Don Draper Should Wear Granny Panties

Call me crazy, like that would be a first, but I had an epiphany watching Netflix.

Hell yeah epiphanies come straight from Netflix, usually after Mad Men or Samantha Who.

I used to hate big loud cinematic dramas with cars exploding and people running for cover, until recently. Suddenly, the man running from his captives, heart pumping adrenaline and face dirty with a hint of dried blood on his upper lip was no stranger.

I find myself nodding in understanding, laughing at the irony, and I admit, am even sometimes that fool yelling at the television to “Watch out!” and “NO, no, no, never trust an ex who needs information from the FBI, IDIOT

Sigh.

I have been seclusive and paranoid, watching for people in the bushes if you will, always on guard for the next betrayal, and finding it hard to face that my experiences have shaped me into someone who is constantly on the edge, a person surviving, not living.

Barely surviving.

I have had huge gaping holes in my memory, at night I toss and turn, questions and thoughts burning loose, so strong my desire to be free of the darkness that has engulfed my very being.

One channel tells me to let it go, to wipe a new slate clean, to not be defined by what I was, to go live the life I dream of, to just let the hurt heal and let it be.

The next channel screams impossibility, not without answers, not with this sinking feeling in my gut that nothing is okay, and never will be if I don’t look back to move forward.

This part of me screams into the pillow at night.

I thought I would be most disturbed by my recent estrangement with my mother and yet, it was not her that I thought of, but him.

My father.

It has been an impossibility that I would ever be in this position, the scapegoat of a dysfunctional and Narcissistic Family, completely ostracized from a family after setting down a boundary. One boundary began the long fight into this cold war and sometimes I wonder if it was even worth it, unconditionally loved or not, I forgot what I even was fighting for or if it ever even mattered.

I do know without a doubt that the claims I know and God help the ones I don’t know are so preposterous, so beyond my personal understanding for not having a relationship with your own daughter and grandchildren that in this grief I kept wrestling and wondering over and over again.

What if this had been done to him too?

The answers all came back immediately that no, this is an impossibility, but still, I was sick, going over and over scenarios that made no possible sense and yet were the reason behind every bit of my motives for keeping him far, so very far away.

Did he lose his mind, quit therapy as I had understood, taken up a mistress, and had he loved us at all? The questions I have for this man are endless but the answers have never come, only more heartache and disillusionment than ever, a door I closed.

I wasn’t falling for that stupid trap door again.

But still, the part nagged me the most was over his stalking us, a terrifying period of time I did not want to ever revisit. But, did his visits and letters have everything to do with her and nothing to do with me?

She did live with me at the time.

And yet, of course not. She would never lie.

But she had, indeed lied about me, a part of herself, her soul, or so I thought. Wouldn’t he have received even worse treatment or am I just searching to be lost, too afraid to shut the door and start my life with the acceptance I am no one, from no family, and any attempt otherwise will only set me back years in progress?

Until I eerily saw him AGAIN, at the same damn QT, in the week he also ran into Divorcee and other coincidences that felt more like tin garbage cans being smacked against my ears, God telling me to wake the hell up.

This was dicey and secret and I could only imagine the repercussions it could have, and even though Thelma may not have ever spoken to me again, I had to follow my gut.

I had to go meet with my father.

I had unfinished business.

I have been waiting a long time now to write about this, always on pause until the epiphany arrives first, I have decided it is time to put that sleeping dragon to sleep, the one who can’t move on without going back, and it is time to face my fears.

It is time for me to not only write about him but this past six months as well, on how I came to live with my current boyfriend, the new found trials of motherhood and did I mention that yes, I live with a boyfriend? 

Strap on the Granny panties, Miss Obvious, no more hiding behind ridiculous Netflix movies and back into your own life.

If only Mad Men had an episode on this. In exception to the time I yelled Pimp or rolled my eyes every time you “fell in love,” Don Draper, I will remove all judgement of you in hopes my readers will be equally kind, and if not, I suppose I could always steal an identity, get filthy rich, marry my secretary and run from my past.

Hmm. Perhaps Don Draper should try Granny Panties himself.

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For all the broken, a love letter.

Here I am, a month after deciding to never write again.

I have grieved hot collar soaked tears for accusations of my writing being “abusive” and “selfish,” a deer in massive confusion, headlights, big moving powerful blows to the body and soul have come out of nowhere, just me, licking my wounds, wondering what the fuck just happened.

If only I had been hit by a car.

I was afraid the intentions of my heart would never be shown, that if being known for 33 years brought this much adversity over my views on life and my journey, and I had lost valuable relationships because of that, well, I just gave up.

I gave in.

Beautiful things occurred as well, not just my relationship with Thelma, or the promise of our hard work beginning to take exciting new turns, my girls a daily part of me now, and sleep, I had gotten down to three numbers on my phone, even that had felt overwhelming.

The best news is that Lola and I share a room, and bunk beds, a post I can’t wait to write, for another day.

Tonight is about the pull to myself, writing being the nucleus to my soul, and I made a decision to that soul, the shame, the fear.

I will write, rather it be harmful, selfish, abusive, or cruel.

I am not responsible for the people I have caused pain, for they chose to read, and they chose to leave. I am only responsible for me, and if one day, I see that I was wrong, I will write about that as well, asking all my jurors and God, supposedly the ultimate Judge, for forgiveness.

I got a letter from my father, just a few hours ago, hence my inability to sleep, my frustration over my first post written with joy in my mind is now erased, his words replaced.

I have no doubt in my vulnerability been seen or read, and even with that, I ask how writing this horrible little blog could ever have served me, for if I were selfish, I would have kept my secrets and image, my relationships in tact, my little lie of a life safe.

Not today, nor tonight, the wound so deeply cut I want to run and run, like Jenny in Forrest Gump, get on a bus and ask God to make me a bird to fly far far away, a fist of stones I would throw, straight at him for wanting to hurt me again and again, straight at her for saying she loved me, when I weep for like a little girl, I don’t even care..

I want my mommy to tell me love is something real.

And she won’t even pick up the phone, nor return my last email, in which I begged like a pathetic teen for a boy who didn’t love her, to come back, to just please forget it all, say she was sorry, and do the right thing.

“Come back to me,” I cry, and she isn’t and won’t, the reality I sit in tonight, wondering what the fuck this God means by salvation, love, mercy, and hope, the very things she taught me, all the verses memorized still run through my mind.

I know something amazing will show up from this, in my silly positive little jar of bullshit or fath that removes all mountains, which I don’t know, but I will hold on to it, and wait.

If I can get through this night, the loss, the silence, maybe just maybe, God will arrive.

Voices laugh and snarl that I am an idiot to hope, not for one more soul, but tonight I climb on the top bunk, as promised, with Lola, who along with Kat, are the best things I ever did.

“Mama,” she whispered.

“Yes, baby?” I had the night light on so I could read the other night.

Her little red head popped over the top bunk, and she put her hands up in animation, “YOU are the best roomie I could ever have. I could just cry over how you made our room so fancy.”

I had given Kat her own bedroom, for which she in exasperation and tears, rightfully claimed her sister could not respect her stuff, talked too much, was messy, and stole her things.

She has become alive in my room, while Lola, in a room with my heels and real make up and art supplies, chats and chats, both of us in constant trouble for forgetting over and over again, to not talk.

I had thought just the other day, how I was ready to come back, to write about how no woman in a house full of treasure and closets as big as my room had what I had.

My heart is broken as well as my silly dreams but I will not let them take my joy.

I will die before I give it away, and if it takes all that I am and have, I will not just survive this, I will float.

The first thing I wrote on the Happy Wall is appropriate now, its message I never knew would vibrate so strongly, “God doesn’t give us victory over war. He raises us off the batte field.”

Good night, dear cyber hearts, I need you more than ever, and it is an honor to return to you, for you have been loyal on your end, and I deserve that gift, and hope and pray I am not what they say, but that someone out there, in this cold heartless world, will be seen, changed, not alone, soothed, or inspired.

It is all I have left.

Granny Panties and Free Steak

Cute, but a little much with the Granny Panties

Too much Panty, Not enough Granny

Since family members strongly oppose to me writing about my personal life, so much so that I get deleted off facebook, even by my auntie, and Divorcee too, well, one might take this as an opportunity to throw a pity party or if PMS could be blamed, could be fair gain for a smear campaign.

Not this chick.

No, I decided it is past due time to put on my Granny panties, a term I threw in by no accident since the number one search term to find this ridiculous blog is “Granny Panties,” which has me far more bitter.

Seriously guys?

800 searches for Granny Panties?

I don’t even know when or why I wrote about such a thing, and I find this far more disturbing for any future sex life I wish to have, until I looked farther and found the search terms “killing people and putting them in dryers,” “penis shaped rice krispie treats,” “vietnamese men and how to excite them,” and a SHOUT OUT now…
For the poor person looking for her lost dog, try Craig’s list or your neighborhood vet.
For a week now, “please help me find my puppy,” and “where is my poor doggy” and “what to do when doggy doesn’t come home” can’t be daily coincidences, so if this finds you person with lost dog, please go to Google or yell down the street..

You’re breaking my heart.

I can’t say much about anything shaped like a penis much less as tasty as a Rice Krispie, nor have I dated a Vietnamese man, but whoever is wondering how to kill people by putting them in a dryer, you need serious help.

Haven’t you ever watched “CSI” or “America’s Most Wanted” for Christ’s sake?

If you plan on murdering by dryer, which is probably tough, what are you going to do?
Throw in some Snuggle dryer sheets so the body smells like a powdered baby’s ass?

Why the dryer?

I loved all the Rob Dyrdek searches, the one lady who wrote “single mom of four needs Rob Dyrdek’s sex machine” which is a lot of words for a search, but if you have four kids, again, I suggest Craig’s list.

I wonder if Craig’s List has families in need of a writer, a Historian, a poet or a rapper, yes, I do rhyme, after a jager bomb or two. I was thinking of starting a Facebook Fan Page for all people who have been deleted off facebook, not by a friend or an ex, but an elite group for family deletions.

We could get matching tshirts and swap recipes and stories of when and how the deletion occurred, perhaps a prize or a week with an adopted family could bring tears to the eye, like that “America…”

Dang it. What is that show? It’s the Tye guy who remodels homes for poor and needy people?
You know, “MOVE THAT BUS,” and everyone sobs and cries, while the entire town cheers as families that lost parents and are law abiding citizens get amazing homes paid in full?

Yeah, just like that.

America can vote, the fan who has the most bad ass deletion story by family will obviously win, and maybe some generous Tye type, even though I heard he was an alcoholic by Divorcee, who knows these sorts of things..

will buy him or her a steak dinner somewhere fancy.

We’ll set up a webcam and maybe not yell ‘MOVE THAT BUS,” but something more like, “CUT THAT STEAK!!”

Then, the sky will open and Granny Panties will fall, Rob Dyrdek will come out with Rice Krispie shaped dongs, Vietnamese men will surround the building, and some poor woman will have found her dog.

Don’t quit your day job, Tye.
I kind of like the idea of making dreams come true, one deleted fan at a time….

Douchebags

This is a lovely inbox message I got from a fifth grade teacher…. Does he think I’m into Photography or Pornography? Disturbing…….I guess it would seem pretty odd, asking for a bikini shot/pic, but really, Nothing big. You do weird things to me…it’s something different for me to deal with. I know I’ve never even met you, but when I wake up in the middle of the night, sleeping on my stomach with a rod between me and the bed, and I ACTUALLY KNOW why I have the erection and WHO it’s from…and then have to do something about the erection so that I can sleep without pent-up energy making me shaky with uncontrollable throbbing — well, let’s just say my libido/sex drive (again, with me never even seeing you) is at full strength. I can’t clear my head here at school, and I end up thinking some thoughts that I’m just glad can’t be read on my forehead, b/c they would be SUPER-inappopriate for kids! I think I just asked for the new pic b/c if I can’t meet you in person, then I want to see you in picture form, you know?

So, yeah, I still want a picture, if that’s O.K. Totally up you……………

What’s In a Name?

When I was born, I was named like all the rest of you, but something didn’t quite fit right with mine.
I had heard my name called, along with beautiful, precious, and baby, but it was on my birthday, by a handmade needlepoint, a special gift that had taken hours to make by lovely hands, in pink threads mounted by gold frames, I discovered the actual Biblical meaning,

“Blessed are the Pure in Heart for They Shall See God.”

My tummy turned, because I had really wanted a pair of Guess Jeans, not because I liked them, of course not, that would have been original and authentic, but because it was going to keep me out of the bathroom stall at school, a place I ate lunch every day, in an expensive private school, once again, the new girl.

There was nothing “Pure” about that, not with the lovely hands reaching out her special woven design of kindness, a gift I faked a smile for, and so I first took on the nickname, “Shame” for this birthday.

“Selfish” didn’t seem fitting to the crime.

I burned with other names when I saw it, not just the words but the baby pink threaded stitches I would see and flinch, when I was so obviously a grown up middle schooler. I knew only a brat would not see her joy in making it hang just right, so I would not hurt the woman I loved more than myself, I would gasp, seeing her eyes light up were worth 10 pairs of jeans.

Loving myself more than her had never been an option I would ever want to choose, time and time again I had hurt and cut her deeply, her sadness one of my many crimes, and so if I could not change my name or this birthday, I wrote my name differently, dropping the Y, what made me different was the day I put on the ie, certain it would bring me a hidden joy, or at least take away the sin.

I wondered if it would be easier to not be a girl, or a first born, or someone who loved music, for maybe that was why I held the pillow over a little f.m. radio, my heart pounding at every creek, the music was worth the punishment, obviously.

I had chosen to be grounded and not spanked for the MTV video, so I prayed a Tiffany song would come soon, the punishment never fit the crime, or vice versa, a confusing difference for my mind.

These secrets, the love of dance and music and people and places that were different than me, often got me in trouble, so I learned early to lie just about the ones you really really want, with all your heart.

When you’re “Selfish,” you hurt people anyway, so if you hurt someone on purpose, make it matter.

“Shame” is a difficult name badge to wear for it is in these situations, the hurt is not on purpose, against God or authority, but on accident, which is worse actually.

I remember the woman with the loving hands howling and yelling, crying tears of pain, shutting doors and family friends from out of town huddled around her and were comforting her. We had been to the mall, at the beach, with friends, and I felt the white go out of my face, when I heard her wailing my name.

That damn name. She had said to me that I didn’t love her the way the other children loved their mothers, and I was shocked, terrified, certain my confusion would be cleared by the people whispering to her, soothing her.

I felt my little arms drop, my heart go silent, and I couldn’t feel, I COULDN’T FEEL, I TELL YOU, but I tried. I tried so hard.

She finally found me on the balcony, angry, and I trembled, wondering if I had just not opened my mouth, complimented the other lady, maybe she would realize. Maybe she would see.

She said I felt nothing, absolutely nothing for her.
She was right, but the pain was there, and I wanted to, but I didn’t know how to lie the one truth I knew was how deeply I loved, so deeply, that the lies were FOR her, the apologies were FOR her, but I stuttered like an idiot, flushing, as she sadly shut the screen behind her.

I could go away or hide or lie if it meant her not feeling bad, for it wasn’t her fault. It was mine. Selfish doesn’t give love, but is a punishment to innocent people, an abuse, like my writing, the other part of me I weeped from having, all the time, all my life.

Locks on diaries don’t keep that even safe, and secrets are revealed by God, so to be a writer I learned, is a gift no one has the right to use against anyone, and so I put my finger in my throat instead, the relief of vomit now replaced the words that hurt, and relief came back up, soothing me, the pain in her eyes were replaced with joy, which meant I had done it finally right, until the day the neighbor saw it in her toilet.

I had done it again, this hurting, this torture, to the very person I wanted to help, to heal, to convince, and I had not covered my tracks.
How stupid can one be.

It wasn’t even high school yet, the numbers and hours to leaving home crept in, denied, screamed at, argued, but I didn’t know how to make them go away.

Having friends had helped until I found it meant I loved them, not family, who are the only ones who will really love you, so I decided not to be loved by anyone that didn’t matter, and work hard to be loved by those who do.

Until I fell in love.
Until I had sex.
Until I smoked pot.
Until I made people laugh.

Those sins made guilt disappear quick, and so I validated her, again and again, plotting the crime while she cried, thanking God I was no longer that girl on the toilet seat, her mother in the stall with her at school, crying and praying, my numb cold body screamed “YOU’RE SELFISH!”

I was numb and vacant, but at least numb, but even as sadly lost as I had become, I didn’t know what to do with the love I so feel and felt deeply for her, certain nothing I could ever do will show it, even finally accepting her God, moving into a furnished home decorated by her with a job my father arranged, my friends far away, my sobs a testimony to my decision to win her back.

He gave our check. She proudly showed us the rooms decorated, the new doormat, beaming with joy.
I gushed with gratitude, looked away from my new husband, a man I found later had been given a couple thousand for a ring my father drove five hours for, behind my back, putting it on the table for him, but when I asked her, she said with joy,
“You did say you wanted to marry him.”
Selfish people do selfish things like not appreciating love and gifts and checks and homes.

No more lying. I was doing time, and certainly this would require a belief in her God.

The same God wouldn’t allow me to see Rock Eagle, the very first time I was asked to room with Natalie, the girl I adored, mimicked in the mirror at home, a request I almost felt my heart flip for, a real girl wanted me, ME, to be in HER cabin for four days??

God told my mom no, and so I hated Him, sitting in a desk alone for days with a substitute handing out worksheets, Natalie stunned and hurt.
That led to being put down a grade, which I have never not made straight A’s, so I was confused.
In the middle of the school year.
In a new school, but this time, it was my brother’s class.
He moved that year a grade below, because he was small for his age, if I recall.
I wanted to erase my name, and myself, as they asked where he was, who I was, where he went, and how much they wished he would come back. It was a class of sixteen people and Natalie had far moved on, and so I messed up and said I was hurt, so stupid, her reaction let me know I always thought the grass was greener, that nothing was ever enough, that she was a failure, and my stomach burned in regret, my feelings couldn’t do anything but hurt and wound, I was convinced.

“Please love me anyway,” I would scream in my mind, lying to do what made my heart flutter, knowing how wrong lying is, I started to self destruct, and she said this to me from love, I know it, because true love for oneself would never harm, or be bad, or illegal.

This began the long years of doing anything and everything to be loved and validated, and the high I felt was more than any drug, to see someone just love me, despite the mess, just for me.

God knows who I thought “me” actually was.

I skipped down the halls of college in this freedom, wind in my hair, friends I loved, the burning didn’t go away or stop, the lies just got bigger and I had become two separate people, one for her, and this forbidden fruit I had the stupidity to tase, the experience of just myself.

I had to. I couldn’t think of her lying in my bed and bawling for weeks when I left, my freedom a slap to her love, and so was the day I told her the truth, her words were over my lies revealed were no truer than my own thoughts, “It would have been easier if you died.”

And so, I did the crime, I paid the time, mainly in living a lie, not mine, but hers, my new name “VICtIM” had now moved in full force, but Divorcee got the brunt of that rage. When I thought about it, I realized in my 33 years of living, I have just a few years on both hands that I didn’t live in her home, her in mine, married and divorced, her divorced, a true testament to my new found peace, that I knew she saw me, knew she felt my love, her own childhood made my own look like pie.

I was told many times if I knew how to have done it any better, her apologies were sobs, my shame and regre now boiling, her pain made me hate my selfish tongue that much more.

And I became a mom, saw she did the best she could, that love sometimes just meant suffocation, is messy, but it shows up, forgives, holds on, nor does it lie or betray, ever.

I did get rid of everything to be with her, help her divorce my father, pray with her, and the burning was almost even gone, completely, her love was so free it made me swell, except for this one thing.

I couldn’t get out of bed, ever.

I would still be there if I did not have little girl eyes, my own reflecting something I vaguely remembered, in this cloud of darkness.

My babies taught me well. They taught me love, and nothing I ever felt or received was confusing, or painful. Nine years of mothering led me to love, to a God I met and didn’t hate.

I recently picked up a journal back from when I was newly married, the first page went to the day I found out I was molested, at 26, by a boy who played tennis with my father, the night my dear friends were coming to meet my baby, none of them had understood my 3 month engagement.

I said I knew this was why I must be sick, this experience I still don’t recall, as an 18 month old, my father angry at my rage that upon this knowledge, he greeted my friends to his home, what any host would do.

I state it felt more like pretending, my feelings not even addressed, which I in this moment stood my ground, only to fall in the shower, let the water just run as I sobbed, my stupid name. My stupid mouth. Of course, I had been working so hard and here, in a moment of blank shock, I dared question my father to her, a woman who loved me, had taken me back, a drug addict, a mother unable to find her own home to dwell with a husband who didn’t appreciate or see all the things she had done.

It took me back to a memory, that journal, of me in my little purple room, smashing the one gift she had made me by hand, all her love and joy for me stitched into letters, her pride for me so deep, the confusion seemed more insanity on my part.

I had smashed it. I took it off that wall and smashed it, didn’t even know why, or what had come over me, but when I saw what I had done, I froze in fear and I lost all hope. I lost all hope I could be loving, if this is how I would love my own mother, MY OWN MOTHER.

I took the pieces of glass, buried them like a dead body, stomping them, and most my teen years were marked not by that hanging needlepoint, but the fear she would ask what happened to it, my heart jumping when she came to the room, my clothes picked up and rushed to hand to her, a relief, one more day meant sleep, my betrayal poison.

I am that glass, deeply buried, myself I am searching to find, but now I know it is not a crime scene, but a landmine of precious jewels slowly being discovered. My eyes, a window to the soul, had not paid attention to what I was burying, darting back and forth, afraid, wondering if I were to be exposed. I am finding not much splintered glass which I had thought, but little fragments of ruby and opal and topaz and amethyst, a deep serenity to keep digging, to see what else I have hidden, my shattered self is returning, a deep healing I find, a cost in losing the only woman I have fought to love, a flag I wave in defeat.

In losing her, I am free to write without the one fear I have never known life without, and it may never go away, hurting her, and as for my name, well, I am working on it.

I can’t put on false bravado, for it is true I know she will not read this, nor do I hope she ever hears of it, the years I spent with her hugs and calls, cups of coffee, long talks and walks are my favorite memories, worth every moment of being born to a name she gave, the name I would give the world to just be.

Knowing her love for years is more than she ever received from her mom, and in grieving and missing the woman I would do anything to have love me, I at least have the name she gave, “PURE IN HEART,” a badge I want to wear with pride, and so I dig, and weep, dig and weep.

For what, really, is just a Name?

My Mother’s Day Gift

The best gift I was ever given was Kat, a teeny bundle dropped in my heart and blew every love story I ever heard or imagined out of the water. I ached from the pain of being pregnant again, certain I couldn’t love at this capacity for two human beings.

Leave it to baby Lola to challenge me, for she is a love story of such deep heart wrenching beauty it hurts, my heart pulsed in pain from the might of her tiny fingers, perfect toes, edible thighs. It was the first time in my life I suddenly realized the awful predicament these two gifts brought.

I was in charge.

What an irony, huh moms?

My mother is an earth mother, never felt better pregnant, lived in the moment of every diaper, thrilled at every one of our adventures, all four of us, all a task I can hardly imagine.
She was ideal, an intellect with the gift of overflowing youth, always in the dirt or on the tennis court, the jokes of her beating grown men in tennis, now a granny, still remain.
I saw her fight, breathe, live, drink being a mother, first and foremost, her only passion, her dream and purpose.

She loves education, structure, rules, good nutrition and well behaved manners, and does it with such ease, I never questioned where the energy came, her nutrition and vitamin regulated care with little television and continuous running schedules were instilled from the day I arrived.

I thought that I of course, would be just like that.

Um, the bomb dropped and quick that not only was I nothing like that, I could never be.

It was such a defeat as a young mom, the ADD poster child who just trying to juggle one baby, just one, must less four, my big triumphs had become not finding my cell phone in the freezer, not having a full blown panic attack over Kat choking on a cheerio, lists flying out the window while driving, energy drained, pleas and cries for just one night of sleep, knowing the kitchen was messy, the nipples were bleeding, and my sex drive completely gone.

That was usually a good day.

I was determined to be better, do better, be more like her.
The hurt of missing them made me cry on the way to work every day, but the relief of seeing real live adult people to chat and talk with slapped the guilt on like peanut butter, the jelly of my hell sandwich was the inability to have anything left for my husband.

It ate me up, unlike peanut butter and jelly, left the taste of aching, empty, unworthy failure.

And still, even in my lowest, the no days of sleep followed by work and a surprise double ear infection, I wouldn’t trade those two jewels for a cushy life in Hawaii, sipping pina coladas, eating chocolate and reading novels.

They are the soul of who I am, the only things I love enough to work, bleed, fight, cry, and give for.
I would be a selfish shell of a woman without them.

It wasn’t until I realized that I wasn’t born to me my mother, but I was born to be free of this ridiculous notion I could be anything well, if it weren’t just me being myself. These thoughts began the long self defeating battle of no longer suffering through motherhood, but I began to enjoy it, the laughter came, my eyes lit up, food once again had flavor, my heart would bloom with gratitude.

It was a long process to this moment, I tell you.
My mother in law would say I didn’t clean the microwave right, my mom would comment on my pop tart breakfast, the ladies at church had rows of homemade dinners when Kat came down completely naked at two, her clothes upstairs, our first attempt to try a church group.

Lola always stands up for me, her little hands sway and announce, “My mom can’t cook because SHE is an ARTIST,” like that were magnificent. I swell in pride until I wonder what will happen the first time she stays for a whole day with a cook for a mom.

That might not look as awesome, even though a part of me smiles, doubting those mothers have panty parties, dance to Michael Jackson, on top of the table, claim to know real fairies, or sob with their children on the hard days.

I don’t pretend not to be as lost as to why Stella could punch Lola, for I don’t know, but I do cry with her, my arms rocking her, the advice ran through my head of all the wise words my mom gave. But, the truth is, those were her words.
Not mine.
That was always where it is blurry, where she begins and I end, or vice versa, and not until the last few years have I seen the illusion crumble, this idol of perfection and wisdom as an adult had to shatter, leaving me with the truth that shocked and horrified me.

My mom had been lost too.
She is, perhaps, human, like me?
No. No way,

And so, I shall just let them know now, to avoid future face plant from any notion I have a clue what I am doing, or if it will be okay, like I could know or protect them from pain, have any of your mothers been able?
The things they need that matter could slip, the things I thought so important will one day they may say has been useless.
Kat may only remember me as not being punctual, and Lola may repeat all the mistakes I made, a thought I shudder at.

The only truth I have found this mother’s day, now being a full grown up of a mere nine years of parenting, is that you cannot give what you do not have.
If I want them to know they are worthy, I must believe I am.
If I want them to know they are beautiful, I must like what I see reflecting back to me.
If I want them to see what unconditional love with a man their little hearts flutter and long for, I must not give up on love, not for them, but for me.

That has been the trickiest part of this thing called motherhood, so messy and so wonderful, but today I hope all of you moms love and forgive the crimes you believe worthy of prison, for we all have them.
It may not show up like an earth mother or an artist working mom, but even the monogrammed moms are more alike me than different.
I firmly believe that.
Come out from your guilt and fear and criticism, see the light in your children’s eyes when they see you, and today, if just once, give yourself this gift.
Believe you are perfect in your imperfections, the flame of beauty in the babies you raise, hold a glass of wine and when they whine, fight, disobey, or make all your worst fears a reality, make a toast.

You’re worth it.

Introducing “The Other Woman”

I just received a comment from a reader beneath a blog I wrote about my father, one in which I expose my hurt, my pain, the loss and destruction of being his child.

I am not one to like my personal truth being read, much less on such public display, my idea as a writer was to heal my wounds.

Little did I know it would become material read by over 10,000 strangers, a thought that makes me want to vomit, but I write to heal me, and if in any way

possible it helps others not feel so alone on this journey, I am grateful.

I also know that to expose myself comes with consequences, some good, some bad, and I do not publish anything without thought to the people affected, a reality that weighs heavy on my heart. I am indifferent to most comments, try my best not to think of them, never wanting to write for an audience, always striving to focus on my art, my truth. I feel my writing is just a projection, that a computer screen is capturing one moment of emotion or thought, so to be loved or hated, I do not feel personally attached to either thought. I write not because I want to, but because I must, and I let the readers do or say as they will. It is their right.

However, in this case, I have decided it is my right to reply in anyway I please, not in spite, but in addressing the child within, the outrageous injustice that she has endured will be heard and if it comes out politically incorrect or even a tad sarcastic or angry, so be it.
She has been through enough.

And here, is what this stranger had to say:

lea hickman
lhickman3158@gmail.com
71.236.12.232
Submitted on 2011/04/01 at 12:03 pm

“Katie, You are certainly entitled to your opinion about your father; however you are his daughter and he loves you. Reaching out is never easy, especially after a divorce, but your dad wants a relationship with his kids and granchildren, and you should consider his feelings. STOP being selfish!”

And this is my reply, of course, in Dear Abby blog form, but just in a more “OBVIOUS”
fashion.

“Wow. Lea Hickman. You certainly know how to make an appearance. I suppose introductions don’t seem to be needed here since my letters never received a reply, but I guess you know that. I never really thought my personal blog would be the place for a mistress to have a platform, but you are not just any mistress, but one who actually gives advice as well? I should be so honored.
Well, here is your moment and so lets just open up this can of worms shall we?
First off, please don’t be offended that I have not included you in any of my blogs or invited you over to personally say hello because it has been my impression since I was a small child that you were the psychotic ex girlfriend of my father, imagine that?
Yes, he said many times that you were prone to jealous rages over his adoration of my mother, that you could never be one to recover from his rejection.
I never knew he was such a stud.
Lucky girl, you are.
I wondered many times if all those calls and appearances in my childhood and adult life were fatal attraction, and funny thing about a woman’s intuition, I truly did give you the benefit of the doubt.
Perhaps he was just in denial.
It just seemed strange that my mother, who was of course, “THE love of my Dad’s LIFE, and THE ONLY love he EVER had,” normal gross announcements he made to her almost daily, was not apart from him even a day for my entire life.
I just didn’t know how to prove you, understand?
I will say I never thought about electronics, like say, computers, the one thing my mother doesn’t know much about, so I apologize for not connecting sooner.
I think it is lovely that you care about his relationships so deeply, I mean really, to reach out to me in his name is well, so kind of you, and effective for sure.
What daughter doesn’t want to run to Daddy when his ex girlfriend psycho perhaps mistress appears on her blog to defend him?
It is romance at it’s best.
I know. Maybe you can come by, the two of you, the reunion will be just beautiful, and I’ll be sure to vacuum. We shall all hug and cry and sing with joy, my two daughters love any excuse to eat cake, but it might want to be in secret you know, just in case, our party were to “get out” and upset family members.
People are so sensitive about these types of things.
Did you know my Dad and Mom ate a lot of cake, together, like 34 years of cake, gosh, that adds up to how many cakes a year for how many special occasions?
Wow. That is a lot of cake.
And I do appreciate that call to not being selfish, and I know I struggle here, I certainly do.
What do I call you again? Oh, Lea.
There I go again, being selfish. Maybe Grammy could be a pet name, just between us?
I am working on that selfish thing. My father certainly could have used more help in raising me. He told me what love is, but maybe you have a better view.
You are a fine example of exactly what my mother should have been you know, to get and “keep” a man as kind, selfless, loyal, and honest as my father.
Oh, but I would keep an eye on the credit card when desert comes.
Between us, he may have stolen it, so just proceed with caution, perhaps take your purse with you to the restroom, and lock it in your home if he accompanies you.
He is known to have 38 aliases and prone to using other people’s social security numbers. Whew, what a handful he is!
But listen, I do want to congratulate you on defending him, and perhaps you also are aware of the 22 page hate mails, mostly stripping my mom of all her dignity in outrageous lies meant to hurt her, not us. I mean who can blame him, right?
Oh and how he loves his grandchildren.
I think he met, no, not sure about my precious nephew, but he did get my little girl a train set one year. Kind of confusing to them, this overwhelming love.
Perhaps it overwhelms them, I don’t exactly know.
I suppose it is hard to blame him, even though he is definitely responsible for years of therapy, and along with the stalking, broken promises, and forgotten boundaries, you may need to give him a loan to help him with this healing Lea!
Not to mention the occasional run from the IRS, abandoning his family over a car, a nice one, the one in his mommy’s driveway? I know I am just his little girl, but really, that car smells brand new, don’t you think?
He used to love to joy ride with mom and I in that thing, and we would go to Bruster’s and get ice cream, and this funny thing happened once, he played this song by Chris Isaac, “Somebody’s Lying,” and I just poked him on the side of his arm, while we just laughed. He always thought I was just hilarious.

But, not to put a damper on anything, cause I am uncertain to your status, on facebook you see, the status of your relationship is what makes it official, anyways, keep this one little thing in mind. If it does go a little sour, don’t be surprised to find dead roses in your mailbox, surround your entire family for holidays with weapons, but use bats so the children aren’t nervous, and always tell him how selfless and wonderful he is, that he did the BEST he KNEW to do, over and over until your eyeballs fall out and every bit of life force has been drained out of your ever loving soul.

Oh, and do tell your daughter I said hello. In high school, she once told me we could be sisters but I wasn’t quite sure what she meant, not until today that is.
Maybe you should mother her since I do have one of my own.
You should meet her one day, or I believe you have.
She is not perfect, but she did love my father very much, as we all did.
He just never saw the value of real love, a perfect offering even in all his failures, until it was way too late.
I’m not sure how any love is more pure than a child for her own father, especially mine, because I wanted to die before I lived one day believing my daddy, the man who hung the moon, could become this. This is the unspeakable crime to a child, this is not the man I remember nor he is the man I ever wish to know.
But perhaps I am just selfish. Perhaps you can give him the love he never had. Perhaps you are the perfect woman to show him love, for trust me, every woman till now, his own daughter, can not. Perhaps you were the only one he loved all along? Perhaps he doesn’t know what love even means? Perhaps you can teach him.
Perhaps.”