Subject lines aggravate my first line anxiety

When I get up early, and the boyfriend is at work, I read blogs. I read pages and pages, then follow a link and read more pages. I meet more and more people each weekend, I read their tales of joy and sadness, of humor and humility. I read, and I am in awe.

I don't think I have anything at all to say, anything any more compelling or interesting than any of the people I have come across, and that seems terribly sad to me. I'm here anyway. I've come to the party and will stand here against the wall and watch. Someday I'll get the hang of being a part of things, I hope.
----
I said that my life has changed, and it has. When I started this blog I was married, and I let my job as wife and mother dictate who I was. My best friend and roommate was the only person who knew how to find the real me behind the facade.

The facade started crumbling shortly after I started this blog, so I abandoned it. My husband was a liar who broke my heart repeatedly, until I was beaten down so much that I called it quits. I had my job, and my son, and an apartment that we were being evicted from. I was going to survive. I told him to go on and run back to his parents without me. To let me live my life without all of his BS. I told him to just go, and to leave me alone.

I was lonely, and lost. I had plans, terrible plans. I was going to move nearer to a married man and continue the affair we were having. I was going to give up on my life in New York and just be some lousy mistress. I threw my morality to the wind and was going to accept what was readily available. I am too insecure to be alone.
I met a boy in a chat room. I told myself it was too soon. My friends told me that it couldn't be too soon, because my marriage was over long before my separation became physical. I met a boy.

I learned that I deserved better than what I had been living with, I was taught that I was worth more than just being some man's side thing. I was forced to face that I was breaking my own beliefs about commitment and love in order to accept a situation I didn't deserve. I decided not to move to Chicago. I moved in with my father instead. The boy I met was the only person willing to help me gather the majority of my things in the time I had. He was the only one who understood how badly I was struggling to just keep going.

I quit my job.
I moved in with him, to avoid the constant barrage of criticism from my father.
And to love, and be loved.

My family tells me I sound happy now. My friends notice the addition of smiles to my pictures.

I'm happy. I'm happy and still kind of lonely. Not for love, of course, but for camaraderie. I've left my friends and family behind, and now I need a place to belong.

When I wake up early, I read blogs...

It's been a long road

In the past few months, I've tried more than once to regain this blog. I'd try for an hour or two, and give up. It's not that important, I'd think, and just let it go. I was wrong, though, to me this is kind of important.

I've watched and read, lurked and de-lurked, on so many blogs for so long. I'd laugh and cry with them, and hide in obscurity, with no voice of my own. This changes now.

I'm cleaning out the old place, and things are so very different now. We'll revisit Little Fascist, though he's hardly little anymore, and not so much a fascist these days either. We'll get to talk about all of the things I have been through, the things LF and I have lived through together.

We'll talk about my impending divorce, and my hopes for the relationship I fell into entirely too soon. I'll talk, and maybe someone will listen. I'll de-lurk more often, and maybe become friends with these people I know so well, who have never really met me.

I'll give it a good honest try, and hope for the best. That's how you all started out too, right?

Little Fascist and Spenard

Since moving to the new apartment we've gotten kittens. They've been a lot of fun, we had a small tragedy, but we've found that we really are cat people. Especially Little Fascist. All day he runs around chasing Fergus, Ilulissat, and Spenard. The only one that ever gets caught is Spenard. Poor thing, he's the youngest of the three, and so "He's a baby mommy, I hold him like a baby!" Fergus is entirely too large for him to carry, and is immune to this kind of annoyance, but LF has other tricks up his sleeve. Oh, yes! So poor Fergus (who only wants food, sleep, and lubbins) is subject to being laid on, pushed around, and prodded with plastic golf clubs. Ilulissat gets the least physical contact, because she gets clawsy. So they play with jingle balls, the plastic rings from milk jugs, and her catnip kite. Except when he manages to zip her into the beach cooler, hide her under a plastic box, and lock her in the cabinet. He's gotten a bit better, but good greif, it's taking a lot to get it through to him that he has to be careful. Any suggestions, oh great blogosphere?

Fabulousness

I know, I've been a naughty blogger. I just ran out of ideas, and really didn't care to wrack my brains. I do apologize. Now that that's through, let's get to the point of this post.

I read this post, and of course considered commenting, which never seems to work for me. Then it struck that I also had a story to tell, and so I moseyed myself on over here to set it up for you, my adoring public.

Little Fascist was always taught that his "bits" were a penis and testicles. It only made sense that way, really. I have this worry that when I tell him "creative truths" they will somehow corrupt him. Which brings us to the tale I came here to share.

Yesterday we took Little Fascist bowling. He's been fascinated by it ever since his first time, and now that The Roomie is league bowling, it gives them both a chance to work on their abilities. The alley where we do our bowling is a short train ride from our house, and is next to a White Castle, of all things. We do our bowling, have some "little hamburgers" then hit the super drug store to see if there is anything fun.

We walk in, and LF starts running down the cosmetics aisle. I tell him he is too young for such products and to follow The Roomie. He asks me if it (cosmetics) is just for girls. I stop. I think. What does one say when their 5 year old asks something like that? Especially someone like myself, whose best friend in high school was transgendered? I muster up all the courage I can and I say to him "Make-up is only for girls and very fabulous boys." Loudly enough that a woman turns around, looks at me and chuckles.

It worked, didn't it?

LF and the lefty factor.

I am not left handed by nature. I taught myself to write backwards in high school to irk teachers, and learned that in your brain, backwards and left handed are done the same for a right handed person. Now I write more legibly than some natural lefties I've known. In my family, left hand dominance is common. Out of my mother and her 4 siblings there is one, and out of my father and his four siblings there is one. I also have a left handed brother, and a left handed cousin. I have left handed friends, and LF's biodude was left handed. When LF showed signs of being left handed as a baby I was assured that it didn't mean anything. The first time he picked up a crayon and touched it to the paper, I was sure. Being as lefty savvy as I assumed I was, I didn't worry about the challenges ahead in teaching LF to write his letters and draw his shapes. If anything, this thinking made the actual teaching process harder. I may have started earlier, in hopes of having him ready for school had I not been so cinfident in my own left handed ability. It turns out that we are far from even making a semi-straight line. His letter "A" is all squiggly, as though penned by someone who had more than one too many drinks. I remember the challenges my mother had with my own left handed brother, and now I worry about him falling behind his classmates in kindergarten because things will be harder for him. I try to allow myself the luxury of thinking that things will be fine, and that there are plenty of left handed kids that do fine. Unfortunately, worrying is one of my strongest faults. I wonder how other parents do it. So, blogosphere, do any of you have lefty kids? How do you help them out?

A little about the Little Fascist....

Little Fascist at the Park of Terror.

I never thought about making a post with his information, I guess in all the fun I just forgot all about it! Thanks to Ladybird for reminding me! Little Fascist is almost 4 1/2 now, and not in school. He does start school this fall, which scares the pants off of this mean mommy! He's left handed, loves superheroes, and has a "thing" for waitresses. He thoroughly enjoys watching Supernanny, because he likes to watch other kids misbehave. He likes to go shopping, loves shoes, has lived in three states, was born in a hospital in such a crummy neighborhood that his grandfather's van was broken into twice while I was in labor, and is subway savvy.

I also suppose now would be a good time to give you an idea about me, Mean Mommy. I think it's fabulously threatening with uppercase M's. Oh, now don't go closing the window, it's not bad, really! I had LF 10 days after my 18th birthday. His bioguy and I were crazy punk rock teenagers in New York City (though bioguy lived in Texas until he met me) and we weren't going to slow down too much just because we had a baby. We took him out all the time after he was two weeks old, and he had a lot of cool people around him in the beginning. As time went on I became less "PUNK RAWK!!!!!!!!" Bioguy and I parted ways when the powers that be threw Skabby into the mix and I fell for him. Bioguy became bitter, immature, and lazy. We've not seen him in 18 months or so now, and that is just fine with us. I do not abuse LF. I know someone was thinking it, and that's okay. I am mean though, I do terrible things that no mother should do, but I just can't help it really. If LF is throwing a fit at the park I turn and tell him that he can stay there, and I'll be going home. It's mean, but it works. If we weren't all cuddly and affectionate all the time I might be worried that I was damaging the poor kid. I don't go home without him. This may not be the kindest form of discipline, but it works for us. I also apologize any time I feel I went over the line with him. Sometimes a joke goes too far, and that is in order. No parent is perfect. I also call myself a Mean Mommy because I am not afraid to say "no." With so many kids running amok these days I think "no" is a necessary evil. It's healthier for him to go without sometimes. Without toys, or candy, or other frivolous items. He is not denied food, or love, or necessities. Really, I am just trying my best at this thing we do when we have children. Rest assured that my child shared in my quirky sense of humor, and is not being scarred by my hiding from him while he is in the restroom. We're having fun, and he is as well adjusted as any person from my lineage can be. So please, relax. Being mean isn't as bad as you thought it was. Now, please enjoy the rest of your visit, and do come again, we really like having you around!

Little Fascist carries the Plague

That's right, he has a cold. He normally fights off illness, and is rarely sick at all unless he caught it from me. I thought it might be allergies, but its less sneeze and more phlegmy cough. We're now blowing through boxes of tissues (only the ones in the boxes with the pictures of "The Incredibles" though, as superhero colds can only be subdued by supers, of course) and tearing our way though those amazing triaminic cough strips. It is here that I announce my love for Triaminic brand medicines. Like most children, LF hates medicine. That's just how it is. When he was two years old he got sick and needed fever reducer. We ran to the store and I hoped that he was old enough for chewables, and he was. Since then he gives us no trouble with ibuprofen. Then he got a cold. We scoured the store for cold medicines and stumbled upon the Triaminic chewable cold medicines. He was too young to take them, according to the box, but we were desperate and decided to try it anyway. It worked, he was now taking cold medicine with no fuss. Then, this past year, he gets sick again. The neighborhood drugstore is all out of all kinds of Triaminic chewables so we try the liquid stuff. No good. So we just rought it out through that cold. This time around, however, there are these new strips that actually work for COUGHS and not just everything else. So we shell out the $7.50 for a box of 16 of these bad boys and tear into one... he takes it, sweet pete he took it. Now his cough is drying down and his nose in drying up. Unfortunately, his sleep schedule is now all wacky, and he is still kicking around in his room. Ugh. We're fighting the plague though, and this time we might win.

A little bit strange.

Little Fascist is a strange kid. I accepted this point a long time ago, yet he still finds ways to make sure I don't forget it. I know that other kids have strange quirks too, and this is comforting. LF shares similar quirks, and while that should mean it's not that strange, but it really is. What brought all of this along? A few days ago my dearest spawn decided that he was afraid of slides. Surely there are other children who are afraid of playground equipment, even I was afraid of jungle gyms for my entire childhood, but not 6 months ago LF couldn't get enough slide time at the park. He would slide for hours, he even helped littler kids manage the slide on their own. Now, however, every bit of playground equipment sends him into shreiks of terror. He'll play ball with some kids, he'll play on the cement seal, he'll even jump off of the benches. Swing, no. Slide, definitely not. On top of all of this, he contracted my fear of things flying toward him. Every ball goes uncaught as he steps aside or cowers from it, but once it's on the ground he has no problem grabbing it and pitching it at anyone willing to catch it. He may be odd, but so am I.