Battle Lines

Posted on | June 4, 2014 | 21 Comments

This morning, we were up before six… again… and there were tears before eight. Everything these days seems to be a struggle of epic proportions. He doesn’t want to pick out his own clothes but hates the ones I bring him. He doesn’t want to tell me what he wants for breakfast but hates what I make him. When it’s time to bathe, you’d think the water was made of poisonous darts, piercing his skin and do. not. get. me. started. on washing his hair.

Everything is a battle.

And I’m worn out and frazzled and tired of saying “TIME OUT” and at this point even his name sounds like a freaking curse word or at the least a nonsensical sound, the same way saying any word over and over seems to strip it of meaning.

I don’t know what to do anymore.

He is, for all intents and purposes, a great kid. His teachers love him. He has friends who love him. His baby sitter adores him. His grandparents spoil him rotten and he has not just two parents who love him but two pseudo parents in his father’s girlfriend and my boyfriend, who think the world of him, too. And he is a really great kid.

When he wants to be.

But it seems that he expends all of that greatness of all of these other people and what is left at the end of the day is a whirling dervish of a gremlin who hates everything, especially me, and left his ears or at least his ability to listen somewhere along the road between our house and school. What’s left at the end of the day is a child who wants nothing more than to take out a full day’s worth of frustration on me… and a mother who is too frustrated from work to soothe his moods.

We are at each others’ throats from the moment we walk through the door until the moment he falls asleep, with small pockets of sweetness in between. And some days, those pockets are VERY small. It’s like he came equipped with a handbook that told him where all of my buttons are located and he simultaneously stomps, kicks, slaps, and spits at every single one. (no. he doesn’t actually kick or spit at me, though he has been known to swat at my bottom WHICH MAKES ME GO ALL CRAZY-EYED.)

I want to remember that he’s four. I want to draw in a deep breath and remember that my kid missed me all day and wants my attention. I want to nod and smile and drink in these moments because “They don’t last forever” and “blink and he’s all grown up” and all that other stuff people with selective memories say to parents. But honestly?

I have a hard time remembering any of that when he screams “I AM NEVER SNUGGLING WITH YOU EVER AGAIN AND YOU CANT BE MY MOMMY ANY MORE” at the top of his lungs from approximately one inch away from my face.

I have a hard time remembering that patience is a virtue and kids are precious and these moments are the golden days of our lives and yadda yadda yadda.

What I DO remember is that his door closes and his room seems to be  fairly safe and if I sit directly in front of it with my hand on the door handle, I can have five minutes of peace while we both cry. What I remember is that I will not hit a kid, I will not hit a kid, I will not hit a kid, until those words become a Broadway musical in my head.

I feel like I’m drowning in the fourness of him… the pseudo-teenager, angst-filled, angry and emotional crazy that is pre-school. And what I’d really like is for someone to tell me that it’s all going to get better soon.

Please?

 

How to Choose Happy

Posted on | June 2, 2014 | 3 Comments

My boyfriend always tells me that happiness is a choice. And usually I respond with a choice gesture from one of my more used fingers. But this morning, when my son woke me up for the second day in a row before 5am, I decided I’d give it a chance. So I lay very still for a moment, snatched the blue flashing flashlight from his hands, and thought for a moment about how happy I was that the blinding light was no longer flashing in my face.

I climbed from my bed, happy that I only had to stretch twice to get my back to stop hurting, then I slowly walked to the kitchen, happy that I remembered the coffee I bought was decaf so that I didn’t waste my time making it. I chose to be happy about the fact that J wasn’t listening to any of my instructions for the morning because obviously that meant he could think for himself and wouldn’t be a mindless follower all his life. I chose to be happy about the fact that we were up so early because it meant I had time to clean the counters, fold the laundry, wash the sheets, make the bed, watch Scooby Doo (twice) and make a batch of “Ants on a log” for snack.

Have to take my kid to work for the day? So happy about it.

Coffee spilled on my pants? Hey look! It’s like a new pair!

I was angrily going about “choosing happy” in the most sarcastic manner for most of the morning. Every time I “chose” happy I considered it a slap in Banks’ face. “Oh yeah… this is SO happy! Thanks for telling me that happiness is a choice. I’m SO FREAKING HAPPY RIGHT NOW.”

On the way to work, we were sitting in the drive thru line at Starbucks and I was stewing on all the anger and irritation of my morning when suddenly I realized that choosing happy isn’t about choosing to make everything that happens to you a positive.  Choosing happy is about letting the bad roll off your shoulders the best way you can. Choosing happy is about making the choice not to dwell on all the negative but to, instead, look forward for the potential of awesome.

I can’t make this morning any better.

I can’t go back and not blow my top at my kid or not spill my coffee or not be hell bent on being aggravated for the first three hours of the day. But what I CAN do is choose to put them where they belong, in the past, and focus on making the rest of my day that much better.

Because even though happiness might be a choice, it’s not a choice you make about things that already happened. It’s a choice you make to embrace the possibility of good things to come.

So my apologies, Banks, for all the flicking of birds and rolling of eyes. It seems that (just this once) you may have been right. And I’m going to spend my day choosing not to dwell on the demon child bouncing behind me in my chair as I work.

Instead, I will choose to be happy about the babysitter coming tomorrow.

 

Emptying the Water Bottle

Posted on | May 30, 2014 | 1 Comment

This morning, I filled J’s water bottle for his official last day of school. I tucked it into the corner of my purse and went on about my morning ritual of brushing, washing, dressing and the like. To be honest, I didn’t think much about it being the last day of school because he’ll be in the same class next year, though it will officially be called “Kindergarten.” We piled into the car and chatted all the way to school and then parked directly in front of his building. Like we always do, he ran up the ramp and I chased him, making bets on who would reach the door first (always him) and who would reach the classroom first (still him).

It wasn’t until I reached into my purse to hand him his water bottle that I realized I’d forgotten to close the lid and the ice cold water had been leaking all over the contents of my purse all morning long.

A slow trickle of water, tanning the liner and pooling down in the forgotten corners of my purse.

All the way to work, that pool of ice water soaked through the neat and messy corners of my life. It slowly eased its way through the cracks and stitches of my bag and trickled down onto the passenger seat.  All the way through the entryway of my building, a slow drip of water followed me, puddling into the corner of the elevator, trailing the click of my shoes against the cool tiles.

I dripped and splashed my way to my office, casually sitting the purse down against the floor, knowing that when I lifted it again the carpet would be darkly dull, marked by the slow spread of water. And I didn’t care.

Not really, anyway.

It didn’t bother me the way it could have, didn’t hound at me in the way it once would have, not so very long ago.

I didn’t sit and think and worry and twist myself in knots over the spill, over the mistake, over the silliness of placing an open water bottle in a full purse.

Instead, I let it drip. I let it trickle down my cheeks and heart and soul… an icy reminder that it’s okay to be a little broken, a little messy, a little unkempt. I let it trace its stain around my path, knowing that it’s only water, knowing that… well, like the tears I may have swallowed down at one more year past… this, too, will dry.

This too will dry and fade into nothing more than the faintest memory the next time I fill a water bottle.

The next time I kiss his cheek for the last day of another school year.

The Aftermath

Posted on | May 29, 2014 | 6 Comments

Lately I’ve been feeling trapped by this space… trapped by the fact that people read, trapped by the fact that people know me. I have felt scared of the words I place here, being meticulous to say them in just the right way, to frame them in exactly the right light. I’ve been so concerned with how I come across… how I appear to be, that I’ve lost sight of who I am, or maybe who I was…. at least, at most who I meant to be when I decided to write here in this little non-descript corner.

It was meant to be an outlet… a creative zone for me to remember what it felt like to write daily; to pour my thoughts out onto a page the way I used to in a diary or journal. It was meant to be a safe place to just be. And when I got divorced, it was my safe place. People commented that I shared too much, that I was too honest with my emotions but honestly I didn’t care. I just wanted to get them out and to feel, even momentarily, less burdened by the weight of sadness that hovered on my shoulders.

But being honest came with a price… it came with a giant sign of TRAIN WRECK that brought in people who hadn’t read before. It brought in “strangers” to my little spot of the internet and even worse, it turned me into someone who wanted to please the people who read. I wanted to make sure they stayed, you know. I wanted to make sure they thought I was special or unique or at least awesome in some way or fashion. I started to write, thinking about the reader instead of writing for the sake of my soul.

And honestly?

I hate writing for a reader.

I think writing for a reader makes me less honest. It makes me wonder if what I say will offend or annoy or hurt the people who read. And I don’t want to care, no offense, about how YOU feel about my writing. I want to care about how I feel about it.

And in the aftermath of my divorce, I have not felt good about my writing.

I have felt hindered by my desire to please you, the people reading. I’ve felt hindered by knowing who reads, by getting the emails and text messages that say “Read your blog today.” I’ve felt hindered by the Facebook shares and the people here in my own town who have reached out and said “Love your blog.”

So from here on out, I’m going to forget about you guys. I don’t want to worry about SEO or tag words or stats or any of that crazy nonsense. I don’t want to plan posts or write and re-write to make it the exact way I think you’ll want to read it.

As far as I’m concerned, you don’t exist…. because this is my space. And if I offend or annoy or hurt feelings, well… then… so be it. Because if I don’t have this space for me, then there’s no point in really having it at all.

Some Days You’re the Fire Hydrant

Posted on | May 27, 2014 | 2 Comments

Before becoming a parent, I thought I understood the whole “some days you’re the cat and some days you’re the mouse” line of thinking. I thought it made sense… I mean, some days are good and some days are bad, right? It’s not hard to understand.

And then I became a mother of a boy and suddenly all of that cat and mouse, dog and fire hydrant, nonsense hit me square in the face like the moment you first remove a baby boy’s diaper and, well, you get hit square in the face.  I, quite literally, became a fire hydrant in that moment. And it wouldn’t be the last time.

It’s usually most apparent when you’re around other parents with kids around the same age. Like this weekend… for random example.  We split our weekend between two sets of friends… two were friends of mine and two were friends of Banks. While at my friends’ house, my kid was mostly golden. He was also, mostly, the only child. So he was showered with attention and love and basically adored for every tiny thing that came out of his mouth. Sort of like at home. The one time there were other kids around, he behaved swimmingly, offering his lunch to the little girl (yes. I know. I just can’t even.) and not resorting to any sort of histrionics at all. The little girl had a few meltdowns and, let’s face it, in those moments you don’t MEAN to compare… but you do. And you’re totally proud of your kid for holding it together. We left their house on Sunday afternoon and I felt like top dog. My kid was so well-behaved and clearly I was the best parent EVER.

Then we pulled up to Banks’ friends’ house, where the wife was almost 8 months pregnant and a three year old boy was anxiously awaiting play time with J. At first, things seemed to go well. I was still basking in my “dog not hydrant” moments at the prior locale so I just knew that J was going to continue to be his charming, adorable self.

And then, as they say, and then.

First, it started small. Little tiffs between the boys. Little moments where J would say “NO!” or “I DON’T WANT HIM NEAR ME.” Then it became full blown melt downs with tears and stomping around. At one point he slammed the bathroom door; at another, he screamed that he wouldn’t sit at the table with us at the restaurant because he wanted to sit just with me at a booth. He refused to eat. He cried a lot. He wouldn’t share toys. He was about as obnoxious as he could be, as often as he could be obnoxious.

Meanwhile, Banks’ friends’ kid was just chilling. He was in his element, hanging out, telling my kid that he was not being nice, and being basically as awesome as my kid had been the day before at MY friends’ house.

I’m not gonna lie to you, I don’t much like it when my kid acts… well… four. I like it when he shows off how awesome he is. I like it when he doesn’t throw fits or slam doors or act as though he was raised by a pack of wolves. But he was tired and he’d been going non stop since Saturday morning… not that I’m making excuses. (No, really I am.)

Saturday and Sunday morning, I was top dog.

By Monday, I was covered in piss.

But as a parent, you have to just come to grips with the fact that there are days when you just have to be the fire hydrant.

Underwear Isn’t THAT Important, right?

Posted on | May 8, 2014 | No Comments

One of the hardest things about being a parent is learning how and when to let go of the quest for a perfect child.

I thought, when J was a baby, that dropping him off at daycare was the worst thing I’d ever go through. I remember the first day like it was yesterday… placing him gently in the arms of his daycare teacher and slinking back to my car to sob for a good twenty minutes about leaving him. It felt like the hardest thing I’d ever do… entrusting him to someone else to protect and love and nurture. Who could possibly love him as well as I can? Who could possibly take such good care of him as his own mother? How would they keep him happy and clean and, well… perfect?

As the years have flown by, there have been a lot of those moments. There have been a lot of times when I’ve felt like my world is too wrapped up in my son, too invested in trying to give him everything in the world to make him, yes, perfect. There have been many moments when I’ve wondered to myself how anyone could possibly screw up parenting and just as many (okay maybe more) when I’ve wondered how anyone gets any of it right. And as I’ve watched him grow from a baby to a toddler to the crazy pre-schooler that he is now, I’ve watched myself grow right along side him.

When he was small, I thought that everything was important… how he dressed, how often and how well I bathed him, how much he ate, how little he cried. And yes, those things are important, but that’s not what it’s really all about, is it? At least that’s not everything. Being the cleanest doesn’t make you the best, I suppose, though it certainly seemed to be the most important thing in the world to me when I had a newborn. I distinctly remember the moment when I dropped a pacifier on the floor of a restaurant and sent my ex-husband to wash it off in hot water in the sink. An older couple at the next table laughed and said “First child?” with a knowing smile. I was shocked.

I couldn’t fathom I’d ever not want to wash a dirty pacifier off in the sink… what kind of parent does that?! Isn’t dirt a sign of bad parenting or something? Who could possibly just clean off a pacifier in their own mouth and give it back to their child? (Me, that’s who, several weeks later and for the rest of his babyhood.)

Because dirt don’t hurt, am I right? And there’s just no trophy presented to the parent with the cleanest and best-dressed child. Nor, thank God, are there demerits for having a dirty one. How my child dresses himself is no reflection on my parenting skills though for a while, I really thought it was. I used to argue with him over mis-matched clothes, shoes on the wrong feet, two different socks. I have had to learn to let go of the need to tell him what to wear, when to wear it, and how to put it on. And it’s been a struggle for me not to think that his appearance, what he is happy in, is some sort of telltale sign that I’m raising him wrong.

This was never more clear to me than when, last week, my son came home from school, covered in dirt with, of course, holes in the knees of his pants and sixteen pounds of sand weighing down his shoes. I ran the bath water and hovered as he undressed to climb into the bath. When he pulled off his pants, I stopped and looked at him for a moment.

“Did you have an accident at school?” I asked, not recognizing the underwear but fairly certain the pants were right. He looked at me sheepishly for a moment and shrugged.

“No. I just forgot to put on underwear this morning,” he nonchalantly climbed into the bathtub and I could do nothing but laugh.

Because these are the moments that remind me what parenting is all about… it’s not about being the best or having the most perfect child. It’s about letting them make their own decisions, remember their own damn underwear, and realizing that when they forget it? It’s not a reflection of how well you’re parenting.

It’s just a reflection of how good they are at being four. And, you know, driving you crazy.

Not All Baseball Players Are Born to Play

Posted on | May 7, 2014 | No Comments

Last year, I signed J up for “Wee ball” and then almost simultaneously got roped into “coaching” the team. To say that it was a disaster is an epic understatement. He cried when he had to go to the games. He hated putting on his gear and hated batting, throwing, catching, and everything else associated with baseball. So when the time rolled around to sign up again, I waffled. Ultimately, I decided to leave the decision up to J, and he immediately announced that he REALLY wanted to play this year.

So we signed up for a different league, one with “real” coaches, and I got to work re-outfitting my four year old with the world’s cutest baseball gear.

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I never really think of my kid as athletic. He has my passion for doing things perfectly along with my desire to quit anything I’m not immediately good at and he’s not a natural ball player by any stretch of my imagination. Not like some of these kids I see out there. Banks and I got him out in the front yard to practice last weekend and he was all about not listening to one single word we had to say about batting stance, watching the ball, throwing overhanded, or God forbid catching. Because he’s four, and just like my brother, his Uncle E,  J knows EVERYTHING already. You can say anything in the world to him and his response will be “I know that.” So it’s slightly trying on my patience levels to try to teach him anything… reading, math, baseball… anything.

But his t-ball coach this year, Coach Charlie, is quite possibly the reincarnation of Job.

Because he not only listens, he teaches… with a patience that astounds me and makes me wonder if he’s slipping himself Xanax on the regular just to deal with this rambunctious team of 4 and 5 year olds. Under his tutelage, my son who couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn is learning how to hit the ball off a pitch and not a tee. My child who threw underhanded and often behind his own head, has started turning sideways and throwing overhanded. And this past weekend, in the midst of a game, my little boy trapped a fly ball against his leg and got an out to end the game.

And that coach made it the biggest deal in the world, taking the time to present him with the game ball for going above and beyond what they thought was possible.

Do you ever wonder what makes a kid love a sport? Do you think it’s because he’s born a natural athlete, a strong and broad shouldered kid with a great arm and a power swing?  Because I used to think that. Then I watched my son beam from ear to ear last night because he barely hit a slow dribbling ball down the first base line, outran it to first base, and brought in a winning run to advance in the playoffs. He looked quickly to me to see if I was proud  and then turned all of his attention to his coach, waiting for an inevitable high-five and congratulations.

The greatest appreciation of a game, I think, comes not from being born to play it… it comes from being taught to love it. Who knows who my son will be as he ages… who knows how well he may learn to hit or throw or catch or even pitch. But what I know from watching him this season, is that he is developing a love for baseball that I hope will stay with him all his life. And I also know that I will always be grateful for Coach Charlie taking the time to teach him that.

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When Your Body Fails You

Posted on | May 6, 2014 | 10 Comments

In late 2011, I herniated a disc in my low back. The pain was excruciating and I wound up getting an injection to relieve some of the inflammation. As 2012 crept on, my back felt better and in October I started to run again… something I’d loved before J was born.

I ran a half marathon in February of 2013 and I felt… unstoppable. Running gave me not just an adrenaline rush, but a feeling that I was beating the odds. There I was, a 3o-something year old woman with a bad back and I was making it happen. I was pounding out miles and it felt good … it felt really good. I loved tuning out the world, charging forward on a quest to beat my last time or run even one step farther than the day before.

And then this year, my back flared up again.

“No big deal,” I thought, “I’ll just get another injection and be good to go.”

Only that’s not really what happened.

This morning, I sat on a high table in front of my orthopedist and listened to him earnestly tell me that I had two options: I could keep running and all but ensure that I’d need back surgery in the future, or I could stop running and perhaps let my back heal itself the best it can.

I heard the words but they sort of swam around my head, not really sinking in until sometime mid-morning when I thought to myself: “I have to stop running” and felt tears well up in my eyes in a rush of fear and sadness. Sadness because it is giving up something I love. Fear because I believe that running saved me in the months and years after my divorce.

Fear because I have so fully embraced the notion that I am a runner, that I can’t imagine being anything less.

Fear because I have never had to make this type of decision… never had to admit to myself that I’m not as young as I used to be. That I’m not as young as I think I am.

Fear because if I can not run… if I’m not a runner… then who am I? How do I identify myself in the absence of something that became so much of my identity?

I feel suddenly old and abandoned by the body I live in. I feel as though I have to redefine, rediscover who I am now… who I can be without this thing that has really consumed me for the better part of two years. Running is what got me out of bed, what got me motivated to get in shape. Seeing the miles add up on my Nike + app, feeling the steady pound of my shoes against whatever surface I could find.

Being a runner was important to me. It made me feel important… feel like I could do and be anything in the world.

But now I am not a runner.

I am just me again. Average and unrewarded by the tick of a mile marker in my mind.

 

Express Yourself

Posted on | April 30, 2014 | 17 Comments

A friend of mine posted on Facebook, that “wonderful” marketplace of ideas, about how single mothers should put their children first and shouldn’t date just to date. And in many, many ways, I agree with her.

But see… I also disagree.

I think as women, and especially as mothers, we tend to put ourselves second in every way. Our children ask for something for dinner so we make it and eat the sloppy leftovers. Our husbands or significant others come home tired and cranky, so we put our own tiredness and crankiness on the back burner and slap on a “SO glad to see you” face.  Our boss needs extra work done so we do it, even if it means missing a play at school or whatever else is on our agenda.

If our children need it and we can afford it, we buy it… even if it means that what we need goes without purchase. Hell, I have cardigans with holes in them that I still rock at work because my kid is growing like a weed and I have to keep him dressed in normal clothes. (Side bar: Also DEAR GOD why does everything he own have holes in the knees now? Do they give him scissors at school? Is he forced to walk over rocks on his knees?)

So when it comes to being a single mom, our first instinct seems to be to cross our legs tightly and say “Now I will focus on raising my child and nothing else.” Like self-flagellation of the strangest kind. As if by denying ourselves something normal and natural we will somehow raise a better child.  Don’t get me wrong… there are some crazy men out there who will take advantage of a single mother or her children. There are bad ones in every bunch… just like… wait for it… when you’re dating WITHOUT a child.

As a single mom, it really bothers me when I hear women say “I gave up dating until my son/daughter left for school because he/she is just too important.” It bothers me because what on earth is that teaching the child? That mothers aren’t people? That mothers don’t have needs for companionship and love and nurturing and yes, of course, sex?

I just don’t think that’s right. Because we do. We’re people. We are warm-blooded women just as we are mothers. One doesn’t outweigh the other.

Certainly I’m not an advocate of installing a red light bulb on your front porch, but show a little life to your kids, ladies. Don’t sit back and let your child be the center and only part of your life because if you do that… when you do that… you are doing both of you a total disservice. Your child will not be ready to face a world where he/she is not the center. Your son will not understand why his wife wants more from him when he KNOWS that “real moms” don’t have needs outside their children. Your daughter will not know why she feels urges to be more and do more outside of the world of her children because her only role model taught her that her children should be everything.

Children are important. Children are the future and all that Whitney Houston sing-along nonsense. But part of giving them their future includes being real about their present. And for me, that means teaching them that women have needs. Women, yes even mothers, have ups and downs and loves and laughter OUTSIDE of their children.

We put ourselves second so much for our children and in many ways we are right to do so. But we should never lose ourselves to the people we love… not even to our children. So single moms? I say date. Date as much or as little as feels right to you. And if you decide you don’t want to date, that’s perfectly okay, too.

Just don’t make that choice because you think you’re doing your child a favor. Because I don’t think that you are.

La Cienega Just Smiled… again.

Posted on | April 29, 2014 | 5 Comments

If I’m being totally honest, the first time my ex-husband told me he was dating someone, I wanted to rip all her hair out and feed it to him in bitter, heaping spoonfuls. Granted, we hadn’t been divorced but for about six months, but still. It was a rage like I’d really never really felt before; a “how DARE he” sort of disbelief mixed with heartache and a little bit of competition. I wanted to be the first to move on, you know… to really stick it to him that I was done with him, and the fact that he’d moved on so much faster made me think maybe the real problem in our marriage was… well…

Me.

Because if he’d found love again and I hadn’t… didn’t that mean that I was the unlovable one? Didn’t it mean that the person who just couldn’t be in a relationship was me?!

It took a long time not to feel that way about the woman he was seeing and not to want to claw his skin off when I saw him or heard him talk about her. I couldn’t listen to songs we’d listened to together. I couldn’t think about the fact that he probably said the same things to her, sang the same songs, gave the same looks. I just couldn’t fathom that I would ever get to a point when he wouldn’t be everywhere.

And if you’re going through divorce, or have recently gone through divorce, you probably understand exactly what I’m talking about. It’s like your ex-spouse is haunting you but in the worst ways… he is living, breathing, and moving on from you while you are still sitting around wondering how you ended up here, who you are without him, and where to go from this place you find yourself. And you’re pissed and heartbroken and violently shuddering with the unfairness of the whole world around you.

This morning, I turned on an old Spotify mix I made when I was married called “Rainy Days.” One by one the songs trickled by and without even realizing what was happening, I found myself singing along to an old Ryan Adams song. It’s a good song. He’s a great artist. But for several years, I wasn’t even able to hear one note of a Ryan Adams song without wanting to throw things at my ex-husband and rail against the world for the fact that I was divorced.

When you’re in the thick of it, divorce just feels like everything. It’s a thick, scratchy blanket that is tossed over your head and it smells like him… the ex who is no more. It keeps you from seeing or smelling or even sensing anything other than the loss of him… the absence and yet presence of the person you were tied to in holy or not-so-holy matrimony. It’s hard to believe it when people tell you that you will breathe again and the air will not taste stale with his memory.

But believe me. I have been there. I have wallowed in the misery and the angst and the questions and the “TURN THIS SONG OFF BEFORE I THROW UP.” And it doesn’t just get better… it gets amazing.

I could have never imagined I’d be as happy as I am now. I could have never imagined I would have my ex-husband and his girlfriend to my house for J’s birthday party. I could have never imagined I would be in a relationship so sound and strong that my marriage feels like a momentary flash of something sweet and sour that is but a distant memory. I could have never imagined I would listen to Ryan Adams again without wanting to punch a hole in the wall… but this morning I did. Twice.

So for all of my women (and men) who are struggling through what I went through… take heart. Take deep breaths. And take my word that you will blossom and bloom into your truest self the moment you are able to breathe again.

And your life… and you… will be more beautiful than you can imagine.

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    Spilled Milk (and Other Atrocities) by Law Momma is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
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  • I'm a divorced, single mom to a pre-schooler, a full-time attorney, and a semi-reluctant vegetarian. I work hard and when given the chance, I play hard... but I'm almost never given the chance.

    It's possible that I never outgrew 7th grade mentality, as I still laugh when anyone says anything that can be remotely construed as sexual. Let's face it, if you're not down with "That's what s/he said" at the end of almost any sentence, we're probably not going to get along all that well.

    I drink more than I should, I run more than I should, and I laugh as much as I can. So I'm pretty much winning at life.

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