Dewey, Cheatem, and Howe

First of all, Ms. H. is doing quite well in her far, far away.

She entered an art contest at an anime convention and won first place.

She is in love with bullfighting. If you ever have a bull that is really pissing you off, I can hook you up.

Got a china shop? You know who to call.

I realized something as I got back. Something that I knew was there but I didn't know how much it was dragging me down.

The oppressiveness of this house and this existence here in this exact space.

I actually had a couple days straight when I didn't think about the past nine months. I actually felt like a normal, whole human being.

And then I got back to a mailbox with correspondence from my new best friends at the Department of Corrections. Apparently, since I asked for the info, I will be told whenever STBX gets out, changes his address, or dies for the ten years of his parole. I just need to keep them updated as to our whereabouts.

But, the one thing that just got me a tad annoyed was that they referred to him as Tracy Christopher Shaddox instead of Tracy Curtis Shaddox. Yes, they got his OID number correct and yes, that number is connected up to his correct information but it's just annoying. Everyone is human and everyone makes mistakes but if you can't get the little shit right, how can I assume you can handle the big stuff?

On other news fronts, I've decided that I'm going to create an interpretive dance routine to take to my lawyers office. Since phone calls and hen pecking don't seem to get me anywhere, I'm going to dress in a body suit covered in post it notes. Every single post it note will have a goal written on it. A goal that is currently being held up by the fact that I am still married.

See, she can tell me all she wants that "Mentally, you know you're divorced" and "You have to realize that this will be with you your entire life" but when it comes to refinancing my house, I need to dump the dead weight. (Oh, that's right. I'll be informed if he dies...I guess I need to dump the useless weight...)

And funnily enough, it's hard to get your case back on the court calendar when the COURT HASN'T HEARD FROM YOUR LAWYER TO GET THE COURT CASE BACK ON THE CALENDAR.

Yes. These things take time.

And they take more time when clients are soothed over with platitudes before they go on vacation only to come back from said vacation and learn that a request for another court date has yet to be made.

Maybe some day stalling lawyers will have the experience of taking a loved one into the emergency room when they have collapsed. The nurses will assure them that CPR is being given and all they need to do is sit down in the waiting room and shut up because THESE THINGS TAKE TIME.

And after a significant amount of time has passed, they will wander into the exam room only to find their loved one cold and lifeless and the doctors sitting around the break room playing cards.

Perhaps the doctor will look up at this point and an expression of dawning recognition will come across his face. "Oh! That's right! You were wanting us to do CPR, right? You were depending on us to do what we were supposed to do...well...sorry...my bad..."

Yeah, but I'm guessing that will never happen.

Life comes down to two kinds of people: the powerful and the powerless. For a couple of days, I had forgotten that.

The Leaving-Part One

We're heading down to the cities after work today.

My daughter's flight goes out at 7 am tomorrow morning.

Her new school starts Monday.

I find myself stopped dead in my tracks every hour or so on the verge of tears. Then I'll remember something funny she said or did and it will make me smile and then I'll want to cry even more.

I'm bi-polar bear. Set up your cameras and make your nature film. Be sure to document my home dissolving before your eyes.

Having my head in the clouds has been rather inconvenient as it was only a couple days ago that I realized that I hadn't made any plans for the dogs. We're staying with relatives tonight and friends tomorrow night (not saying that my relatives aren't my friends but I'm guessing that my friends are glad they're not my relatives...). Thankfully, they can stay with the same AMAZINGLY SUPER AWESOME PERSON that they will stay with when we are on vacation. (I can butter you up some more Jess, just give the word). She is still ok with it even after reading that Shuggie has been splatter painting with his butt. She is either a very good friend or her problems with illiteracy have finally been found out.

By the way, the carpet is gone. It is in shreds in the garage. Their new food has been switched back to their old food in the interest of global peace, harmony, and hygiene.

So I'm hoping that I won't see my daughter off and then, two minutes later get a text message from my friend that says "Pick up carpet cleaner and drive it back to Duluth...NOW!"

Adventure and Loss

Things are gathering steam here at Castle Disaster (Just down the road from Castle Danger).

Five days until Ms. H is off on her big adventure.

We're living in parallel lives. She's going through all her possessions and deciding which to pack, which to give away, and which to store. The house looks like it was cleaned by the Tasmanian Devil.

It's an adventure. There are times when I try to touch on subjects such as "it's really going to be hard going to a big school where you don't know anyone" or "you know how you hate fake, plastic, materialistic people? You are about to enter the land where it all began."

And I get the "yeah mom, I know..." pat phrase.

And I try to hide my part of this equation. I have learned over the past eight months that nothing good comes from hiding ones feelings but there are times when a good thing is about to happen and you know it is a good thing. You can feel it from the bottom of your broken heart.

That's when you set your baggage aside and let the good thing happen.

Then you wait until you're alone.

And you rename the adventure for your own story.

You call it loss.

It is easy to be brave in the face of anger. It is easy to stand up against what is wrong and say "no more".

It is oh so hard to be brave in the face of love.

Rescuing The Child From The Cheeseheads

Dear Wisconsin,

No offense, but if I travel beyond Superior for the next year, please shoot me. Just set up a line of state patrol vehicles with the officers posed behind their open driver's side doors, guns drawn.

The second I cross the city limits into the great unknown, open fire.

Eleven hours of driving twice in one week is too much.

Especially when you discover that Chippewa Falls is actually the lost village of Brigadoon.

Road work at the Chippewa Falls exit? Follow the detour? Around in a circle? All the way around until I get right back to where I started? Never even saw a damn town anywhere?

Hmmm. Nice city, Chippewa Falls. Does it only appear once every hundred years?

Space Camp went well. I guess only one kid ruptured an ear drum while diving and the classes were cool and the experiments were interesting.

All in all, a positive experience.

Now? I won't be driving for awhile. At least five or six hours...

Ruminations on Parenting

Today is my son's last full day at camp. Today he will be scuba diving in the pool during buoyancy training which I think is TOTALLY COOL.

Have I mentioned that, as a kid, I was totally and completely mesmerized by Jacques Cousteau? When I recently ordered some of his old shows off Netflix, I actually found myself quoting the narrator on occasion. Yeah, thirty some years later and I still remembered.

What did I do yesterday? Not a clue.

I actually went into a funk when Bob Ballard (who is at the top of my "let's just grab a beer and chat" list) found the Titanic. Not because I was all sad that the historic mystery behind the shipwreck was solved or that the vultures would soon be descending upon the ship and picking its bones. I went into a funk because I DIDN'T FIND IT FIRST.

Yeah. Mind you, I wasn't a marine archaeologist, biologist, or submariner. I was a junior in high school a long way from the ocean.

My kids have never shared my interest in all things aquatic. When I pointed out to my daughter that her new school offered marine biology as a class, she was quick to point out "that's you mom, not me."

Precisely.

Whenever I see parents living through their kids, I get a little testy. Beauty pagents? Hockey Nazi's? Granted, there are no doubt a contingent of kids that enjoy these pastimes but I'm thinking that there are a lot more parents living vicariously through their kids.

I never forced my kids to participate in activities. I'm sure that some parents would think that it builds character or something. All I know is that I tried to expose my kids to many things and then I stood back and supported their interests.

My daughter still remembers when I decorated her walk-in closet to look like the inside of the Apollo lunar lander. Believe me, a lot of aluminum foil on the walls with some stock NASA images behind the porthole windows and I'll be damned but you've got a spaceship!

Did that make my daughter want to be an astronaut? No, but she has an amazing creative imagination.

A few weeks ago I heard about the American kid that has become the youngest kid to sail around the world. Not only was I in awe of his accomplishment (maritime nerd fest again!), but I wondered what his parents must be like. It's one thing to devote your life as a parent to your child's hockey career when they are seven years old, it's quite another thing to watch your child sail off into the sunset knowing that there is a very real risk that something terrible could happen.

I remember a few years back when a seven year old girl wanted to fly a plane from coast to coast and she ended up crashing and everyone on board, including her father and flight instructor, died. At the time it really pissed me off because I felt that a seven year old wouldn't really understand the inherent risk she was taking. I also couldn't fathom a seven year old reacting to an emergency situation in mid-air.

I still, to this day, feel this way. I think a kid needs to at least be fifteen or so to comprehend that what they are doing could go very wrong and that they need to realize that they literally have their own life in their hands.

But then there will be that amazing kid that comes along and wants to climb Mt Everest at the age of ten and there will be a parents that just want to encourage their child's dreams. It's a hard call.

When it goes right, it's incredibly cool. When it goes wrong, it's incredibly sad.

Kind of like life, eh?

Kickin' Ass Is Just A Part Of The Job

Momma's little princess, getting all proficient with firearms!

I do believe she KICKS ASS!

Nattering Gobbledegook

It's been coming up a lot lately with both of my kids.

"What do I say when people ask me about my dad."

"What do I say when people ask me where my dad is."

There are no easy answers. Human beings are a decidedly curious lot. Saying "My parents are divorced and I don't see my dad," will lead to questions about the divorce and one question will lead to another down a very uncomfortable winding staircase that leads to a very black basement.

No kid should have to dredge up this shit just because someone else is curious, whether innocently or not.

So of course, I'm trying to brainstorm some responses for them. That's why I'm a stellar parent...

1. My dad is currently being housed under the kind and affectionate auspices of St. Louis County/The State of Minnesota (we'll know which one on Friday morning).

2. Ever see Invasion of the Body Snatchers? I'm a pod person. I come from an alien seed and a well turned compost pile.

3. I'm in the witness protection program. I really can't discuss this.

4. I was the ninth Gosselin child. I was emancipated at the age of 4 and written out of the show when I complained about being paraded around like an animal at the zoo.

5. My father died ten years before I was born. Yes. He was a Time Lord. (Sorry, a little healthy fantasy there...)


Suggestions are welcome. It will be an evolving list for them for, oh perhaps, the rest of their lives?

Another proof of my stellar parenting abilities is the fact that I allowed my son to drop out of a "leadership camp" after one day. I'm not sure if this is the same people that run the Northland Foundation's Kid's Plus group, but he had a similar experience to my daughter when she went there.

She called it the Young Republican's Club.

Whatever their political bent is, my kids are far too cynical and out of the mainstream to put up with a guy in a headset, talking waaaay to loud, with piped in 80's music and a poorly put together visual presentation. There were many hours of "ice breakers" and a posse of Melba toast privileged white kids, all being guided by adults who continuously made stereotypical comments about teenagers ("Yeah, I know you all hate your parents..." was one of the comments that put my son over the edge).

The purpose of the week long camp is to create leadership and team building. I guess they were all big on the fact that before the week was over, the kids would go to the Salvation Army and volunteer. You know, like Jane Goodall...they would actually be able to observe poor people...in their natural habitat!

My son, on his own volition, decided to get a volunteering job at a local soup kitchen this summer. He wanted to learn culinary skills and build his resume. He's fifteen.

Yeah, and he recognizes spoiled white kids when he sees them.

All I can say in my defense was, I wanted him to take advantage of a hopefully good opportunity. That's what I'll be telling him when he has flashbacks to yesterday at the age of forty.

The funniest thing was when he and a friend were filling out an "ice breaker" game and the phrase they had to finish was "My mom/dad is..."

I guess the rest of the kids said things like "supportive" and "loving". My son's friend said "a lesbian" and my son was tempted to say "in prison".

There are some crowds that you should feel proud when you don't fit in.

Clear and Concise

From my daughter's Facebook page. An apt summation of our Father's Day feelings at present.

Fly Baby Chick, Fly

"There's a hole in my heart with your name on it."

I believe I will foray into the field of country and western music. This will be my first big hit.

It will be about a mom who sends her daughter off on the next big adventure, only to realize the million and one different times during the day that she would listen to her daughter make some funny comment, give her daughter that quick kiss on top of the head that is the only allowable form of affection a teenager will put up with, or just be present for the tornado of energy that is life inside the skin of a teenager.

And then the mom realizes she could call her and wish her good-night or ask about her day at work or make sure that she DOESN'T DO ANYTHING STUPID BECAUSE OH MY GOD WE DON'T HAVE HEALTH INSURANCE AND A BROKEN LEG WOULD FORCE ME TO BECOME A PROSTITUTE TO PAY OFF THE BILLS AND FRANKLY I WOULD BE A REALLY ROTTEN PROSTITUTE BECAUSE I WOULD KEEP ASKING QUESTIONS LIKE "SO, YOUR WIFE THINKS YOU'RE JUST OFF GETTING A BEER WITH THE BOYS. HOW DO YOU THINK SHE'S GOING TO FEEL IF SHE EVER FINDS OUT?"

But no. The mom doesn't do that. The mom will wait for the next time the daughter comes home and then sit back, keep her mouth shut, and just listen to her daughter's stories.

In the mean time, it helps to think about all the times that the daughter would do the dishes and when the mom would pull them out of the dishwasher, they would still be caked in goo because there is something this younger generation doesn't do. THEY NEVER PRE-WASH.

This always ticks the mother off.

And it helps to take away the loneliness. And the sadness. For about three seconds.

This Trail Isn't Marked

Getting mad is a part of getting better.

It's right in there in the steps of grief...in the steps of healing from trauma...in the steps for healing from sexual abuse.

Getting angry.

It can be a terrifying road to travel because when you are walking it, you don't know where it will lead. There are side roads to take you to mind numbing alternatives...drugs, cutting, abusive relationships, suicide.

These are all sorts of pitfalls and potholes along the way.

And once you walk down that path, it's impossible to see the end and after a few short steps, you can no longer see where you came from. If you hold your hand out straight in front of your face, it disappears in the darkness that envelopes you.

No matter how many people want to walk with you, they can't. Anger is a personal journey. People can walk beside you. People can hold out their hands and try to catch you if you fall, but no one can crawl inside your skin and walk your journey for you.

When my daughter asked for people to support her at the hearing on June 26th, this was a huge step for her. When the two of us, along with her PAVSA advocate, had to meet with yet another legal person in the system to spill our guts yet again (one hour after STBX denied her the right to change her name), she got as heated as I've ever seen her.

But not for herself. For me.

To sit there, knowing what she has gone through and knowing how horrible her father treated her for so many years and listening to her tell this person that her father treated me like crap was soul wrenching.

Later, her advocate commented that her anger was positive. It was a sign that she was headed in the right direction. She was channeling it through positive things. She was doing the right thing.

I then asked the question that had haunted me since our meeting. "How can she get so worked up over what her father did to me? What her father did to me was nothing. What her father did to her was horrifying."

And that's when all these last few months came down on my head.

"How have you managed to get through these last few months?" She asked me. "What has been the force that has pulled you through when you didn't think you could survive another five minutes?"

"My kids," I told her. "If we didn't have kids and if he had been a pedophile toward some other child, I probably would have put a bullet in his head and then did the same to myself. As a matter of fact, that thought haunted me even though I did have kids. But it was the anger that I had at him for what he did to my daughter that kept me going. My need to protect her now even though I couldn't/didn't protect her then."

"And why," she then asked me. "Do you think that her journey is any different?"

I just stood there, probably with my mouth hanging open and flies coming in and out. The parent-child bond is also a child-parent bond. I survived for her. She made it through for me.

Neither one of us looked in the mirror and said "I need to do this for myself."

"Myself" is a harder concept. "Myself" means that you recognize that what occured to you was wrong. "Myself" can lead down a road of "oh poor me" and that whole victimization bullshit that STBX wallows in on a daily basis.

But just for a moment, it can be the startling realization that it's easier to stand up for the ones you love than it is to stand up for yourself.

It's the realization that this road is a million miles long and we have only taken the first three steps.

Happy Birthday To Us

How do babies feel in the hours before they are born? Like their home is under the wrecking ball and they hadn't even received a forclosure notice?

Like there is something horrible happening but hopefully, it will all work out in the end?

Well, we are two hours away from standing up in court and becoming new people. Our own people. Our own family.

And because I am a geek and because the two favorite things in my life aside from my kids are Doctor Who and The Decemberists, I found this song for them on this most auspicious of days.

They are my life. They are my limbs.

Here's to better times ahead.

Dark Night Of The Soul

It's 6:36 a.m and I'm so very tired.

I kept imagining what might be going on in STBX's mind. Today is his big day. His big coming out party at the courthouse.

I've gone through the options with my daughter. What will it mean if he pleads guilty. What will it mean if he pleads innocent. What would it be like to go to trial. What would happen to his life if he gets off with a slap on the wrist. How I have had to process my raw anger and hatred toward him and realize that I have no control in this matter.

I sincerely appreciate the county attorney in this case. He called me yesterday and talked me through some things. He then told us to meet him up in his office and we would all walk down to the courtroom together. It's really inexplicable but I almost started bawling when he said that. I've met with him a couple times and we've spoken on the phone a couple times and he let me know that he was our representative and all that jazz but to realize that we weren't going to have to walk into the courtroom alone was such a big deal. I'll have a couple friends with me and my daughter will have her PAVSA advocate, but we're just people with no voices right now. He is our voice.

We've also been moved to yet another judge. Third times the charm! There is nothing more helpless than looking up the case on the court calendar under the judge that you think you have and not finding it. As I've stated before, victims aren't given information. Cancel a court date? Sorry, can't be bothered to tell you. Change a judge not once, not twice, but three times? Yeah, hope you don't mind! And pushing your case back and delaying it by weeks because the judge is on personal leave? Sorry, justice is not only slow, but sometimes works in reverse.

I saw on the news last night that some guy threatened a judge at the courthouse yesterday as well as a few other people before he left to go home. Needless to say, the police brought him back rather quickly.

So, note to self...don't threaten anyone today.

No matter what happens, the rest of the day will be spent taking care of my daughter. We'll be going to the chiropractor after court and then I'm taking her to get a massage from one of my friends this evening. Aside from that, it will be prepping for our garage sale tomorrow.

And tomorrow after our sale? That's when I'm doing a little self care. That's when I'll be convincing my new guy friend that it is imperative that I see Star Trek again. And it is imperative that he comes with me. And then, perhaps, we will kill a few brain cells at a local drinking establishment with friends.

No matter what happens today, I want me some more Spock.

Advice For Mother's Who Are Living In The Eye Of A Storm

Everyone else who stops by here that has never been through familial trauma, you can just go on to your next task for the day, nothing to read here.

OK, now that they're gone, it's just you and me. You've been there, I know. You've been left standing in the middle of a huge painful mess with no recourse that feels appropriate.

You want permission to fall apart but when you turn around to get that permission, you realize how horribly alone you really are.

You look at your kids and your heart breaks because this was never in your game plan. You were never going to be one of "those" families. One of "those" families that have their worlds fall apart and end up at the grocery store, juggling coupons, doing math in your head, looking at the balance in the checking account, and taking that second gallon of milk out of the cart. You were never going to be the mom that looked at her kids and wished she could afford a birthday present. Or a trip to the dentist.

You were going to be in charge of your life and you read all the parenting books and took your kids to all the playgroups and make macaroni art and hung it on the fridge. You told your kids how much you loved them and that you would always protect them and to never talk to strangers.

Now, when you look in the mirror, you wonder what happened. You search your eyes for a clue to the moment when it all went horribly wrong. Words echo through your head, words from his side of the family. Words that say "At least he didn't do this or that..." Words that assuaged their grief and told you that your children were merely bait, not worthy to have a father that didn't hurt them.

You're so tired. You're so hurt. You're so alone.

You need to take a few minutes, find a safe place, and fall apart.

Then, perhaps you can come back to your kids. Maybe play this lullaby for your whole little family.

And try to convince yourself that you did the best that you could.

A Father's Legacy

As I've stated before, I've been told by professional therapists that the fact that my kids are willing to open up and be honest with me about their feelings is a good thing. It doesn't mean that I've not been stopped dead in my tracks by what they say or how they feel.

I do my best to keep my mouth shut about what is going on in the deepest, darkest recesses of my spleen. In most simple divorce cases, nothing good is ever accomplished by parents playing the kids off the other parent. Kids are not pawns in a game. Kids are unfortunately more like tennis balls, getting lobbed back and forth from one environment to the other. Hopefully, they can maintain their "resiliency". Hopefully they can "bounce back".

Hopefully one more therapist won't use these words with me again or I will set my hair on fire while singing Tip Toe Through The Tulips.

I am tired of jargon. I am tired of being told my kids are doing the best that can be expected. I'm tired of being told I'm doing the best that can be expected.

Whose expectations? Who gets to be the all knowing, all seeing person that points the trident of Poseidon at the unfortunates and deem one ok and another not?

There is so much more going on here than just a simple divorce. My kids discussed divorce with me before I ever discussed it with them. When I was called out to the garage on that snowy December day to be told by my husband that he was a cheater, I told him that our kids had mentioned the fact that I should divorce him long ago.

"What did they say?" He demanded. Of course, at this time I only knew he was a cheater, not a pedophile. "What are they supposed to say?" I shot back. "That you don't give a damn about any of us. That you never lift a finger to be a part of the family. That you don't act like a father."

In retrospect, I believe he looked relieved by that answer. He was fishing for whether I knew about his molestation of our daughter. Somewhere in the sick, disgusting recesses of his mind, I think he was looking for absolution for his perverted behaviors. From the fact that he felt it was ok to contact me at work after admitting to molesting our daughter, I honestly don't believe he felt an ounce of remorse for what he had done to his family.

Oh, there was remorse. There was remorse for the fact that he had finally discovered the straw that broke the camel's back. There was remorse that I wouldn't be one of those women who discover that their husbands are child molesters and feel the need to choose their spouse over their child. (They exist. I know three people personally who were molested by fathers and their mothers are still with those men and are in full knowledge of what they did. Needless to say, their daughters are basket cases.)

This has been a very dark couple days for me as I find myself haunted every waking moment by wondering what the fuck could be going on in a person's head that could do this. That could harbor a secret so heinous and still choose to live among the people that he perpetrated it upon.

And of course, there is the flip side. All the stories that I could never disclose here that should have been red flags. All the times of being hurt and running interference between my husband and kids. All the therapists that have shown me how our situation was no different psychologically than a woman who was being physically beaten. She will stick with a marriage until the abuse turns to her children and then she will realize that if SHE isn't worth saving, at least her children are.

To listen to your son tell you how much he hates his father and how he is ready to testify to that fact at his name change hearing makes me travel through all those years, all those hateful comments, all that indifference, all the times when a flippant remark would cut him off at his young knees and realizing how much cumulative damage has been done.

This coming from the child that wasn't molested.

After spending time with another guy who took an interest in him and explained things and enjoyed his company my son turned to me and said "That's more than I got out of dad in 15 years..." Yeah.

There are times when my heart just breaks.

All The Little Pieces

The next criminal court appearance will be May 22nd at 10:30.

Within six weeks we get to make an appearance at the St. Louis County Courthouse three times. All I really need to know is this:

Do we get frequent flyer miles?

Unfortunately, the date that I'm actually looking forward to the most happens last. Our name change.

A local pastor has offered to do a name ceremony for us which I think would be lovely but I'm not too sure about the overtly Jesus aspect of it. My thought would be to have a name changing ceremony at our house along with a Native American smudging ceremony to get out all the bad juju that he left in our lives.

I wonder how it feels to be considered the evil spirit that your family is trying to exercise? To have so totally fucked up three other human beings on the face of the earth and to have caused such emotional pain which goes to the very morrow of the bones, the soft curl at the center of the soul.

To have your kids stop you when you accidently refer to something before your world exploded. Something that referred to him. Something that seemed an innocuous comment. Something that caused your child to look at you and softly say "Mom, just...don't." Three words that are pregnant with pain and meaning.

There are days when these little phrases, scattered throughout the day, can cut your heart out. They end up as pieces; ugly, painful, and waiting like land mines. Don't go there again, you're told, it might be worse.

The pain might be dormant for years but someday, you will walk here again. You will forget for just one moment and you will step your foot down and your world will go up in a blinding flash of light.

I am going to be wandering through the next six weeks of my life, picking up the pieces. His pieces. The pieces of flesh and memory that he took and used and threw away.

How can I gather all the pieces? How can I repair this damage? How can I stop this horrible cycle of anger, sadness, and heartbreak?

How can I hold my children in my arms and tell them that it will be OK when I'm still trying to convince myself?

Hold Onto Your Hats!

I got the opportunity to talk to STBX's divorce attorney this morning. I'm doing our name change on my own, not through my divorce attorney, so I need to get the court date info to STBX. As a sperm donor and pathetic excuse for a father, he is allowed to show up and object if he should so choose.

I'm choosing to go alone on this to save lawyer fees. Law type people have asked me why I don't just wait to get my name changed for free during the divorce, even though that will not change the kid's names.

And I shall respond with my well practiced legalese "WELL DUH!"

It costs the same to change the kid's names as it does to change my name AND the kid's names. Hey law-type people, IT'S ALL THE SAME FEE!!!!

It has nothing to do with money. THAT is why lawyers don't understand.

It has to do with psychology. Lawyers just understand how to lie and bend the truth and fuck you so hard up the ass that your screwed seven ways to Sunday. Or else they are terribly helpful and will do anything for you, provided you are willing to donate a kidney, your left arm, and your first born child.

Either way, you're screwed. Get used to it.

So, as soon as I get my court date, I have to send the paperwork to STBX's lawyer and he will get it to STBX. Then, I will bring my kids to court along with my witnesses who can confirm our identity and vouch for the fact that we were only on a summer vacation when we went to that terrorist training camp in Afghanistan two years ago (yeah, that's a joke by the way...).

It's going to be interesting to see if he objects. In all of the horrible douchbaggery that he has perpetrated upon this family, I think objecting to our name change would put me right over the edge. It would simply be a cold-hearted mind fuck, a way of screwing us just to screw us.

Which means, I wouldn't doubt that he shows up.

I have to believe that his history with our family and the ages of our kids (they are old enough to make an informed decision and explain it to the court) would certainly sway the judge over to our corner.

But if he wants to be an ass, I guess he'll have to be prepared to be called a pedophile in open court and listen to what his kids really think of him.

Choices. Ain't life just full of'em?

A Clean Sweep

Just need to let you know something that perhaps, just perhaps, you haven't figured out yet.

My kids are amazing.

I don't know where they have gotten their spidey sense from, but they seem to intuit when I really need a hand at something but don't feel comfortable asking.

Unfortunately, there won't be any before and after photos here because I would have never taken a before photo. STBX had a space in the basement that I always likened to his mind, completely haphazard, a mess, bordering on a clinical diagnosis, like a pauper in a shack.

It was where he kept his computer equipment, his papers of all kinds, oh, and his porn.

There were boxes and stacks and piles EVERYWHERE. Now, this might just sound like someone with organizational problems but there were also the food containers from YEARS ago. Our basement is leaky (of course) and a few months ago when I told him that a vast amount of the papers all over the floor were moldy and needed to be picked up (as I am allergic to mold and walking downstairs made my skin itch, my eyes water, and I would begin to cough). Of course I got the typical response, an exasperated sigh as he continued to play online (with his girlfriend, no doubt. I'll bet SHE never asks him to behave like an adult.)

Well, I started to do what I always did. I started to clean it myself. If I waited around for for him to do it, it would never happen. That is what 17 years taught me. It was then that he got all pissy that I forced the matter to a head and actually went downstairs to pick the wet paper off the floor.

Of course, everything else that wasn't wet got left behind.

Thus, after life hit the fan in December, this part of the basement has been his mocking testimonial, an artistic rendering of the awful, shitty mess that he left us.

It wasn't until last week that I was searching for something and actually started to poke around in that area. It took about five minutes before I sat down and just wanted to cry. There wasn't even a foot path through the mountains of crap. It was all so fucking overwhelming.

But then the kids stepped in. They were off school and didn't have to worry about getting up the next day. I went off to bed and they helped themselves to the heavy duty contractor bags that the handyman has been using.

I woke up to this.














and this















It was like being a shoemaker with elves.

There were banking slips from 1994, printed out emails from 2003, every single kind of ridiculous clutter and disgusting dirty Chinese food container that you could imagine.


Oh yeah, and there were about seven of these






It was therapy for all involved. I can now walk into my basement without visiting the "shrine to the seventeen years of your wasted life with a goddamn loser", and the kids got to do something that they have been wanting to do all along.

They got to throw the bastard out.

Next Up? Daddy Dearest

Continuing on yesterday's thread, the other half of the equation in all of our lives is fathers.

Not having grown up around my father and having the only man my aunt (who raised me) was involved with be a molester, my understanding of what a healthy relationship with a man is hasn't come to light until my life blew up in December.

I've known for years that my marriage wasn't good. Having wanted to leave when the kids were little and being sneered at, something inside me curled up and hibernated for fourteen years.

I stayed. For that choice, I am guilty.

For the consequences of stbx's fucked up childhood, I am not.

Before I knew that stbx was a pedophile, I knew he was a rotten father. I told myself that he would try to get partial custody of the kids if I left. I believe this to be true to this day. He would have done it out of spite. By staying, I could at least be there to protect my kids against his sarcasm, his indifference, his obvious lack of interest in them. Had I known what kind of interest he had in in at least one of them...yeah...there we go with that 20/20 hindsight thing again.

When the kids were little, he called them "screaming balls of flesh" (granted, there were those days and nights of colic when this was an apt description). He told people that he would be more interested in them when they got older. He said it would be great if you could just give a kid a ball and send them to a corner and have them bounce it for hours on end so they would leave you alone.

There were early attempts at school conferences and school functions. But somewhere after third or fourth grade, it all stopped. As I write this sentence, I realize, that involvement with the kids stopped when the abuse started.

That is also the time that he totally withdrew from us as a family.

Seven years.

That's how long the kids have had an absentee father who sat a mere two feet from them, involved in everything online and nothing in his real life.

There were times when I tried to invite him to school functions or to something we were doing but he was always busy or acted like we were the stupid ones for actually going outside the house to have a life. In the last couple years, when I would mention "asking dad to come with us", the kids would sigh and balk. It would either be a waste of time or else he would come with us and make us all miserable with his aura of gloom and sarcasm.

As I've stated before, having been abused, I cut him even less slack for becoming an abuser. He knew where I came from. At any time, he could have sat down and either talked about his past or simply said "I need help and I can't tell you why", but he didn't. He told his manhole that he "couldn't help himself". Well, he could have helped himself. He chose not to. It was easier to use his own child for his own selfish purposes than to pick up a phone and make a call to a professional.

That's what makes this whole scenario so insidious. He has played the victim his entire life. He seeks out women that want to nurture and "help" and once again, he only has to be the ten year old child, crying to his mommy.

That will be his defense when this all goes to court. His lawyer will try to turn the tables away from what he has done and turn him into the victim that he has acted like his entire life.

Since he surrounds himself currently with people that perpetuate that myth, I'm sure he's feeling quite secure in what a terrible lot his life has been and just how much he can sway a courtroom.

And how he had no control over the mess he has created.

Mommie Dearest

It's always interesting to pop the top off your head and take a look at what makes you tick.

I remember a long time ago when my kids were toddlers, I went to a workshop on parenting and the presenter said that, when your kids are misbehaving and you are at your wits end, it sometimes helps to pretend that they are someone else's kids. You are less likely to throttle someone else's kids. You are more likely to step back from the situation and act responsibly.

I've found that advice to be very beneficial over the years when examining my own self. Having had the cheese slip off my crackers as a college student, I really don't want to go there again. Having had less than stellar therapy in the past, I'm less than trusting when it comes to laying all the power at someone else's feet.

Thus, I tinker.

During the years of my marriage, I would stand in the kitchen, stare out of the kitchen window, and psychoanalyze why I was so angry. I would delve into the reasons for my sadness. I would take comfort in the fact that I had reasons to feel the way I was feeling.

And then I wouldn't do a damn thing about it.

It's sort of like being the most enlightened person on a deserted island. In the long run, it doesn't really matter much.

Something I've been examining lately is motherhood.

So much of what is going on revolves around motherhood.

Mother-guilt for not knowing what was going on (yes, I know it's ridiculous to beat myself up for ignorance but SAYING it and FEELING it are two entirely different things.)

Abysmal choices by mothers-STBX's manhole choosing to carry on a relationship with a known pedophile when she has a young daughter. (Do you think he fantasizes about her daughter when they're having sex?).

Maternal abandonment issues-something that I've been working on in regards to myself and my first few months of life.

STBX's mother issues-He never moved past the psychological development of a ten year old and always acted like I was supposed to be his mother rather than his wife. I know a lot of women feel this way about their husbands but his is a deep seated psychological issue rather than an annoying immaturity.

There's also the culture of judgment of mother's, mine being right up there at the top. Mothers are judged far more than fathers. One side of the coin is that we're all trying to do the best we can with what we have. The other side of the coin is the reality that we often act out of selfish desires for our own safety, our own security, and our own desires.

See, prying the top off your head can get ugly.

You have to be willing to own what you have done. To admit that there were times when you should have made better choices and that there were times when you were just hanging on by a thread.

To realize that the decisions you make as a mother are made in somewhat of an echo chamber, they might seem transitory at the time but when you string them together, they make a conversation, the foundation of a life for your children.

That is the ultimate challenge and the heartbreaking joy of being a mother.

Taking The Bull By The Horns

I'm home sick today but yet I've had to run errands. Since I had to go downtown anyway this morning, I finally said "fuck it" and took our paperwork to the courthouse to get our names changed.

My name change would have been a part of the divorce but not the kids so since it would have been the same charge for just me or for all of us, I decided to go ahead and get it done.

As I told my therapist today, there are so many things out of my control right now that it felt SO GOOD to be able to hand in the paperwork with a mental "FUCK YOU!" message to the universe in general and to STBX in particular.

The kids have been asking for awhile when they could start using their new last name and we have all been using it for everything that wasn't "official" but actually getting the ball rolling was the tinniest of victories that I needed.

The rest of the world can burn now. I've come to a few conclusions about what I will do in certain scenarios that may happen in the future and it's given me enough peace of mind to be able to go forward with sanity, for a few more days at least!

Yup. One day at a time.