In my quest to turn my iPod into a portable dance party, I hit up the ole iTunes store to find some music to get my ass moving in the gym.

(as an aside, typically when I am able, I take out all of my frustrations on myself in a way that you wouldn’t expect. It’s either unbelievably healthy or unbelievably horrifying: I beat my own ass at the gym. I am telling you that I can get the hurt on myself. And that I love it)

So, today I downloaded some Prince (because I have single handedly destroyed my CD collection because I totally suck) and some Notorious B.I.G. and holy shit had I forgotten how good and dirrrrty Prince is.

That’s probably the most annoying part of becoming a grown up, you can’t sing snatches (get it?) of Pussy Control in public without offending someone. Nor can you pull up to pick the Notorious B.E.N from school while blasting “Gett Off.”

*sighs*

I think I need to revisit my teenage years again.

What music should I download to get my ass wriggling at the gym?

So, a couple of you suggested astutely that I vanity publish my essays. Besides the fact that I am a total cheap-ass, I just.can’t.do.it.

I can’t tell you the story, though, because I can’t do it justice. So I conned someone that could tell the story for you into guest posting for me. In turn, I owe her my firstborn son and the story of Vanessa, my she-beast roommate.

Without further adieu, I present to you Pashmina, my former blogmate, the Stimpy to my Ren, and a good damn friend of mine.

The first time I tried to order pizza in my very first apartment, the local pizza place hung up on me when they heard my address. When I called back, they told me that they didn’t want my business anymore, thankyouverymuch.

The very first thing the building manager said to me upon my arrival? “I need to check your walls and see if they’re up to code. Esther built that room, you know, the little one, for her cats.

My father (and the Realtor who found the place) said to me, “She put a grand piano in the living room. Can you believe it?”

I can’t say that I did believe it, really, until I had actually moved in. The place looked harmless enough during the walk-through: four walls and one outdated kitchen and bathroom. It was pretty typical Chicago Apartment fare in my college-student price range.

To tell you that I took on the living arrangements of a crazy cat lady would be an understatement.

This woman was THE Crazy Cat Lady, with a dedicated cat-room and all. After I moved in and had been living there for a while, I made a few discoveries of my own. Esther had taped dried flowers to the windows in lieu of curtains. Esther had several cats (and cat hair is damn difficult to get out of carpet).

Esther’s legal last name was ‘Lester,’ and she had not forwarded her mail. I received several bills in very red envelopes with her name on them. Finally, several months after I moved in, the Esther Lester mail abated and the neighbors had essentially stopped talking about her and her crazy cat room (which became my office).

All thoughts of Esther The Crazy Cat Lady/Former Occupant were gone from my mind and I could concentrate on far more important things, like finishing my English/Secondary Education double major and writing thesis after thesis on whether or not Percy Byshee Shelly was doing the nasty with John Keats.

(They were totally humping.)

Then, one day, completely out of the blue, I received a package from Amazon.com with her name on it. As I mentioned earlier, Esther had left no forwarding address and I was compelled to open it. You know, to see if it was worth trying to forward it her new place. It could be important! Who knows, really, until you open it?

Inside where three copies of the same book: One Woman’s-Reflections-Esther by none other than The Crazy Cat Lady Herself. Holy shit, I thought, She wrote a book! She wrote a crazy cat book.

I wish I could tell you that I kept the letter that came with the books, but I didn’t. I do, however, have a real-life enactment of the letter based on actual events:

Dear Crazy Cat Lady,

Here are the last two Earthly copies of your crappy book. It was so very crappy that we couldn’t continue to sell it on Amazon.com. Only one person bought it. Ever. Please keep your crap out of our warehouses.

Sincerely,

Amazon.com

Of course, you know what happened next: I called everyone I knew. “She wrote a book!” I laughed into the phone to anyone who would listen. “She wrote a fucking book of poetry!!! And it’s BAD!!!”

Indeed, the poetry was bad. There was a poem about Lake Michigan that was such an obvious metaphor for sex that it could only have been laughable. It went something like this:

The waves crash down over me

pounding, pounding

pounding me, pounding

o! the waves!

Apparently, to Esther, everything was a metaphor for sex, including her trips to the grocery store (I squeeze the melons to feel their flesh under my flesh), the feeling of driving her car (O! how it vibrates under my control!), the Chicago wind (It pushes me and forces me to resist!), and drunken students wandering by her window (O! to feel virgin flesh on virgin flesh/the weight. O!).

She had two other topics of poetry: her grandchildren (O! but they bring so much joy to my lonely life/because my children don’t visit!) and thinly-veiled attacks on her neighbors:

O! they complain!

Complain about the noise!

About the singing!

About the dancing!

Don’t they know how to live?

O, the shame. O, the hilarity. O, the search that showcased her second and her third book.

Come on, Esther. You make this too easy.

I’m not embarrassed to admit that many a drunken night was capped off with readings of Esther’s terrible, terrible poetry. Many a poem was paused midway through to fake an uproariously loud orgasm much to the delight of the audience, who was, by that point, having an asthma attack from laughter at the crap that passed for poetry from a vanity publisher.

(In fact, if I can side track for a moment, your own Aunt Becky does a hilarious reading of some of Esther’s better works. I bet if you ask her nicely, she’ll videotape herself doing this and put it up on YouTube for you.)

The most lasting impression, though, is how many people have asked me to relinquish the last remaining Earthly copy of Esther’s book. My answer'”depending on my mood'”ranges from a polite-but-firm ‘No,’ to a very threatening ‘Fuck no’ with a little more ‘No!’ on top. I guard the damn thing with my life. It’s tried to walk out at parties and my English Geeky friends are constantly trying to ‘borrow’ it for ‘entertainment value.’

To this day, I don’t know what happened to Esther, but she can rest assured; her message will live on in my house as long as there is sangria to be consumed within 100 yards and an audience to fake-orgasm for. Her memory also lives on at Giordanos, but for a far, far different reason, I’m sure.

I’m not a very creative person. Really, I’m not.

Yes, I post to my blog pretty religiously, but it’s really like I’m talking to you all, telling you a story. Honestly, I write just how I speak. And I tell the truth for the most part, so it doesn’t involve much creativity on my end.

Usually I just tell you something, reread it quickly for obvious typos (and have my sweet Manny to remind me when I misspell something) and throw it up. Voila! Instant feedback. And since my blog readers are some of the nicest on the planet (seriously, what did I do to deserve all of you?), what you tell me is always pretty nice.

A couple of weeks ago, I made the decision to start writing some essays. Again, because I have no real creativity they’re true stories about me and my life, so it’s not like I’m stretching too far with them. It’s a subject matter I’m comfortable with, I enjoy nothing more than telling a good story and they’re pretty good.

The essays are still pretty embryonic and rough and still need a lot more work (have I mentioned my comma addiction?) because they’re slightly more formal than my blog posts. I like ’em, I really do, and I’m proud of them.

But sometimes, like yesterday, I get pretty insecure about them. I like stuff that has real answers, a real right and wrong way to do things, and obviously creative stuff doesn’t have much of that. It’s whatever you think it should be.

That terrifies me.

It terrifies me, it makes me nervous and shy, and it makes me insecure. That is what you saw yesterday, and I wanted to thank each of you who reminded me that I’m not a failure at this stuff.

If I were someone totally crappy to read here on Mommy Wants Vodka, you wouldn’t come over, and I wouldn’t blame you. Since most of you don’t know me from a hole in the ground, I can’t even say that you’re just reading me because you feel sorry for me or because I pay you to. So, believe me when I tell you all how much it means to me to hear from you. Weird or not, you guys are my friends too, and you prop me up, dust me off, and get me back on my feet again. That’s what friends do for each other, right?

I don’t know what I’m going to do with these essays yet, I’m just not sure. Maybe they’ll just be saved merrily into my fancy hard drive on my new computer, where they will sit and rot. Who knows? Really, who cares?

Since I’m determined AND OCD they will be completed to the best of my ability, they will be edited by my good friend Pashmina–or whatever her blog name is– (she’s an actual real editor, can you believe I know such cool people? AND she introduced me to The Daver AND saved me from my hideous roommate in college. She’s a peach.) and The Daver, and then, who knows?

Giving up is not an option for me, because even if I try to not post to my blog or write part of an essay each day, I get really crabby and irritable–I think I’m addicted to writing– until I am able to. It’s really damn weird. I’m hoping that venturing outside the box will be a good thing for me, even if it’s for a small while.

Shit.

Is it always gonna be so scary? What should I do with them?

I’m having a day here in sunny Saint Charles. It’s one of those days where you rethink everything you’re doing and have done and wondering what the fuck you were thinking.

This turns quickly into feeling like you’re a failure but that everyone’s being too nice to tell you about it.

Shit.

How do you snap yourself out of this black hole of self doubt and loathing?

Another from the vaults, this one is from January 2006. I figured that rather than fluff up the archive on this blog with my old stuff, I’ll just repost the good ones here.

I’ll be back later with something more substantial.

————-

*ring, ring*

B: (excitedly) ‘œHey Daver, I had a great idea!’

D: (distractedly) ‘œYeah?’ (typing sounds resume earnestly in background)

B: ‘œWell, you know how we’re buying a new house?’

D: (warily) ‘œYeah’¦.?’

B: ‘œI think we should rescind our offer on the house on Adams. I found a better one!’

D: ‘œWhat?’

B: (talking faster now) ‘œI mean, I know we’re going to lose some of our earnest money, and that totally sucks but I just realized my dream house!’

D: ‘œWhere is this place?’

B: ‘œWell, you know that forest preserve that I love that we always pass on the way home that I always say ‘God, I love that forest preserve?’ and ‘Cantigny is so pretty!”

D: (warily and wearily) ‘œYes’¦’

B: ‘œI’ve decided that we’re going to buy the Cantigny Mansion. You know, the old McCormick house? I toured it once as a kid with my parents, and I LOVED it!’

D: (feels the dull thump of a migraine coming on) ‘œBecky, it’s not for sale. It’s property of the county.’

B: (triumphantly) ‘œWell, THAT’S why we have to go in with guns blazing; give them an offer they can’t refuse!’

D: (head resting on desk) ‘œOhno.’

B: (dreamily) ‘œThink about it, Dave. We can be Lord and Lady of THAT house. I mean, I already changed my name to Princess Grace of Monaco in my mind! It has a nicer ring to it.’

D: (banging head on desk) ‘œYou know she’s dead, right?’

B: ‘œSo she won’t mind that I’ve taken her name. Plus, I won’t have to explain to people, ‘I’m the OTHER Princess Grace of Monaco.”

D: (now irritated) ‘œYou got me out of a meeting for THIS?’

B: (sheepishly) ‘œWell, yeah.’

D: (tiredly) ‘œWHEN do you go back to work?’

B: ‘œJanuary 30th’

D: (under his breath) ‘œNot soon enough.’

B: ‘œOh well, I’ll call our real estate lady and tell her the news.’

D: ‘œYou do that.’

*both parties hang up*

You’d never know from the ridiculous amount that I blog that I never in my whole life kept even as much as a journal.

Wait, that’s not true. My hip and cool cousin gave me a blank diary when I was about 10 or 11 and I tried my best to keep a diary. It lasted about a day and a half before even at that tender age, I looked at it and realized it was complete crap and ripped out the pages I had written in. Since I don’t have it any longer, I’ll try to give you an example:

“Dearest Diary,

I went to school today and I swear that Mike looked at me. WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? Maybe he’s IN LOVE with me! OOOOOH!

Love ALWAYS,

Becky

P.S. What is the deal with clear mascara?”

It was, even at that age, in a word: lame.

I guess I fell into blogging pretty much the same way I’ve fallen into anything else in my life.

I never really had thought about kids and then BAM! I was a mother. I’d never expected or really wanted to get married and then POW! I met The Daver. I’d really never had any desire to be a nurse and then WHAM! I just renewed my license.

It’s just strange how these things fall into my lap.

All of the things I had real dreams of doing are things that I’m not doing. I’d wanted to go to medical school and carry on the family tradition of being a doctor, and that promptly fell by the wayside when Ben was born. Sure, I could go back, but I don’t think that’s going to happen.

I’d wanted to take my nursing degree and go work for Doctors Without Borders when I graduated, but when I looked into it I realized that I couldn’t make their 6 month commitment without missing out on a lot of Ben’s life.

I have no idea if this is the way that most people eke out their paths in life, because The Daver seems to be doing precisely what he always thought he would do, albeit with the wife and kids he wasn’t sure he would have (which is especially hilarious if you know him. When I met him he had Marriage Material and Great Father written on his forehead). Maybe other people make plans and are actually able to follow through with them, I’m just not sure.

I’m not actually sad that I haven’t gone where I always thought I’d be, I’m quite pleased with my new life (at least, most days). I guess I learned awhile ago that “to make God laugh, tell him your plans,” so I don’t really bother making unrealistic goals right now. I’m fairly certain that I’ll go back to school once we’re done with babies and ickle kids (I’ve done the full time school with a wee one and I won’t do it again), and I have a decent idea of what I’ll be studying when I do go back, but shit, I can’t be certain that any of it will gel into a reality.

Honestly, I’m fine with that. I’ve learned to finally stop fighting whatever forces that be and embracing whatever may come.

I’m just anxious to see where I end up.

What about you? Are you somewhere within what you thought you’d be doing or did your path veer sharply? Does it upset you either way?

This is a blog I snatched from my old blog, dated May 9, 2006.

Whether or not this is really from an article called the ‘œGood Wives Guide’ from the 50’s, I have no real idea. But I have edited it to better fit my own kicky 2000’s lifestyle. Which is better? YOU be the judge.

Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have be thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they get home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.

*Wait, wait, wait. When the hell do you think I have the inclination to plan something out in advance? Don’t kid yourself, honey, this’ll never happen. Planning it out in advance is saying ‘œI want Chinese food tonight’ at 3pm.

Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you’ll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.

*Now I’m not trying to imply that I look like a million bucks when Dave walks in the door, but honestly the last thing on my mind at 7pm is ‘œdo I look okay?’ It’s much more like ‘œdid I accidently microwave the cat, AGAIN? Shit!”

Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it.

*If I’ve had a bad day too, the last thing on my mind will be cheering The Daver up, because misery does indeed love company.

I’ll be much more concerned that I don’t go punching out walls or running over small children with my large truck with a horrifically cheerful look upon my face. Or beating up rednecks. I loves me some rednecks.

And I am always a little gay.

Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives. Run a dustcloth over the tables.

*No, no, no, no. NO WAY. 95% of the clutter in this house is a direct result of Hurricaine Dave coming through throwing his crap around. And what the fcuk is a dust cloth?

During the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too. After all, catering to his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.

*Are you SERIOUS? I don’t know how to work the fireplace, and I don’t intend to learn. If he wants to ‘œrelax’ by the fire, he can light it himself. I don’t know when catering to anyone’s comfort has provided me with any type of satisfaction. Unless it involved Prada purses. Then I could cater a lot.

Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Encourage the children to be quiet. Be happy to see him.

*If there is noise in the home, it means I am home. I am noisy. I am loud. I speak at extremely high volumes 99.9% of the time. And really, if I am actually doing these household chores, he should be damn pleased that I’m doing them at all.

Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.

*Although I recognize that showing a happy face is important to a marriage, my desire to please him?

Bwhahahahahahahaha!

*wipes tears from eyes*

Hahahahahahahaha!

I think you had better please ME, sweet cheeks!

Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first – remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.

*If I waited until Dave stopped talking to tell him such things as ‘œthe sump pump backed up and the basement is flooded’ or ‘œI want to have a threesome with a midget’ I’d never be heard.

Dave and I talk over each other with such comfortable regularity that we have actually made a sign that says ‘œFloor’ to use when we have Important Discussions.

And wait, how the hell is ‘œthe cpm processor of horhelfsag to the ajfoijhriwndas is jdsa;hfrioenrhiubnf’ more important than ‘œOur bedroom smells like cheese’ or ‘œcherry flavored pez is a wonderfood?’ Because it’s totally not.

Don’t greet him with complaints and problems.

*Then who else can I greet this way?

Don’t complain if he’s late for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through at work.

*Yeah. RIGHT.

Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or lie him down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.

*Um, yeah, Michael, how’s it going? Now about that TPS Report…?

Unless his arm is falling off, he had better pitch in with the kid, the dog, dinner, whatever. With a big smile on his face.

Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.

*Have you HEARD my voice? It’s like a sack of cats fighting over a mouse on a chalkboard. And I yell. Most of the time. And where would I take his shoes? On a date?

Don’t ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.

*MASTER OF THE GODDAMN HOUSE?

Bwahahahahaha!

That’s right, The Daver is Master of the…Bwahahahaha! I can’t even type it.

I mean, seriously, what am I supposed to say when he says, ‘œI think we should buy a truckload of Twinkies and the biggest Fry Daddy we can find! Fuck our retirement!!’ Color me boring but I don’t think ‘œWhatever you say, dear’ would work well.

A good wife always knows her place.

*Yeah, bitch, “my place” is anywhere I fucking want it to be.

As a line firmly drawn in the sand, I don’t buy parenting books. Sure, I own about a bazillion books on how to get your baby to fucking go to sleep already, but you know what? I bought them all and didn’t even read them. You know why? Books (especially like those) are written by people who don’t necessarily have much save for some anecdotal experience to back them up (you don’t need to correct me if I’m wrong: I still won’t read ’em).

I don’t deny that they don’t work, shit I really don’t know if they do or not, but those books aren’t written by someone who knows my own child, and I don’t really need to hear what they think I’m doing wrong. Seriously, that’s the issue I have with most parental books, they’re always telling me what I am doing that’s going to fuck up my kid. And you know what? I already know what I’m doing wrong: trust me.

The only parenting books I’ll ever actually read (buying them sometimes makes me feel better, weirdly enough, even if I don’t so much as crack them open) are the funny ones. The Girlfriends Guide To Pregnancy helped me through not one but two very long pregnancies, and if I ever have another, I’d read that again.

I guess I was lucky when I realized that my hilarious friend Stefanie Wilder-Taylor wrote another book to help me laugh through the toddler years: Naptime Is The New Happy Hour.

Toddlers are weird creatures, not as annoying as babies or as know-it-all as certain six-and-a-half year olds that may live under my roof, but they’re strange and unpredictable. They know what they want (in theory anyway) but can’t quite tell you what that is and when you don’t know that ‘throwing my juice cup on the floor really means that I wanna go to the park, you freaking idiot,’ they tantrum.

While not the easiest age for parents to handle, so long as you keep your sense of humor about it, it can be pretty entertaining.

This is what Stef reminds you over and over. Honestly, it’s the best advice you can hear when you’re sitting and watching the clock tick and wishing it would hurry up and be naptime again so you can relax.

My favorite chapter is called “Oh The Places You’ll Go (Or Won’t)” because she finally put into words something I’ve always sort of thought: don’t bother with the fancy-schmacy museums and other educational activities unless it means something to you. It’s just not worth it to shell out the cash for something they’ll never remember. Target is doesn’t charge an entry fee and just as enjoyable.

I’ve gotten suckered into that whole “I need to do something EDUCASHIONAL with my kids or I’m a BAD MOTHER” trap before, and it was nice to have the validation from an outside source (my friend Stef) that I’m not the only one that thinks that a trip to the Planetarium for a one year old is just a bit overkill, unless it’s really for you.

(My six year old doesn’t even remember his birthday party that we shelled out major bucks to have at the local kids museum last August. If a six year old won’t remember this stuff, how can a one or two year old? Simple answer: they won’t).

In her book, Stef also addresses the issues of competitive parenting, which we all know is both very real and very irritating.

Talking to ‘one of those’ mothers/fathers is like talking to a real! live! parenting! book! with phrases such as “well MY daughter” snotty inhale “was not only SPEAKING by age one, she was DRIVING the car for us while doing ADVANCED CALCULUS.”

While this mother spoke, my own one year old was alternating between grabbing his crotch and laughing whenever he’d get a fistful of his twig and dingleberries and then examining a booger he’d pulled from his nose.

Maybe I’m exaggerating a wee bit, maybe I’m spot on, but Stef says it all way better than I do. And I think that SHE’S spot on. She might even be my hero.

One of the best parts of this book, Naptime Is The New Happy Hour is this: you can read it over and over again and laugh just as hard as Stef navigates the sometimes turbulent seas of toddlerdom; it’s well written, witty, and sometimes makes you go, “ME TOO!”. Maybe raising a toddler isn’t always fun, but Stef reminds you that no matter how few other mothers you know that are like her (and me), you’re not really alone in any of this.

I guess my point is this: if you like Aunt Becky and when she talks ever-so-lovingly about her children, you’ll REALLY like Stefanie Wilder-Taylor. I’m the Coke Light (Stef Light?) to her Real Thing.

Check out her blog, check out her book: Naptime Is The New Happy Hour, and check out her kids. They’re adorable.

In theory, I like the idea of Mother’s Day.

It’s the one day out of the year that I get to openly celebrate having my two kids with both of them, I get to be as bitchy as I want and do whatever the fuck I please whenever the hell I please it. Go tanning without a gummy toddler pulling up on the tanning bed? Check. Pedicure without trying to corral a six year old? Fan-fucking-tastic. I can sleep in, I can make my family wait on me hand and foot, and it’s theoretically flipping awesome.

In practice, however, I fucking hate it. I hate it with the fire of a thousand suns, I hate it passionately, and I hate Hallmark for making it such a big damn deal.

I’ve been a mother now for seven years, and each year I grow more sullen and resentful of having to celebrate it. The closer it gets, the more I openly dread it.

No matter that I’m the only one in the family with young children, the only one who still gets up overnight, and the only one who makes sure everything runs as smoothly as possible for my kids.

It’s never about me. It just isn’t.

Mother’s Day is never a celebration of any of the things that I do (or in some cases don’t do), it’s about pleasing the two other mothers in my life: neither of which a) cares for me much or b) acknowledges me in any way shape or form (even if I have recently popped a child from my cooter).

To keep the peace, I have to make damn certain that my husband I go and pick a card for his mother and some small token to say thank you to her (never mind that our tastes are completely dissimilar). Then I have to swallow my incredibly complicated feelings for my own mother and make sure to pick her out something special.

I know this makes me sound incredibly selfish and spoiled, like I don’t want to share the day with either of them or something, but I assure you that’s not it. I adore thinking of other people, buying them something thoughtful, and watching them enjoy it. Seriously, that’s my favorite part of Christmas.

It’s just that whatever I do is not acknowledged unless I don’t do it. The year that I forgot to remind Dave pick up a card for his mother myself and send it myself (which I always do), he got an angry phone call.

The year that I didn’t realize that Mother’s Day was a big ass deal for my own mother (it had never, ever been before), I got the world’s meanest letter written to me and placed on my pillow. The words “fuck” and “you” were prominent features there (yes, this was written by my mother, and I was 19), as were just about any insult you could imagine.

And if I do make sure to do the thoughtful things for these women (neither of whom are maternal to me in any way), I don’t even get a ‘thank you,’ or a “Happy Mother’s Day to you, too, Becky.” It’s expected that I spend the day with one or both of them (if not THAT day, at least 2 separate weekends) and not celebrate it for myself.

The fact that no one in my family (either side) ever even says ‘thank you’ for anything that I do hurts me, but for some reason, maybe I’m being a silly bitch, the fact that I go out of my way for two people who don’t even really like me (I’m actually being less melodramatic than it seems. Seriously) on a day that is technically “my day” too really hurts me even more.

It hurts me much more than I’d let on, so much so that Dave has officially called Mother’s Day off for the year. He’s so tired of watching me cry over it (it’s been 5 years of weeping. Not continuously, of course. That would be creepy) that he’s doing the only thing he can do (my family is not the sort to address these things). We’re going to do something to celebrate with just the four of us and that’s all.

He’s just done watching me get hurt by our families, and because we just don’t address stuff like that out in the open like normal people (I did tell you it was a note that my mother left me, right?), and we probably never will, and he’s just putting an end to it. I don’t need to “remember” these two women who refuse to “remember” me any more.

Maybe this makes me a selfish bitch, maybe it just marks the dawn of a new era of not taking bullshit from my family, maybe it’s just a false threat; I don’t know. All I do know is this: I am finally more at peace with the whole holiday than I’ve been the whole time I’ve been a mother.

Am I asking too much?