My child is easily frustrated. If she can’t figure out the puzzle in 10 seconds, she is prone to throwing it across the room. She also prefers to use one crayon in her coloring book, filling the page as fast and furious as she can, instead of using many colors and filling in different elements on the page.
She used to take pride in doing things herself, now she screams “I CAN’T DO IT!” and bursts into tears if her sock doesn’t go on smoothly. Her emotions go from angry to sad, from crying to giggling uncontrollably within minutes. Sometimes I catch her rolling on the floor laughing, the tears she was spouting moments earlier, still visible on her cheeks.
Typical 3-year-old? Typical Gemini? Typical child from a broken family? All of the above?
Grandma Roofie asked to spend some time with LB over the weekend, and I dropped her off for the afternoon. Blondie Jr was already there. Grandma used to be LB’s primary caretaker on the weekends, when Rooferman was “figuring his sh*t out” and was gone from our lives. LB and Grandma Roofie were very close, and I valued the time they spent together. Now that Roofie have solidified their relationship, Grandma has become the drop-off point for Blondie’s kids, and the time spent with LB has vanished almost completely.
Grandma is sad about this, but she also wants to support her son and his new “wife.” His requests to watch Blondie’s offspring have become more and more frequent. With Baby Roofie coming (I’m guessing February or March), I predict Grandma Roofie’s free time being all but consumed.
During the short time I was there, Blondie Jr was too busy bouncing off the walls to impart any further gems of what her mother thinks of me. Grandma Roofie looked exhausted already. Even Grandpa Roofie whispered into my ear, “Lord, she wears me out.”
“LB’s preschool teachers say she sleeps for 3-4 hours during naptime the monday after she comes back from their house,” I told Grandpa.
Grandma told me when Roofie and the kids are around, “It’s constant. Every second, ‘Don’t do this’, ’sit down and eat that’, giving orders and telling them what to do. I forgot what it was like to have kids that age.”
I looked at Grandma Roofie sadly. I ask LB to do lots of things, but I don’t think I yell at her ALL DAY LONG. Does she consider that normal? Unfortunately, I don’t have a say in what goes on at Roofies. I just have to live with the effects of it.
All I know is that my kid gets stressed. She’s having trouble dealing with frustration, solving her problems and calming down. I watched Blondie Jr pick up LB, toss her bed, start jumping up and down on the mattress, and sardonically wondered why.
How can a 3-year-old compete with the energy level of an attention-deprived 7-year-old? How can she even get a word in between Blondie Jr’s cavorting and Roofie’s constant ordering?
When I picked her up a few hours later, LB had soaked her pants with urine. Her eyes were wide, as if she’d been on a rollercoaster for the entire afternoon. I wonder if there is no down time at all at Roofies? I wonder if it’s just constant, screaming, yelling chaos, where LB is so overwhelmed, she can’t even focus enough to take a potty break.
LB’s teacher said to me, “Older kids have a knack for getting younger kids into trouble. We think that’s what’s happening at LB’s dad’s house, which explains why she’s insistent on being right all the time when she comes back to preschool.”
I hate to think of my kid caught in a sandstorm of tension and stress, totally powerless as to what happens to her. Where her opinion means nothing to the people around her. Where is expected to stay quiet, play nicely and take orders, nothing else. Like puppies leaping up on their master’s leg at feeding time, the kids at Roofie’s house are irritatedly kicked off and told to shut up.
Maybe my imagination gets the better of me, but that’s my perception.
I’m slacking, I know. I’ve become much more lackadaisical now that I’m getting semi-regular sexual gratification, male companionship and social comforts. The blogging I was once so stringently attentive to, has fallen under the grin of a Cheshire cat, always saying “eeh, I can do that later.”
Why would I want to focus on writing if I can bathe in the sunlight of orgasmic bliss? My keyboard is cold and unflinching, the monitor stares back at me accusingly: Do you know how LONG its been since you’ve paid your dues? Where’s the loyalty, you petty whore? One dick (or two) is presented and you turn into canned tuna? Tsk tsk.
I’ve defiled the church of online journaling. I’ve eagerly swapped sentences for smooching. As a sister of the blogworld, I should be excommunicated. But, the waves of pleasure that come from a river of words are nothing compared to the ecstasy of a river of….uh, yeah, you get the picture.
Chivman made a visit last weekend, and since he was celebrating his golden birthday, I thought it appropriate to give him the element of bling itself.
“Nobody has ever given me anything this nice,” he told me.
I was shocked, honestly, thinking I was just adding another piece to his dashing, Scorpio collection. The level of appreciation was unexpected, flushing me with titillating pleasure. For some reason, we Pisces never think something is going to be as good as it turns out to be. We are constantly in wonderous awe, gasping at the unforseen joy that lies in the element of surprise.
Chivman doesn’t understand why my expectations are so low. I can chalk it up to past experience of course. I’m jaded, I say. And being jaded is an awesome defense mechanism. It shields you from playing the fool, from being “that girl”, from ever experiencing anything painful again. Being jaded gives you a cool “I’m too smart to make that mistake again” air about you. It’s powerful. It works. It puts you on a pedestal, looking down on all those morons who keep fucking up their lives. You are SO above that.
I was totally preaching the “If you have low standards, then you are set up to be pleasantly surprised.” Each man who isn’t a deadbeat, child-abandoning, wife-beating asshole is such a delight! But does that also set you up to idolize, fantasize, and worship the next barely decent human being?
I look at the situation I’m in, and I wonder if that’s how I got here. My friends tell me I can do better than this. That I deserve more than just two friends who occasionally slip in between my sheets. DIRTY!
HS Sweetheart also asked me today if I could pencil him into my schedule. He makes me laugh, I like having him around again. But, do I want to be his second wife after he marries his kick-ass fiance? No. Do I want to be forever his girl-on-the-side? No. Do I want to be invited into an open marriage menage a toi? At 21, maybe. At 27, I think I’m over that time of my life.
So, once again, we shall see…
“Focus on yourself.”
“Don’t care so much about what other people think.”
“Grow a backbone.”
“Quit being a doormat.”
Dare to dream. All good advice. I’d like to think I’ve come a long way from the barefoot & pregnant girl who refused to get dressed in the morning, cried all day long and stared longingly out the window. I’d like to think I’ve grown a backbone; gathered some self-esteem amongst the ashes of my past. As strong as single motherhood has made me, I can’t deny my unconscious fishy needs.
I’m a Pisces. I’m astrologically screwed. Here are some descriptions of the unfortunate fate of my species.
Pisces people are frequently pegged as wishy-washy. They believe in people, are deeply hurt by compassionless human behavior, and have a hard time saying no. – Cafe Astrology
Pisceans are compassionate, charitable and will quickly put the needs of others ahead of their own. The flip side to their giving natures is that oft-timid Fish are likely to be taken advantage of by less well-meaning souls – Astrology.com
Where do {Pisces} draw the line between compassion for their partner’s “weakness,” and saying, “Thank you for that blow. May I have another?”- Sasstrology.com
We live in a world where this element of one’s personality is almost considered a disability. In Modern America, where even the most tight-lipped, unforgiving, distrustful person can STILL get their identity stolen, my fellow fish and I might as well put a bullseye on our backs.
Its survival of the fittest, in business, relationships & social status. Those who aren’t guarded, who don’t have the street smarts to protect their sensitive little underbellies are going to get squashed in the process. Sometimes I feel like I’m constantly fighting against my need to bond with a person and the common sense I’ve been forced to acquire that says “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?”
There are some things we just can’t change about ourselves. What we are attracted to; what we desire. What tweaks our nerves; what gets our goat. Why we always order the same thing at certain restaurants. Why we crave specific scents; why we always cry during Fried Green Tomatoes. What makes us smile, and what song triggers the dance reflex.
Maybe Brian Wilson described it the best when he wrote the lyrics ”I guess I just wasn’t made for these times.”
That’s not to say I DON”T want to live in these times. Even though I have a tendency to get myself into bad situations by trusting too much, I think I’ve learned enough lessons to counteract that to a certain degree. In fact, in a world where empathy & compassion has become such a rarity, we Pisces should VALUE this about ourselves.
Of course it helps to have friends to kick us in the ass once and a while. 
The Nuggets lost 2 nights in a row. So much for cheering me up.
Saturday morning began with LB asking when her daddy was going to pick her up. I told her he and Blondie were busy this weekend but she would get to see him next Friday.
She then proceeded to sit in her room all morning and brush her My Little Pony’s hair. Couldn’t convince her to get dressed. Couldn’t convince her to eat breakfast. Every time I asked her to do something she replied with “I will in a second.” Then she ignored my request. She dumped her entire box of 96 crayons out and strategically placed them through out the living room. I will probably find crayons in random places for the next year and a half.
Sunday began the same way, with ”Is daddy picking me up today?”
In the last week, Miss Independent has been replaced with “I can’t do it.” While getting dressed, she intentionally kicks off her pants right before she pulls them up, screaming in frustration. She puts both feet in one pant leg and cries. She throws herself on the floor and bemoans her failure. read more…
I had my first Parent/Teacher conference today. I know my kiddo is only 3, but the program she’s been going to is 1000x better than the hell hole HEADSTART. They actually sit down with parents and tell them useful things about their children. They follow Creative Curriculum. All the teachers have BAs or higher.
Not to sounds like an elitist bitch, but I like that.
Roofie did not make their grand appearance. They also ditched out on this weekend with LB because they needed some “child-free time” together.
Blow me, Assclowns.
LB’s awesome teachers told me she’s a very creative, imaginative, social little girl. They also told me that when she comes back from her dad’s house she is more aggressive, argumentative, stressed out, anxious, clingy, emotional, and over-tired.
They want to classify her as having emotional risk factors.
Can someone pour hot sauce in my eye, please? Or better yet, Roofie’s eye?
I plan on drowning myself in Carmelo Anthony and some microbrews tonight.
I haven’t been sleeping well. I hate my huge empty bed. I hate that I’m curled into a single corner every night, pressed up against pillows in the fetal position, my back against the wall.
I’ve started to realize there’s never going to be a permanent male fixture in my bed. I should sell this Queen and go back to my childhood Twin.
I stare at the ceiling every night, my mind playing tricks on me. Sometimes I swear I hear someone walking through the house, doors opening, walls thumping. I know the weather is getting colder and I’m just getting readjusted to my noisy heater, and the creaky response of this house, but I haven’t been able to shake it lately.
I feel alone, and not in the good way I used to rave about. I feel isolated. I feel cold. I feel scared. I feel weak. And I fucking KNEW this would happen when I started bringing men back into my life.
Why the hell did I do it?
I can’t sleep anymore. I cry at night. I’ve stopped blogging (as you can see). I haven’t worked on my screenplay. I look at my Wii Fit and I can’t find the motivation to climb onto the balance board. I get home from work, put my pajamas on, make dinner for LB, and go through the bedtime routine.
After she’s asleep, I sit on the couch, wrapped in a blanket. Sometimes I drink tea. Sometimes I read. Mostly I just stare at the TV until I force myself to go lay down. Do I sleep once I’m in bed? No.
Work has been getting consistently worse. The impending doom of everyone’s job is obviously chiseling away at the office’s morale. Ironically, more job duties have been passed my way. More responsibilities, bigger workload, more cross-training, more requests, more projects…you get the picture. I’m busy all day, chatting with Chivman and Facebooking is the only reprieve I get. I know social networking on the clock is a big “No No”, but honestly, in the face of massive layoffs, no one gives a shit anymore.
I need an attitude adjustment NOW. I find myself saying f***ed up things like “This is where that imaginary husband would come in handy” MORE and MORE often. I don’t like that longing in my life. What happened to my complete satisfaction with self-sufficiency? Did I forget that I’ve been taking care of myself AND my daughter for the last 3 years? Why am I whining?
Maybe I’m just going through that 10% of the time I don’t like being alone, and praying it doesn’t get to be 20%. I don’t have the energy to pine away the rest of my life. And oh how the Damsel in Distress Pisces would love that.
In an attempt to ward this off, I’ve been playing this song over and over. I may be crazy, but dance music is kinda like my non-narcotic antidepressant.
Remember my little freak out about being De-Mommied? I am happy to say that I am once again called ”Mommy” full-time. To add to that sick, selfish pleasure, LB announced that I am also ” a better cook than Blondie.”
As much as I tried to prevent myself from enjoying that statement (like the courts want you to), I found it near impossible.
15 pages into screenplay. Very excited to see it take shape.
Ictkapuss and I had some hang time this weekend, and like teenage girls, we chatted for hours about the obvious….BOYS.
Neither of us want to believe that we’re still attracted to bad boys. We are older, wiser and have goals/projects that require too much time and energy to throw away on someone who’s main priority in life is to get wasted. We concurred that our One Night Stand days were over, and that dating younger men (see Young Buck) wasn’t worth the babysitting & adolescent drama.
So what DOES turn us on? What type of man are we looking for? Obviously, I have a thing for Scorpios, but the more I thought about Chivman and HS Sweetheart, the more I realized I like a man with a story. A history. A past. You know, experience.
On my date a while back, I tried and tried to get the guy’s story out. I wanted to hear about his life, his interests. I wanted to see if he was comfortable telling me something he may have failed at, something he overcame, something that had made him a better, stronger person.
I don’t ever post song lyrics, but I’ve been at loss for my own words lately. After throwing a mini hissy fit a few weeks ago, I bit the bullet and finished my Screenplay’s treatment last night, and it pretty much drained all the creativity out of me. I forgot how HARD it is summarize your entire story in 4 pages. I’ve never been good at being…succinct.
So instead, here’s a filler post with some Pisces-lyrics. Morcheeba is one of my favorite bands, mostly because their songs are about watery, ocean-related hippie gaga. But they are soothing, comforting and relaxing when you are sitting at home alone, staring at a defective computer that “thinks” in between keystrokes.
So I thought I’d share. Enjoy.
Well I wish I could think of some cliche to mouth
To make our parting seem less sad
But if I told you lies I promised you the moon
The truth would come trickling from my eyes
So run honey run, hide in the wind
And never stop to look inside your mind
And I wish I could wash all my weeping blues away
And watch them disappear on morning tide
But I seek after soul after sounds of the sea
The charm forever round my mind
So run honey run, hide in the wind
And never stop to look inside your mind
So run honey run, hide in the wind
And never stop to look inside your mind
And I wish I could fly like a bat from a cave
From darkness of my ignorance to light
And forever live on the echoes of our love
And die like some star burning bright
So run honey run, hide in the wind
And never stop to look inside your mind
Click here to listen.
Over a year ago, I posted this PMS gem, bemoaning my fat ass life. While swapping summer clothes for winter clothes, I found the jeans at the bottom of my drawer. Still brand-spanking new, and completely unworn, I took a deep breath and slid them up my legs.
Guess what? THEY FIT!
So, if you’re feelin’ down about your present situation, who knows where you’ll be in a year. If you’ve been blogging that long, take a look at your posts from a year ago.
What have you grown into? What fits you now that didn’t before? Think about what will fit you next year!
Pre-Single Mommyhood
