I was reading a tweet by @lolaaugustine that hit a home I hadn’t revisited in a long time. She mentioned in her tweet that “happy families (with dads) make me sad sometime.

I was there. Those few words brought back floods of memories. Every piece of my being knew EXACTLY what she meant and EXACTLY what she felt.

I was young. Idealistic.

I assumed that all couples with kids did those happy family things.

I mean, all my friends were doing it.

My neighbors.

It seemed like EVERYONE, except for me, was involved with all things happy and family.

I pictured going to the park with my husband, swinging between us our young son who held on to our fingers, squealing with delight, begging for “more” or “higher” while pushing a stroller with our infant daughter cooing out giggles.

I pictured hugs in the kitchen with children squeezing between us, wanting to be a part of the moment.

Family trips, car rides with rounds of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star or Row, Row Row Your Boat as we explored back roads and tourist traps.

The way I grew up.

The way I expected life to be for and with my children.

None of that happened in my first marriage.

Instead of the park, I sat on the couch in a fog as my children played with friends and my husband sat on his computer, losing our life savings as he pretended to be a day trader.

Instead of hugs, harsh words spewed from a frustrated heart.

Alone in a king sized bed, I slept balanced precariously at the very edge. Sometimes banging my head against the sharp corner of my nightstand. Sometimes falling onto the soft carpet below.

Exactly how I lived my life back then. Barely hanging on. Teetering precariously into my own oblivion.

When I left that lonely life, I thought I would feel a sense of relief.

I could go to the park without longing for what I didn’t have.

I could take trips with my kids and not long for what I didn’t have. Instead, I could give them what THEY had never had.

I didn’t have to worry about banging my head on the corner of my nightstand or falling out of bed anymore.

I thought I was good to go.

But, I was wrong.

Something more was missing.

I would sit on park benches daydreaming, unenthusiastic and preoccupied, while my children laughed and played with all the children. Their smiles and waves met by my forced ones.

I would ache for the other piece of bread to the child sandwich as I was cooking their meals in my kitchen, alone.

Slowly, surely, I got used to my new norm. I still had a sense of longing for things I didn’t have but that ache began to dull. It wasn’t constant. It was beginning to be easy to ignore and carry on.

I began to enjoy sleeping in the middle of the bed, sprawled out in all my glory. My nightstand was my friend again, home to my clock, photos and dog eared books.

Instead of the bread being the mom and dad, my children would hug me and I was squished between their warmth and enveloped by their unconditional love.

I started smiling more and breaking into La Vida Loca or one of my favorite Duran Duran songs.

I realized I was happy again.

The one emotion I had been void of, above anything.

Pure, unadulterated, happiness.

The shock of that realization hit me.

I wasn’t missing a someone.

I had been lacking a something.

Happiness.

Joy.

Excitement.

Euphoria.

Laughing until my sides and my heart burst.

I found all of that again.

And more.

Now, I’m 12 years after.

I’ve been with my other slice for 10 years.

My sandwich is overstuffed.

So Lola, it does happen. It really does. Be patient. Embrace being the heart of the sandwich.

I’m propped on the bathroom counter, one leg holding me up, putting on eyeliner, when my daughter nonchalantly walks in and sits down on the closed toilet. I could tell by her serious expression and posture that she had something she wanted to discuss.

“What’s going on, honeybunch?” I ask her, watching her in the mirror watching me.

She shrugs and meets my gaze. It’s obvious she wants to spill but doesn’t know if she should or where to begin.

She continues watching me in silence as I line carefully line my eyes with liquid eyeliner.

She seems fascinated by what I’m doing.

I catch her eye and we smile at each other. I notice how stunningly beautiful she is and how badly she seems to want to talk.

I put down my eyeliner and give her my attention.

“Talk to me.” I say, simply.

“Mommy, if you had a do-over, what would it be?” she blurts out.

I realize that it is a loaded question and I have to be careful how I answer it. I know exactly what she is really asking.

I respond that I would have done better in high school which would have allowed me to go to a better college and I would have been a doctor.

But I know that isn’t what she meant or wanted to hear.

“You wouldn’t have changed marrying my dad?” she has a very serious look on her face which is pleading with me, studying me as she guides the conversation into the direction she wants it to go.

I hesitate.

I’m looking right at her, not her reflection anymore.

I tell her no. Because then she wouldn’t be here.

She wants to know if I regret marrying her father.

I smile and softly shake my head no.

She looks at me thoughtfully and seems satisfied with my answer, gives me a kiss and leaves me with my thoughts.

The truth is that I don’t completely regret marrying her dad because I have my two beautiful children from that marriage. But I wish I had listened to my own heart telling me not to walk down that aisle.

But how can I tell my daughter, who SO OBVIOUSLY wants to hear that once upon a time I loved her dad, anything other than what she NEEDS to hear?

I often think about the ‘what ifs”. It’s hard to think about it because, what if i had called off the wedding like I had considered doing, one too many times? My kids, my babies, wouldn’t have been here. Yes, I realize that I would have had kids eventually, with someone else. But I didn’t. I have MY kids.

A do-over would change my entire being. Everything about who I am today.

I can’t “go there”. It makes me sad on so many different levels. It’s like murdering my children and myself.

So instead, I think I’ll just be happy with the direction I consciously took my life and try to fix things that are fixable.

You can’t change the past, right.
You can only hope to make the right choices for the future.

No do-overs. One chance only, leaving you to deal with whatever ramifications those choices bring you.

Period.

I look into my reflection, smile firmly and continue putting on my make-up.

I just read a very interesting article in the Huffington Post regarding a fascinating concept about divorce. It’s called Is Divorce Contagious? And by *just*, I mean yesterday. So go read it. I’ll wait. *crosses arms over chest and taps feet on floor impatiently while snapping gum and looking annoyed*

You back yet?

How about now?

I’ve got to get on with my story. I don’t have all day…

Our play group formed in the Fall of 1996. A mish-mash of strangers and acquaintances brought together by a mutual friend and the fact that we all had babies close in age. There were around 10 of us.

It was comfortable almost immediately. We decided to meet once a week in the morning, sometime after breakfast, and hang out for how ever long the babies could deal. It was nice to have a group of adult woman to hang out with, and I looked forward to it. It was a welcome break in the stay at home mommy routine.

Eventually, most of us became friends outside of the playgroup, arranging our own play dates and even getting together with the husbands.

It was a kind of a clique…ish.

Then, after a year, 2nd babies started coming.

Then, troubled marriages, mine in the lead.

I left my ex-husband, got divorced and started a new life.

The play group disbanded. We didn’t play nor were we a group anymore. We were casual though, giving hugs and air kisses when we ran into each other.

Here we are, 14 years later. Save for two or three couples and one who moved away, the majority of that playgroup that I spent the first few pivotal years and many milestones with, they are now divorced. Epidemically proportioned to those who are still together.

I always harbored thoughts in the back of my head that there must have been some sort of virus that swept through our playgroup, leaving those who had stronger immune systems impervious, still standing tall. Others weren’t that lucky. They succumbed to the sickness.

But eventually, we all stand tall again. Taller and stronger than before, actually.

So when I came across that article in Huffington Post about divorce being contagious, I knew that I was right all along. There was a virus and divorce is contagious.

So is pregnancy.

So is marriage.

Everything is cyclical.

Life is a series of cycles.

Divorce is just one of those things.

Obviously it isn’t part of the cycle for everyone, just a large minority these days. But it is extremely odd and coincidental when a playgroup or a group of friends that spent time together and knew each other fairly well, in a domino effect, get divorced.

To the point that there has actually been viable research conducted on this.

And I must admit, I am kind of floating in that school of thought that it is contagious.

What do you think?

Contagious or coincidental?

My oldest son loves his dad. He always has. Ever since he was a baby.

Earlier this year, he tried, for a few weeks, to stay away from him. Because all the conspiracy stuff his head was being filled up with was getting to be too much and becoming really scary, disrupting both his days and nights. What 14 year old kid wouldn’t be scared being told the end was near?! So, he decided what was best for his mental well being was cutting ties, at least temporarily.

It was time. He felt that he had “made his point” and the conspiracy crap wouldn’t be brought up around him anymore. He hoped and figured that his dad had some sort of epiphany as to WHY he stopped seeing him. It was finally safe to hang with his beloved Daddy again.

He has been going out with him again. And it’s been completely fine. My son has seemed happy, even improving in school! And his father has been on his best behavior with barely any crazy, paranoid talk, at least not with his son.

Tonight was my son’s middle school 8th grade recognition ceremony. Kind of a big deal in the middle school crowd.

He began calling his Dad yesterday just to remind him about it. But, to his dismay, the only phone his dad has, a cell phone, kept going immediately to voicemail. He has left a ton of messages, what any impatient child would do.

And tons of emails.

Nothing.

No return phone call to reassure his son that he wouldn’t miss his recognition for the world. No email response telling his son how much he loves him and can’t wait to be a part of this wonderful occasion.

Today. When my son came home from school, he began calling his dad again. Still nothing. A full voicemail and more unreturned emails.

So, depressed and overwhelmed, my son had a tantrum. He refused to go to his graduation. No matter what our threats or promises were, he remained set in his stubborn decision.

He was sent to his room, out of my own frustration and disappointment, where he stayed until I got back from watching my stepdaughter graduate from middle school. A silly ceremony but bittersweet, nonetheless.

When I got home, I went up to my son’s room to check on him. He hadn’t left it the entire 3 hours I was gone. Not even to eat or pee. He slept off his anger, hurt and depression. He woke up still sad and very hungry.

He looked at me while eating the chicken nuggets I brought him, so sadly. Trying to swallow down his tears, he said to me, “If only my Dad had answered the phone, I would have gone to my graduation.”

He went on to tell me how upset he was. How hurt. How disappointed he was with a father that he can’t rely on or trust.

I couldn’t stay angry at my son for wreaking such emotional havoc before we left for the ceremony…without him. His heart was broken, once again, from the man that he loves so much.

I tried to reassure. Once again, I insisted that he realize it isn’t him, and thankfully he does.

But, he missed his end of the year, end of middle school ceremony. He’ll never get that back, this once in a lifetime event.

Despite the fact that his Dad broke a little piece of his son’s heart today, my son will recover, start hanging out with him again and eventually, have another little piece of his heart broken.

Banishing my son to his room isn’t going to shelter him from the never-ending cycle.

I just hope this doesn’t happen for his high school graduation in four years.

I read the post about divorce that my friend Amy over at Mom Spark wrote. And it was a very powerful post about how her parents divorce shaped her. Go read it.

I decided that, instead of leaving a comment the size of a post, I’d just write a post. Because yeah, been there. Only, I was the parent not the child.

I grew up in a two parent home. My parents fought a lot. Sometimes I think that the yelling was just so that they could be heard. But they stayed together. They’re still together 42 years later, yelling to be heard.

I always assumed that marriage meant until death do you part. But after 5 years of marriage, death was looking really good and I’m not talking about my own.

I was miserable. The fighting was constant and shamefully, in front of the kids. It was starting to affect my son who was 3 at the time. He was taking our fights, putting them on his shoulders and making them his own burden. My daughter was an infant, practically incapable of realizing anything aside from her hunger and wet diapers.

I spent so much time wishing and praying for a miracle or an epiphany that I missed out on truly enjoying the first few years of my firstborn child’s life. And my son spent the first 3 years of his life not realizing how much more he deserved.

I would take my children to the park on the weekends by myself and stare longingly at other families that were enjoying their time together. My heart ached for what I thought I was missing. I would strap my babies into their carseats , cry quietly into my hands and with dread I’d head home.

Misery was my unwanted company. And it was taking over every aspect of my life. Especially my parenting.

We decided to go for counseling. We went for 2 years. It didn’t work.

It was hopeless. The marriage was over. I took my kids and left.

And 10 years later, I have no guilt. I know what the professionals say. It’s better to stay together, even if you fight all the time, for the kids.

I can’t believe that a home with two parents that so obviously hate each other could possibly be a healthy environment for children to thrive in. It just seems that divorce is oftentimes the best solution, especially if all the work that has been poured into the relationship is futile.

Sometimes the relationship is irreconcilable. There is no other choice but to move out and move on. Which is what I did. What I had to do. Amy ends her post by saying “Marriage with kids is hard. It takes constant nourishment, effort, and sacrifice. There are highs and lows, but the reward is so amazing! A strong marriage results in strong, healthy children. Fight for it-for them.” Sadly, and I can only speak out of my own experience but, not all marriages with children are even worth the trouble of saving. It’s harder to work on that marriage than to end it and start over.

Now? My children are growing up in a home kind of similar to the one I grew up in. It’s louder. And more chaotic. That is for sure. The parents yell a lot…mostly to be heard. But they also love a lot. Here, the kids are thriving. No one is internalizing negativity. Not any more than, what I would consider to be, normal.

If I hadn’t taken mine and my children’s destiny into my own hands and followed blindly where my heart led, I shudder to think of how unhappy our lives would have turned out.

Marriage and life is pretty darn close to the way I had imagined it when I was young(except with more money problems than I pictured). A cross between perfect and horrendous. Exactly the way it kind of should be. Because hey, I’m realistic. I know that fairytales only exist in books and imaginations. Not in marriages.

Velveteen Mind suggested that I take a looksee at the carnival going on over at Blog Nosh. Perhaps I would find inspiration in the Tides Load Of Hope event that they have going on. Oh yeah, did I mention that I’m still kind of lacking in writing inspiration? Once again I tweeted looking for help. And the lovely Velveteen Mind kind of nudged me over in this direction. And wow. What a beautiful reason to blog. For HOPE. Especially when, during these trying times, there are so many who feel as if there is none. But there is! There always is!!

It was August 1999. I was a 30 year old mommy of two small children. I was the wife of one really screwed up little boy stuck in the body of a 33 year old man. Yet, I was no one. Just an empty shell.

Things looked pretty from the outside. Pretty house. Pretty cars. Pretty kids.

On the inside. It was ugly. I was dead and rotting. I felt lifeless and completely without any hope.

I was teetering on reaching maximum density. I was also precariously balancing my sanity. I was beyond misery and I didn’t want company. I wanted to stab my husband in his sleep. We couldn’t have that though. Because who would raise the kids if the dad was dead and the mom was in jail? The system? Hell to the no. I hated him though. With every fiber of my being.

It was bad. Not in a violent sense. There was just nothing worth saving there. But I wasn’t ready to jump off that high dive.

Until, one afternoon in early August. I snapped awake from a short nap. He was the first thing I saw. I looked at him, sweating on the exercise bike that was in our huge bedroom. And I knew it was finally over. Whatever guilt that had been holding me captive in that house, it had lifted. My fears and my conscience screamed that I was free to go.

And I did.

I grabbed clothes and toys. Enough to keep my 1 1/2 year old and 3 1/2 year old dressed and busy for the next couple of days until I could come back to the house when he wasn’t there. I grabbed some essentials for myself. Loaded the stuff into laundry baskets and placed them in the trunk of my car.

As I was strapping the kids into their car-seats, I explained to them that we were about to go on an adventure. Then I turned to my husband and told him that I was leaving. He stood there. Clueless. Not sure in what context I was using the word “leaving” in.

I climbed into my car and I backed out of that driveway.

I swallowed down my anxiety and directed my focus ahead.

I put my car into drive and moved forward. Taking with me, not only my children and my stuff. But a sense of hope. Something that I hadn’t felt in a long time but was so relieved to know it was still there.

With a head full of anticipation and a heart FULL of hope, I popped in a CD and played my favorite song of the moment, Beautiful by TLC, I told my babies that everything was going to be just fine. I knew it would be. I finally felt it from deep within me. It had been there. Waiting. All along.

And we drove off towards it.

I spritzed my neck and wrists with the sweet smelling perfume, Paris. My favorite. I hurriedly applied my lipstick. Planted Mommy kisses on the back of my childrens hands. Told my ex-husband, who was my free babysitter that night that I wouldn’t be out too late. And I flew out of the door.

I was meeting a couple of friends at Champs. Back when it first opened in my area, it was a fun and crowded place to hang out. The perfect place to meet up for a quick couple of drinks.

I parked Franklin, my green Honda Civic that was totaled a few months later. Checked my lipstick to make sure it was still on after I had just blotted it on my children.

I walked in. Looked around. Spotted my friends sitting at the bar, already drinking and smoking cigarettes without me. I noticed they were sitting next to a couple of really nice looking gentlemen. It always makes for a more interesting evening that way.

I took the seat they had saved for me. It was next to a tall, very good looking guy. I smiled at him as I sat down. He did the look over. You know, the up and down to check me out. I guess he approved of what he saw…he smiled back.

Somehow. The group of my friends and the group of his friends ended up in conversation. Joking around. Flirting.

The male group, all single. The female group. All married except for me. I was engaged but didn’t wear a ring. Simply because I wasn’t given one.

The handsome guy didn’t ask. I didn’t mention it. We chatted.

Somehow, it came up that I was divorced with kids. He asked the typical questions. How long were you married, why did you divorce type crap. I answered. We talked a lot about him. I pretended to be interested.

He ordered dessert. I ate the whipped cream from it. He watched, so obviously turned on by a woman who loves good whipped cream and isn’t afraid to show it.

Suddenly. Unprovoked and out of nowhere. Like he was trying to convince himself. He announced to me that he wouldn’t date me. He doesn’t date women with baggage. Even though he finds me very attractive.

Baggage?!

He was referring to MY children. As though they were a piece of carry on luggage or a cheap imitation designer bag. The word was said like it was nothing more than a explicative. A curse. A spit on the floor.

Me? I got pissed. For so many different reasons.

After I wiped the dessert from my lips and the shocked expression off my face, I explained to him that I wasn’t in the least bit interested in dating him. I think there may have even been a snort or a huh in there. I was getting married in July, which was one of the main reasons I would not have dated him. The minor reasons being that he was too old for me as I was 31 and he was…gasp…in his 40′s. And besides, anyone who would think of my children as baggage would never deserve time with us anyway.

We continued to chat for another couple of minutes while I polished off his whipped cream and ate some of the ice cream on his plate. Then, I thanked him. Offered to fix him up with my soon to be sister-in-law. And turned my back on him.

That evening shouldn’t have been very memorable. It was quite boring. I returned home earlier than expected. My ex was very pleased considering that, normally, when he would sit I’d stay out until the buttcrack of dawn. I didn’t have to pay him. So why not? Live it up, right?! You’re only young once.

But. For some reason. This night stayed with me. That part of the conversation with that ass remained etched in my mind. Because never. EVER. Had anyone referred to MY children. Part of my body. My heart. As baggage. Before that or even after.

The men I had dated, prior to meeting my now husband, many of them didn’t have children of their own. Not one of those relationships ever broke up because of the fact I had my own children. They just didn’t work out because of our dynamics.

Children are not baggage.

They are innocent bystanders along for the joyride that their parents take them on. Only sometimes, it’s without the joy.

My past relationships. Past friendships. Past entire life.

All that? Baggage?

I think that stupid expression is so misguided, wrong and hurtful.

Because really?

It would be me that’s the baggage.

I’m the receptacle for any and all the ramifications of the choices that I made.

The past, the kids, everything that goes along with me?

That is what I carelessly toss inside to be carried and jiggled around on my life’s journey.

And I may not have treated my baggage…myself…with the type of respect I deserved.

But I took really good care of that precious cargo stored within.

I ended up marrying a nice big piece of luggage with a whole lotta crap shoved inside.

Between him and me…

Good thing we found a place with lots of storage.

A little over 10 years ago, he announced to me that he understood why men kill their wives and children. He had just lost hundreds of thousands of dollars in the market, doing stupid day-trading. He lost everything. This was around the same time a man killed his family for the exact same reason.

A little over 10 years ago, we were fighting in front of my little boy, who was 3. He had his hands over his ears. Suddenly, he tore his little chubby fingers away from his head, scrunched up his face and cried, “You know what guys, it’s all my fault.” He blamed himself. My baby. The first 3 years of his life was filled with screaming and yelling and parents who didn’t get along. And he blamed himself. We stopped arguing and ran to him.

A little over 10 years ago. After fighting. And wishing you dead. Of being miserable. And eating away my misery in boxes of cereal and goldfish crackers. I had an epiphany.

We deserved more.

My children. Me. We.

We deserved calm. And happy. And peace. Which wasn’t going to happen while we were together.
So I took my children. I made a choice for my children. And on behalf of my children. Because I am their greatest advocate.
And we left you. Sitting at the kitchen table with your mother. Not realizing that we were never coming back.

And 10 years ago today. My attorney filed the paperwork.

10 years ago today.

I took my kids on a journey. One they didn’t ask for. One they didn’t want.
It was hell what my son went through. His unnatural and unusual closeness to his father. He longed for his daddy, even when he was with him.
I worried about making my children statistics. But really, non-divorced families are sadly becoming the statistics and we are the norm.
And my babies. 3 1/2 and 1 1/2. Went blindly, trustingly…with no choice really…on this journey.

10 years later.
So much has changed. For me. For the kids.

10 years later.
Nothing has changed for you.

I’m sorry for you.
But for me, I celebrate.
Because 10 years ago today, I got a life.
And you still haven’t.

At 29 years old, after a precarious pregnancy and the subsequent traumatic events following the birth of my daughter, I was done having kids.
Finished.
Office closed for business.
I was perfectly content mothering my little son and his baby sister.
Then…
Divorce happened.
I took my small children and left.
And we started our very own journey down a long and winding road, called life.
My babies and me.
And life was great.
We had our routine.
We had our life.
Hand and hand.

But after awhile.
It was time.
I began to date.
To begin a new chapter in our journey.

Actually…dating is an understatement.
I was a career dater.
It was my full time job.
I was good at it. And I, aside from a couple wackos and lousy dates, enjoyed it.
I had this one serious boyfriend. It only lasted about 6 months.
And, it was before I met my now-husband.
This guy had ALMOST every qualification on my list.
No kids.
No ex-wife.
A doctor…yeah, I’m shallow like that.
His family lived in another state…and if you have been hanging with me for a long time, you know how I feel about in-laws…(another post, another time)
He was nice looking.
He was kind, considerate (when he wasn’t on call or bombarded with studying).
But…his religious beliefs and my religious beliefs…clashed. Tremendously. And I couldn’t raise my children in a home that had a huge religious division.
So…
Sadly, I said goodbye to him.
And sadly, he said goodbye to me.
And he got married six weeks later. I know, right?!

But then…
I met my THIS guy.
And man, did I have a crush on him.
We had a great time together.
It was kismet. Beshert. Meant to be.
So much in common.
Our family history.
Strange and unusual connections.
It was right.
Everything about it.
I loved him, pretty much very early on.
But…
His failed my list. MISERABLY.
He had kids.
His family lived WAY TOO CLOSE.
He had his kids way more that their mother did.
The bio-mom…oy. vey.
He was a teacher…not that there is anything wrong with being a teacher!! But I had these silly notions about finding a doctor…what can I say?

But when he proposed over a carry out chicken dinner, after 5 months of dating…
I enthusiastically accepted.
And we went from yours and mine…
to ours.
Yes ma’am, they’re all mine.
We drive a big car, that’s how I get them from point A to point B.
Thank you, I think they are beautiful too.
Yes, I do have my hands full. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Only, the one thing I NEVER thought about.
The one thing that NEVER entered my mind.
Was having another child.
OUR child.
Which would make everything come full circle.
I had already made this gigantic transition from Mommy of two to Mommy of four.
And four was a lot.
And one of them was like having four more…(again, another post, another time!)
So really, it was not even in my realm of possibility.
Not even in my stream of consciousness.
Until that March.
8 months after we said our “I dos.
When we kind of half decided to start throwing caution to the wind.
And we gave each other “the look”.
And almost immediately after being told by his ex-wife, that I shouldn’t hold my breath about getting pregnant so easily. Because it took her FOREVER to get pregnant. So I shouldn’t worry.
Boy, did I prove her wrong.
Because, the second that warning left her lips, I found myself holding a positive pregnancy test…
And I would go from Mommy of four to Mommy of five…

Now…
those two lines on the EPT is 5 1/2.
Five and a half years old.
Where did the time go?
My baby.
MY BABY.
Will be graduating…from preschool.
Which doesn’t seem like such a big deal.
It’s just preschool, right?
But to me, this graduation marks moving from babyhood to childhood.
My baby, as of next Friday…
the day before my daughter is called to the Bima as a Bat Mitzvah…
MY BABY.
The one that I never imagined ever having…
will become a little man.
He will go from being a preschooler to a Kindergarten student.
His babyhood will be left behind with the memories of pacifiers and diapers.
Once kindergarten comes…
It goes by in a blur.
And I tried so hard to hold on. To keep him little. For just a little longer than my bigger kids. Because he was my baby. My youngest.
But now there is no stopping. No slowing down.
And before I know it…
I will be planning his Bar Mitzvah.
My baby.
The one who came along when I already was done.
The one who completed OUR families journey down our long and winding road.
My baby.
Because really…
I guess…
That’s what he’ll always be.
MY BABY.
Who is starting his journey. Down his own long and winding road.
And I’ll be there…
holding a map.
Just in case he gets a little lost.

When I was going through my divorce, it was 2000.  My children were 3 1/2 and 1 1/2.  Babies.  And babies need to be with their Mommy.  Especially MY babies.

It was a given.  Unspoken between my soon to be ex and I, that the sole physical custody would be mine.  Because that was how it was going to be.  You’d have to kill me.  Then kill me again.  Then…you’d have to TRY to pry them from my rigor mortis-ridden arms.

I had to deal with my jack ass ex-husbands empty threats of some “trump card” that he had, which would surely get him custody.  Which, seriously…did he honestly think I was going to fall for that? I knew he was trying to threaten me because he did NOT want to pay child support.

Besides.  Children do NOT get taken from the Mommy.  Not unless they are proven to be unfit.  Or are dead.  Or…they choose to give up custody, like my husbands ex-wife.

Well…I got custody.

Obviously.  I’m not unfit, well…I REALLY do need to start working out but…we’re not talking about THAT kind of unfit.  I’m not dead…although, I’m approaching 40 so, I’ve got one foot in the grave.  But this divorce happened almost 10 years ago so I was MUCH younger…and fitter.  And, like I mentioned before, you would need the jaws of life to pry my children from my dead arms.  So yeah…I have custody.

And he still doesn’t want to have to pay child support.  So…he simply doesn’t.

Let me re-phrase that.

He pays child support when a letter arrives from Friend of the Court  announcing a Show Cause hearing in front of the referee…who happens to hate my ex-husband.  *Smirk*

So, he usually comes up with the money the day before our hearing.  And then we are usually adjourned for another month.  Then…he comes up with the money the day before the hearing….which causes another adjournment.  See the pattern?  Yeah, it’s an easy one, right?

Well, this little game has been going on for years.

OVER IT.

He hasn’t paid since December.

He hasn’t helped with HIS kids, in any way, shape or form.

He expects my husband.  The step-father.  To take care of all his childrens needs.  Health insurance.  Dental.  After-school activities. Toilet paper.  Socks.  EVERYTHING.

And HE is living the life of a prince.  Well…a prince turned pauper turned scum rot.

He is living in a luxury apartment building.  With all new furniture.  His food is being paid for.  He has a cleaning lady.  His living needs are being met.  He…is a kept man.  Kept…by his mother.  Who moved back into town.  And, by the way…is living in her own apartment, just down the hall from Jrs.  Gross, eh?  Yep.  You bet.

But the Mommy.  Is taking care of her baby.  Who is NOT taking care of his own babies.  And she.  Is CERTAINLY not offering to help him take care of HER grandchildren.

And he…refuses to get a job.  Well, a real job.  One that pays.  Not this…PRETEND job that he has.  Where he is trying to start some sort of ethanol plant.  Because, in this economy…who the heck is going to hand over 250 million dollars to some punk with bald patches, who is being supported by his mother?  And if anyone out there is about to…dude, you’re as crazy as my ex is!

Anyway…

It’s back to court.  The end of the month.  To start this dance over again.

Threatening letter.  Money shows up in my bank account.

This…is NOT the type of dancing I like to do.

It’s NOT the type of dancing I learned.

It’s NOT the type of dancing that I want my children to ever learn.

This type of dancing.  IS UGLY.

It’s not fluid and graceful…like the Ballet.

It’s not funky and fun…like Hip Hop.

It’s choppy.  And dark.

I don’t enjoy this type of dance.

And I’m done doing it.

I really hope that the dance instructor, when we meet again at the dance studio, has new choreography.  For another form of dance.

A type of dance that I can teach my children.  And let them know that I learned it from someone who wanted them to learn it…

So that our future generations will know this dance and it’s choreography.

And the old dance.  The dark and choppy one.

Will be forgotten.  Erased.

And never be seen in another dance studio again.

Until then, this dancer waits.