Slacker, store bought cupcakes, mom that I am, I didn’t really plan ahead for tonight aside from getting a hand me down costume. I had no clue what the plan was. I can say when I came home at 5:45 with the N-Man to discover that someone had stolen our jack-o-lanterns off the front porch, it didn’t exactly put me in the spirit. I got myself untied from my emotional knot though, put on my big girl underoos and decided I may as well take him out at see what happens. I wasn’t expecting much, seeing as he’s really too young to understand. So we grabbed our ghetto trick or treat bag out of the grocery bag stuffer thingy in the kitchen (yeah, that’s right. Mama didn’t even spring for a plastic pumpkin. I did look for the Easter basket first, however.) and marched out the door. At he first house N-Man just stood there staring blankly while a penguin and princess trampled him in a mad rush to the candy bowl. The second house, he had the common sense to get out of the way. And then that’s when the light came on. He stood there staring into the bottom of his grocery sack. His eyes begin to get wider and wider. He looked up at me with an inquisitive look. Candy, I told him. Candy, he parroted. That’s right. Candy! Suddenly, he turned and took off down the driveway with a force rivaling that of an Olympic sprinter, screeching, More! More! More! Apparently I was wrong when I assumed he wouldn’t have a clue. And that was the tenor of the rest of the night, the N-man bouncing in anticipation on a front porch until the door opened then beaming with pride as he demanded MORE! I hear that most children’s manners and etiquette classes don’t start until four years old so people are going to have to deal with it for two more Halloweens. Now, as I watch him running laps around the living room, wailing like a banshee, forty-five minutes after his bedtime, I’m wondering. Exactly how good of an idea was it to let him eat three bags of peanut butter M&M’s for dinner?
Confession. I have a on line dating profile floating out there in cyberspace. It’s not incredibly new. It’s been there for a little bit now. I’m honestly not sure I’m ready for this. I just feel like I need to take some sort of step towards jumping back in the dating pool before I become too complacent with my own company . But then again, I’m not so sure about that. Dating was bad enough back in the just me days. Mix in the N-man and now I have an all new arsenal of anxieties to add to my recently dusted off, do-not-bother-to-apply-if list. And it has crossed my mind that before I will be successful at this again in the future, I will first have to get over my self defeating, irrational thought that anyone who wants to talk to me now must be a child molester.
Seriously!! How are you supposed to do this with a 21 month old in tow? I really don’t go out much without the N-man these days and while he’s obviously the most beautiful child ever conceived in the entire history of children, he not exactly a man magnet. Saturday night for me typically consists of story time at 8 pm and then crashing on the couch in an exhausted heap. Fine once you’re hitched. Not so conducive to remedying my current situation. The bar scene? I was over that years ago. If I want a semi bald slurring guy to drool and barf on me I can stay home without spending extra cash and having to do my hair. And lets talk about the few men you find at the horse shows, my main social outlet these days. They’re there but are typically either egotistical alcoholics or gay. It’s not like the door bell is going to ring and Prince Charming will be standing on the other side looking for me. (Although that did happen to one of my best friends once… you read this blog and know who you are you freak of man hunting nature!!) so, in my penumbra and uncertainty, I figured the baby steps down that road was just dipping my virtual pinkie toe in the pool as bait and seeing what nibbles.
Let’s talk about my prospects…
1. Mr. Journalism Exective… well, he was actually a friend of a friend of a friend set up, not a cyber dude. On paper, he would be exactly the kind of guy I would want. Educated, good stong values, practicing Christian, former artist turned stable executive. And the first meeting was great. We actually had a ton in common. But a handfull dates and one month later, when I met his best friend and he were all already naming our children for us, the red flags went up. He confirmed my fast track fears when he let it slip that he’d been emailing pics of the N-man to his mother back home and she couldn’t wait to meet her new grandson. WHOA HORSEY! I don’t even know your middle name yet.
2. The foreign religious persecution refugee. Anyone who knows me knows I have a tendency to drift towards foreign men. Great eye candy this one. We chatted on line quite a bit before deciding we’d talk on the phone and then perhaps meet for coffee. I gave him my number. He called while I was out and left a message. This is a tricky one…. His accent was so heavy that I couldn’t understand a word he was saying. Not a word. Great eye candy, yes, but not exactly smoking hot enough that I’m willing to haul an interpreter along. Besides, let’s be real, my last experience with a heavily accented man who fled war and persecution in his country ended in complete disaster… aside from the N-man that is. And despite what my mother thinks, I do reflect on and learn from my mistakes.
3. I have no clever name for this one, just Mark… again fantastic on paper and again, great eye candy. Again, seemingly a lot in common. Doesn’t want kids of his own at this juncture in his life, but loves the idea of joining a family with kids. And as an aside, spooky coincidence, would you believe he grew up in the house that is right next door to the barn where my horse lives? Well with in the first five minutes of chatting with him on line we had already told me about BOTH of his ex wives and how they did him so wrong. Then went off on his best friend’s ex wife, with a nice range of choice language to boot. And then he clearly expressed his complete and total disdain of all things equine. Ummmm, did you READ my profile? You know that thing with all those pictures of me and my horse? Just curious.
And there are more… Sigh. It sadly appears the dating pool is as shallow as the gene pool. We’ve all seen those commercials for Match.com. You know the ones guaranteeing you’ll meet someone special. What exactly does that mean? “Special” Special, yes my prospects have been, but not in the way one would have in mind. I”m really not even remotely close to being that unhappy single. Or, like I said, maybe I’m just not actually ready to get back in that pool after all. I don’t know. I still submit cyberspace is a great starting place for the not so sure, but for now, I’m done actively looking. My face is out there for whoever has the common sense to appreciate me to discover. So instead of diving back in, I’m just going to pull up a lounge chair next to the pool for now, slather on some sunscreen and order a banana daiquiri from the cabana boy.
It never ceases to amaze me, how some people have such over inflated confidence in my professional abilities. For those who do not know, I am a child welfare attorney. I represent abused, neglected, mentally ill, and deviant children who are in the system. I sometimes also represent the parents of those children. That’s typically the fun part of my job (insert sarcasm here). Frankly, the best parent clients can readily be divided into two groups: the ones who come in from day one, committed to turning their lives around and the ones who just give up all together and disappear. They’re easy. Then there are the other 95%, the ones who piss and moan that their children have been taken away and expect them to be handed back over on a silver platter, with no efforts made on their part what-so-ever. And this begins today’s little diddy. There I was in the Juvenile Court. I’m there to defend my client, a father, on a Contempt of Court citation. The judge ordered him to move out of the family home four months ago. He didn’t. It’s that simple. I got nothing so I’m not really sure what you expect of me here, Buddy! He refuses to acknowledge he’s still in the house but won’t say where he isliving. The social worker testifies that she went to the house the night before and he was still there, with all of his things, hanging out on the couch havign a beer. (Which, by the way he’s also not supposed to be doing.) Then his estranged wife rats him out. Five minutes later he’s walking out the door in a pair of pretty silver bracelets, which is exactly what I told him would happen… over and over and over. His nostrils are flaring, flames are probably about to shoot from his eyes, and he’s hissing at me in Vietnamese with a tone reminiscent of a cat in heat and the interpreter, for some reason, is still standing there translating his insane rantings and ravings for me as they haul him out the door and down the hall. Apparently, I am incompetent because I was unable to stop this from happening.
Sigh. I’m an attorney. I have a law degree. Not a magic wand. And certainly not divine, universal powers.
This is so petty. SO petty. And considering I was daft enough to not even notice until 14 hours later…. N-man’s hair has been cut. His beautiful, strawberry ringlets. I assume X’s mother did it. I suppose I have no room to whine if I’m a bad enough mother to not notice right away, but I’m hurt. That first haircut was something I was looking forward to and now it’s been denied me. Yes, there will be plenty more, but they won’t be the first.
It’s 2 am. The eviction is underway. It is not going well.
7:10 pm: The N-man climbs from the bath tub. I dress him. He brushes his teeth. Much to my suprise he heads to his own room, sits in the story chair and reaches for a book. We read. We cuddle. I decide tonight is the night. Three months of sleeping in my bed ends now. I lay him in his bed, surrounded by his lovies. We sing. He knows something is up. He asks for the big bed. I sing him a song about big boys in their own rooms. He calls for his grandmother, then the other one. I kiss his forehead, tell him I love him, and leave. Silence. I pat myself on the back, proud of what a wonderful job I have done, laughing at how difficult I thought this would be.
9:00: I hear a little voice upstairs. Mommy. Mommy. I climb the stairs and find him standing at his gated door. He reaches for me. As I pick him up he twists, reaching out in the direction of my room. I pull him close, climb the gate and put him back in bed. Again i sing the big boy song. He whimpers but closes his eyes as I rub his forehead. He drifts back off to sleep. That wasn’t so bad at all. I begin to get ready for bed, content that the night time waking behind me, I can settle in to watch Sex and the City reruns in the privacy of my room. My bed looks so huge. So empty. The N-man feels 500 miles away. I leave the door open so I can look 20 feet across the loft and see his door. No. He’s really just right there.
10:10: I hear a rustling on the monitor. The N-man is awake again. He knows where I am. He goes to the gate. Mommy! Mommy! Mooooommmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeeee! I turn down the volume on the TV in hopes that I can trick him into thinking I’m asleep. It does no good. The show breaks to commercial. I tell myself that if he is still crying after the next segment, I’ll go put him back in bed. Back to the show. Break for more commercials. I trudge across the loft without a word and put him back in bed. No crying. Just a heartbroken plea for mercy. He clutches his beloved puppy and whimpers as I leave the room.
10:45: It begins again. How was I so naive to believe it would be so simple? How was I so prideful as to congratulate myself so soon? I look at the clock. I tell myself I will give him 30 minutes to cry it out. He wails, he shrieks, I wait and I wait and I wait. Ten minutes goes by. Twelve minutes. Thirteen minutes. Time is screeching to a halt. Mooooooommmmmmeeeeee! Moooooooooommmmmmmeeeee! I look at the clock. It is finally 11:00. I tell myself that fifteen minutes is longer than last time and make the journey again. He tries to bribe me with a book. Silently, I kiss him again and put him back to bed.
11:20: I hear him stirring on the monitor again. He’s talking to his animals. Hippo. Mon-KEE. Papa Bear. Moose. Mommy. He pauses. Moooooooooommmmmeeeeeeee! I begin to realize that I will not sleep tonight. I wonder what my work schedule is tomorrow. It will be Wednesday. My mom has him on Wednesday. I can ask her to watch him an extra hour when I go to pick him up and take a nap in her guest room. I know she won’t mind. The wailing continues. My lower lip is shaking. I can see his tiny silhouette standing in his doorway. Somehow I make it 30 minutes this time. Another silent journey. Back into the bed.
12:45: I think I actually fell asleep for a little bit. He’s the gate again. This time he’s frantic. He calls for me in long mournful wails. Mooooooommmmmmeeeeee! Moooooooooommmmmmmeeeee! I hold my silent ground. He changes to rapid, punctuated hysterics. Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! He runs out of breath and begins to stutter. Muh-muh-muh-muh-MOMMY! The dog looks at me from the other pillow. He wants to know why I’m not rescuing his boy. The N-man continues to wail. I question if I closed all the windows, lest the neighbors hear and call social services. He begins to call for anyone who might save him. Graaaaammmma! Graaaaaammma! Graaaaaammmmma! Baka! Baka!! Baka!! Daaaaaaaaaaaddy! Daaaaaaaaaaddy! He has given up on me. He hates me. I can no longer hold it back. My heart begins to leak out my eyes. What kind of mother am I? Why am I doing this to my child? Why did I set him up for this in the first place? He wants me again. Mooooooommmmmmeeeeeee! He doesn’t hate me. He just doesn’t understand why I hate him. I am sure I am causing permanent psychological damage. I look at the clock. I’ve made it 50 minutes. I can’t take any more. Another trip. I break the cardinal rule of parenting and let him see me cry. I rock him for five minutes, as much for me as for him, and place his tiny broken spirit back on the bed. He has given up. Mommy doesn’t love him. All he can do is silently plead as I leave the room.
It is 2 am. The eviction is not going well. The N-man has been silent for almost 30 minutes. Yet I am afraid to sleep. I sit upright, staring into the darkness waiting for him to wake and realize again that I have abandoned him, that he is no longer loved. I remind myself that this has to be done. I curse the fact that X is not here to give me relief, to take a shift. I yawn and lay down to a fitful sleep. I wait and I cry and I wait.
1. Ms Single Mama’s grocery store post, because it started my day off with a laugh and a good reminder to be cognizant, throughout the day, that things may not always be what they seem so a little kindness to a stranger can go a long way. And in honor of MSM’s grocery store hell….
2. Soft, white stilton cheese with blueberry. Always a favorite little luxury when I can find it, which is hardly ever. But today I did!
3. Seeing my neighbor, a fellow single mom, pulling into the driveway at the same time, also with a car full of groceries and a cranky toddler, and sharing a knowing smile that says, I hear you and I’m right there with you.
4. The smile on the N-man’s face when he comes home after a night with X. The half hour before he comes back is the slowest half hour of the week, but that giggle the second I open the door makes it worth it.
5. Filling up my gas tank for $2.25 a gallon. It was 2003 all over again! It’s so sad that we find this to be such a bargain now.
6. Fresh flowers in my house. Another little luxury I allow myself to indulge in, but regularly. I can’t live without fresh flowers. Real women don’t wait for a man to show up with them. They go out and buy their own.
And finally, here’s a shout out to my good friend Dana. Congratulations on surviving two weeks with a six month old, sans husband. I hereby dub thee an honorary single mama! You rock! Now go make him do some work and rub your feet.
The N-man said his name for the first time, today!! About 6:00 am he woke up. I could hear him talking to his stuffed animals, as usual, and then suddenly….. Nee…. KO! Nee…KO! Nee…KO! So careful. So deliberate. So 100% adorable. Forever the drama king, when we walked into the daycare at lunch time he announced his arrival by shrieking it for all he was worth. Way to go N-man on discovering your identity!
In a prior life I was a soccer hooligan. Well, actually, in my current life I am a soccer hooligan. Of course, being an American hooligan I pale in comparison to the real ones across the pond. I don’t start riots and bite peoples ears off. I also don’t bring gasoline to the games and set referees on fire. But it’s there, deep deep down inside me in a dark and twisted place. But alas, it is time for me to bid farewell to hooliganism for the winter. As usual, my home team Rapids have gone all out to prove that they are, with out a doubt, the most mediocre team in all of soccer… any where, any time. All they had to do on Saturday night was win, at home, to make the playoffs. Connor Casey comes out with a beautiful, spot on volley to open the scoring in the ninteeth minute and there the game stood , 1-0, until the last minute of the game. And then they blew it. Final score 1-1. No playoffs for the second year in a row. Time to hang up the scarves, flags and jerseys. But being a long time Cleveland Browns fan, I can take it. I’ve grown accustomed to profound sports disappointment. The day the Rapids make it back to the cup, I will eat my young…. well OK, not the N-man. But I’ll do something drastic. Anyway, here’s a premature, off season shout out to the hooligan peeps of the C-Firm. It was a good season regardless! See you in the spring! Vamanos Rapidos!!
