Category Archives: Motherhood
Losing him
I remember believing with everything I had, that I could never love anyone more than her –
And then I had him.
And what breaks my heart and fills it at the same time, is that he’ll find the love of his life and less I’ll be.
I’ll slip in importance until perhaps I’m not a part of his totem anymore.
There will be friends made and important things to do,
Children and moves and jobs and places to be
And there will be me
Loving him – the same way I do today.
And missing him – in a way I don’t know how
Friday Morning pants
I can’t make decisions until I’ve had at least one cup of coffee – and even then, at 6:30 am, I’m not promising they’ll be good ones.
So I’m checking my Facebook – the coffee is brewing and Nic comes into the kitchen.
“Can I stay home today?”
“Why?”
“Well, I thought about it. I can get my note cards done – we’ll probably still have a sub in 3rd hour most likely and I can do the ‘verb of the week’ on Monday”.
“Oh … are you sick?”
“No”
My brain is trying to recall his grades from my last look at the school website, I’m trying to find any part of me that’s awake to protest. Too tired.
“Hey, at least I’m being honest” he adds.
Yeah, there’s that. I decide I can’t protest. Grades are good, and my brain is still asleep.
He wanders off.
I look up to see him returning in his uniform.
“I thought you weren’t going?”
“yeah, well … my pants were there so I figured why not”.
Thursday Morning Muffin
Given that I now know that Nic ‘has never like sausages’ (ahem … I beg to differ) – I microwaved a healthy Canadian style turkey bacon muffin for him this morning.
Poked my head in the door to check on his progress.
He laid balanced on his elbow, eyes scrunched up in anger.
“I HATE these things!! You try to bite the ham and it falls out!!”
Sure enough, the sandwich had a bite out of it and the ham lay on the plate away from it’s muffin of origin.
Now, Nic is not a brat. He’s not overly dramatic – so the comic value in his morning meltdown had me staring at him in amused observation.
I backed out of the room and continued my morning routine.
Before he headed out the door I said as dramatically as I could: “Muffiiiiiiiiiin”!
You’ve gotta pick your battles. I could have ruined his groove by getting angry at his ham slice reaction – or I could do what I did.
He ended up laughing out the door to school.
From stare to pounce and church mousin’
I am tired.
I am tired and actually wondered if there is a nice family with a farm somewhere, with miles of soft fenced in grass for Butters to run and pounce in – and wi-fi so my son will visit her.
9pm is ‘official’ bedtime in our house. Meaning, the Goodnight sleep tights are said – hugs are had and we hit our rooms.
Usually about 9:30 or 10 is when I switch off the tv or call it a night and let my Nook rest.
Then it begins.
From approximately 10-11 I’m scratching, tossing, turning and peeking at the clock. No, for the record – no bed bugs – it’s dry out here in the desert and with the heater on in the house I have an itchy epidermis that presents only at night – I need some of those little baby mittens:
Yeah, those will do nicely. I’d save the polka dots for the weekend – put some zazz in my Z’s.
Anyway – last night the dog was actually sleeping … good sign.
Midnight. I hear a noise in the kitchen. Someone trying to be quiet in the kitchen. Hmmm … process of elimination.
1) Only two other breathing things live here other than me
2) Butters is not capable of being quiet would not be the kitchen
Nic.
I’ve coined the phrase ‘Church mousing’. Don’t ask me why – considering the church mouse is supposed to be quiet. But, it works around here. I’ll hear him usually scrounging around and call out ‘I hear you church mousin’ around out there!’ To which a laugh and response of ‘Good night mom’ is followed by him taking his foraged items back to his room.
But midnight? Midnight snack yeah – but he had school today for crying out loud.
I spend another 15 minutes trying to get comfy.
1am – another noise from the kitchen.
Really? Jeez!!!!!!! I’m too tired to get up and call him out on it, too tired to call out and frankly, a little concerned that if I respond in any way vocally or physically, my arse is not going to be able to fall back to sleep.
More tossing and turning.
2am – Butters has now evolved from her perfected ‘stare’ and thump of tail to a new move. The front leg pounce – landing right on the 1/2 foot of mattress space between me and the edge of the bed.
Wonderful. Sort of like this guy, but with her hind legs on the floor.
OKAY! Up I get. Let her out … stumble back to my room, the front door is open but I’m used to this routine by now, she’ll come back in a few minutes, plop down on the floor, or the bed and up I get again to go back to close and lock the door.
Half an hour later – pounce.
#$@*!!!
Up I get – let her out – wait – in she comes. Get up, shut and lock door.
God only knows how much later – pounce (and a thump thump).
This time I’m glaring at her, quickly realize I’ve got my eyes open far too wide and walk with my eyes completely closed to the door. (that old trick of if I don’t open my eyes, I won’t wake all the way up) Let her out and back to bed.
I decide then and there that the door will remain open. I weigh the pros and cons of a serial killer just waltzing in.
1) I’ll be too tired to really feel much pain
2) Maybe he can let the flipping dog out next
Pounce. Thump, thump. I almost don’t get up. I almost don’t. Then I remember she had an upset stomach just this weekend and oh hell no am I going to wake up and step in something.
Up I get.
Now – the door is still open – not WIDE open, but at least 3 inches cracked open. Even I could nose a door completely open with 3 inches to work with!!! She’s screwing with me now.
Out she goes again.
My mind is mush – my body begging for some REM. Back to bed I go, but it’s too late.
I startle at 5:55 am – after a brief slip into unconsciousness and give up. The alarm is set to go off at 6.
You can imagine the mood I’m in.
BUT! I had already planned to cook Nic a hot breakfast. Eggs and maple sausages. Because, and I quote “I love it at Tylers house, his mom makes maple sausages and pancakes”
I think I responded at the time with a “Pffft” but of course it stuck in my mind.
I make the damn food.
Take it in to my child.
Grab my coffee and check Facebook.
My son’s last post “5 hours ago”. It’s now 6. Which means, he didn’t just wake up and need a drink or a snack. His arse was on his ipad.
I head to my room – brush my teeth, come back out and there – on the counter – is a plate with one egg and 4 1/2 out of 5 sausages.
“Why didn’t you eat your breakfast?”
“I’ve never liked sausages … you know that.”
Anyone have a farm with a fenced in expanse of soft grass? Never mind the dog and the boy – I want to come sleep on it.
Porch sounds – what about the children??
The neighbors are fighting again. They’ve been fighting with some consistency since my first blog post about them:
https://debaucherysoup.com/2012/11/26/the-help-and-how-i-almost-didnt/
If a visit from the Sheriff and a trip to jail isn’t a deterent, I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised to hear angry screaming yesterday evening and the unmistakable sound of a slap.
The problem I have is this, I don’t know when to get involved anymore!
I only called last time when it was very apparent that the children had been in the house during the violence.
I’m not going to lie – there’s a big part of me now that cares a hell of a lot less about that woman. Especially after saying to her little girls “Because daddy tried to kill mommy” then putting them back in that house with daddy.
I’ve received letters from the District Attorney. Apparently, I was the victim of ‘Disorderly Conduct by Domestic Violence’.
There were originally 4 counts to my neighbors charges. They diminished over the course of a couple more letters. I don’t know too much about the court system but I assume the following:
1) I am the victim because perhaps the woman who received the blows decided against pressing charges?
2) The charges were plead down
One letter mentioned a fine and court ordered anger management/counseling. The last letter I received only mentioned the fine.
I called the District Attorney after the first plea deal after much deliberation. I decided that someone needed to advocate for the children. Evidently it wasn’t going to be their mother and it wasn’t going to be their father.
I never heard back.
After last nights charming background noise to my relaxing porch reading – I’ve been thinking more and more about those little girls.
I know what just hearing it from afar does to me. My stomach clenches, the blood rushes from my gut to the soles of my feet in a cold whoosh. I’m transformed from a 43 year old woman to a scared child.
I could go inside. I could drown out the sounds – self soothe. But those little girls are still in there. They can’t get away from it.
I have a fantasy – it goes like this:
I stomp over to the house mid-fight. Knock on the door. They open the door.
“Hi. Obviously you two have plans tonight – so while you’re busy beating your wife and she’s busy taking it, how about I take the children over to my house until you’ve gotten your rocks off? Then you don’t have to worry about them getting in your fucking way?”
What I would give to do that. To say that. Then to march those children out of there and to safety.
Fantasy.
Here’s just part of what’s going through my head while I’m deliberating what I can possibly do:
Okay, say I call the sherriff again – what if the children get taken away? Good you say? The reality of ‘the system’ is not that of rainbows and candy and warm blankets and laughter. What is the lesser of two evils? Can they just take the ‘dad’ away? But what if he’s the primary provider in the house? Perhaps the ‘mom’ has issues – if she had help, perhaps she would find the strength to do the right thing for her children and herself? I don’t think the children are being hit, but growing up in that environment is still abuse.
And I’ll say again, because it seriously bears repeating – those little girls are learning how to become women by the examples in their life. They’re learning that apparently, men hit women, women go back, a childs safety is not a priority. Their formative years are being spent soaking up the dysfunction that is their parents. So when they get older and have issues – I hope they don’t end up in court being held responsible. After all DA, you decided $300 was punishment enough and let their teachers go back to teaching. Bravo!
I’ve spoken to a friend of mine who happens to be a childrens advocate about what direction she thinks I should take – what avenues I have available to me. I’m not going to sit on my porch and pretend that I don’t hear the fighting. I’m not going to sit and ignore the fact that those children are in that environment. I’ll find out when to get involved, and how. And I’ll do the right thing.
Debauchery Soup 