daughter.

I know this man loves his child; there is no doubt in my heart. I really do believe that she is capable of changing his life. But when I specifically point out something that directly relates to her HEALTH, I expect him to pay attention. And when he doesn’t, it makes me angry.

But the cold hard reality is this; there’s nothing I can do.

On the other side of this coin are the fathers who DO pay attention to the instructions; the fathers that sacrifice their own wants, needs and desires for the sake of their children. The fathers who sit down and play games with their kids, paint a picture with them, read them countless stories… fathers who are willing to sacrifice their own happiness for the sake of their children… and the women who treat *those* fathers like dirt.

Let me tell you something; fall on your knees and thank God that you have an ex who cares at that level. If your ex is willing to sit through a dinner with you so that your child can see you in a room together, thank God. If your ex is willing to sacrifice more than the state-mandated child support so that your child can do the things and have the opportunities they would have had if you’d stayed together, thank God. If your ex makes a conscious effort to show your child that although you can’t be together romantically, you still can do things together as a somewhat fractured family, thank God.  And if your ex is willing to take time off to make every recital, every play, every event, every doctors appointment….

…get on your knees and thank God. Because some of us are not that lucky.

My disappointment runs deep tonight as my little girl tosses and turns. My tolerance for people is running low; my patience is gone. But although I am angry, I still try to keep things in perspective; he pays his child support. He shows up for his visitation. He is a loving and kind father to my child.

So I thank God for what he has given me… and pray that he will take care of the rest.

“My goodness, that’s an awesome picture of you. You look so pretty! What’s your secret?”

“Photoshop.”

The other evening, the BF (who will now be referred to as BFD) asked me what I was doing. I mentioned that I wanted to get a little organizing done. He happened to walk in as I was pulling old clothes out of my closet. Looking over my shoulder, he spotted *one* of my lotion stashes.

“What is THAT?”

“Um… lotion.”

“Oh my gosh! How many do you have there?”

“Um, I don’t know.” (45. Of course I know. I just counted them all a few weeks ago.)

“Give me the box.”

“NO!”

“Give me the box.”

“Why???”

He reached across me and took the box from the closet. “Kristie, this is disgusting… this one is brown.”

“No… lotion doesn’t go bad..”

“And this one is SOLID. This one here is separated.”

“No, I’m sure they’re fine….”

“Where’s a trash bag?”

“ACK! NO!”

Ten minutes later he returned from the grocery store with a box of trash bags. I have to tell you, I was pretty close to a full-blown anxiety attack. This is a new stage for our relationship; the Oh-My-Gosh-He’s-Going-To-See-What-A-Filthy-Pack-Rat-I-Am phase. Not to mention I was sure I was about to witness the This-Is-The-Way-I-Said-It-Will-Be phase that men usually display…

… but he didn’t. He threw out all of the ones that *really* needed to be thrown out, but everything else he passed in front of me for my veto. I was surprised by how considerate he was… and mortified about how much wasted space I had once we cleared out everything that was moldy, mildewed, expired, or buried in dust bunnies. I kept apologizing over how long it was taking, and how bored he must be, but he never complained. He also never made fun of me or made me feel bad about it, either.

Three hours later, we were done. Four trash bags of garbage. Two bags and one box of clothing.

From my BATHROOM.

I was sure that when he left, I’d never see him again; but he came back. As we looked around, he smiled, “Next time we’ll do your office.” 

Either he’s truly demented, or he really loves me. Probably both.

[12:21pm]  J – Ha! Yeah, breaking is no fun, especially in the hip area. No casts or anything. I would love a cast, just walk around and bludgeon people with it

[12:22pm]  Me – LOL… and there’s that angry streak again

[12:22pm]  J – I cant help it. It’s been programmed into me to see the weapon potential in everyday items!

[12:22pm]  Me – I don’t think that’s a bad skill to possess, personally.

[12:23pm]  J – Oh you should see when I’m talking to people about how much pressure it takes to break certain bones. I’ve almost got that whole list memorized. It’s slightly frightening.

[12:23pm]  Me – I date a homicide detective. You can’t scare me.

[12:24pm]  J – Hmm… Good point

Three Mother’s Days since we split. I don’t expect the jerk to remember my birthday or acknowledge Christmas, but the one undeniable tie that we will have for the rest of our lives is the fact that I’m the mother of his child. And I think I do a pretty damn good job, given my circumstances. The least he could do is acknowledge that fact, but instead, he passes off that woman as the mother of his kids and gives her all the praise.

Total strangers in my life extend the courtesy of a respectful, thoughtful “Happy Mother’s Day.” A simple text message would suffice. But nothing.

But why would I expect anything more? I know better. I’d hoped his new-found appreciation of “family”  would at least make him appreciate how much I do for our child.

Obviously not.

Last night we decided to stop on the way home for some ice cream. I was on the phone with my father, and passed it off to Alex so she could say hello. At some point, he asked her where we were going, and she told him our destination. I assume he then asked her if we were making it from scratch, because she told him, “No, we’re going to drive through and get it.”

“Do you know how to make ice cream?”

“Sure I do. You go to the fridgerator and you get out the box… then you put the scoopy thing in the box, then you put it on the cone!”

I’m so proud.

Yesterday the X called to get Alex’s social security number, and of course I have no idea what it is. Your kid’s social security card is one of those things that you always put “somewhere where you won’t lose it,” only to forget where in the heck you put it. After digging around through all the places I usually stuff paper (and there’s more than I care to admit), I started checking the more obscure locations, including under my bed.

It’s amazing what you find under your bed. Things you forget you had, things you want to lose on purpose, things the cat leaves you when they’re pissed off at you for not cleaning their litterbox in a timely manner…

In a small shoebox, I came across Alex’s ultrasound pictures… I smiled as I remembered the first time I held the tiny picture, her little features so foriegn back then, but so familiar now. Even in utero, her tiny nose and bowed lips resembled the child who stood in front of me now.

“Mommy, what’s that?”

“That’s you before you were born. This is a picture of you in Mommy’s tummy.”

“Mommy, why was I in your tummy??”

“Because that’s where babies start to grow; in their mommy’s tummy.”

“Mommy!!! Why did you eat me???”

[12:30] D: i am sorry to hear they its going so hard
[12:30] Me: meh.. it’s life.
[12:30] Me: up and down
[12:30] D: true
[12:30] Me: up will be back
[12:30] D: giggity
[12:30] Me: you did not…
[12:30] D: i did