Beaches, Bloody Marys and Bathing Suits

We are leaving Thursday for a quick weekend getaway to the southwestern shores of Lake Michigan.

I need a new bathing suit.

I hate bathing suit shopping.

I have procrastinated too long as it is.

So, yesterday was the day, I decided, to motivate myself and just get it the hell over with already. But when I woke up with a visit from Aunt Flo, feeling bloated and cramp-y and akin to a Weeble-Wobble, I knew it was going to take more than positive self talk to get the job done.

“I’ll just have one Bloody Mary,” I told Jim. “Maybe it will make me feel better. You know, take the edge off.”

Having a Bloody Mary is a prerequisite to shopping for a bathing suit, for me, because it is a painful and horrifying experience.

But, I still wasn’t ready after I tossed back the first one. “Maybe I’ll just have one more,” I told Jim as I walked over to the counter to mix up another. “Yeah, one more ought to do it!”

He started laughing at me. “Tell me what you’re looking for and I’ll just go find you one at Wal-Mart,” he stated.

“Wal-Mart?” I squawked. “You don’t seriously think I’m going to find a bathing suit there, do you?”

“Well,” he said, “I don’t feel much like driving to Sandusky, and North Olmstead is out of the question today. If you can’t find anything at Wal-Mart, then I don’t know what to tell you!”

Hmmm…

Well, I needed to stock up on snacks for Corbin and purchase some necessities like sun block and beach toys anyway, so I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to at least check out the selection of bathing suits at Wal-Mart.

“Okay, fine! Let’s go then!” I huffed.

I don’t think I am asking for too much, really. All I want is a stylish tankini with a pop of color, a fashionable tankini with a flow-y top to hide my distressed stomach and camouflage the air-bag-jelly-roll-muffin-top area.

Let me just say, there is not enough vodka in the world to convince me even one of the hundred suits I tried on made me look, well…good. Not. Even. Close.

I guess that means we’ll have to hit one of the malls between here and Michigan.

Oh, The Mother and Child Reunion...Is Only A Motion Away

Charles Fredrick Hamilton

I talked with the girls last night, finally.

It was a bittersweet conversation, mostly one-sided, with me asking questions and them replying in one-word answers. As it has been for months now, it doesn’t matter when I talk to them; every time I do, I hear a lot of muffled background noise; voices, activities, and such.

Carley spoke first, initially excited, she told me about playing with her friend from down the street. But after a couple sentences her voice began to trail off. She stopped, mid-sentence, and I could hear Charlie in the background whispering to her. The line went quiet on her end. After a couple seconds we resumed our conversation, and Carley sounded… removed. I attempted to ask open-ended questions like, “tell me about your friend,” and her response was, “I don’t know. Do you wanna talk to Kara?”

It wasn’t much different when I talked with Kara. She was busy making bookmarks out of glue and glitter. I asked her what she did all day and her response was “nothing.” So, I asked her what “nothing” was. She then told me she had spent the afternoon swimming with her friend in the neighbor’s pool. I managed to pull a slight giggle out of her when I responded, “wow, that sounds like a lot of fun ‘nothing’ to me.”

I asked Kara if she was allowed to go into another room to talk and she told me no. When I questioned her further about all the background noise she became quiet and wouldn’t answer. I then asked, “Is your dad standing right there listening to your conversation?” And her response was an astounding, “Uh, yeah!” to which I envisioned her cocking her head and snapping her fingers.

In that moment I could feel the fierceness begin to swell within me. And just sitting here, typing these words, my hands are shaking and my heart is pounding.

I’ve suspected for quite a while now that they were being monitored, their every word being dissected microscopically. That is why they seem afraid to talk, answer my questions with one-word answers, and rush to get off the phone. That is why they sound tired, expressionless, reserved, withdrawn. I imagine they live in fear, constantly, of saying the wrong thing, letting something slip out that shouldn’t. Charlie’s presence during their phone conversations is wrong on so many levels. I can picture him, ordering the girls to stand directly in front of him, while he hovers over them, and torments them the entire time they’re on the phone, with me, their mother, by sternly pointing his finger and shooting them the evil eye. Charlie’s behavior is unacceptable, as it impedes their ability to be who they are and share freely their hearts, their thoughts, or something as simple as what they had for breakfast.

I’m worried. I worry every single day about how the current emotional wounds to their hearts will turn into deep gaping scars later in life as a result of Charlie’s inability to just let them be who they are.

I agonize before and after every phone conversation. I don’t want to put unnecessary strain on them by asking too many questions, or asking the wrong questions, or attempting to discuss a topic that would grant Charlie an opportunity to scold them because they slipped in their excitement and shared too much.

After last night, I’m more convinced than ever as to why Charles Fredrick Hamilton doesn’t want to, flat out refuses to, abide by the court order. He loses control the minute those girls are in a safe haven. He loses control over what they say, when they say it, how they say it.

Shortly after Corbin was born Charlie came to our house one night to hang out with all three kids while Jim and I went out and had a couple drinks. We felt safe leaving the kids in Charlie’s care, and at that point, we had been co-parenting better than ever before so we didn’t give it a second thought. When we got home that night, as usual, I put on my bright red lipstick and kissed my sleeping beauties goodnight. That was our ritual, and I knew they would look for their visible kiss upon waking the next morning.

I awoke to voices early the next morning in the hallway outside my bedroom.

It was Kara, who had been pacing back and forth in the hall willing us to wake up, chomping at the bit to confess the sins of her father. Jim, first out of bed, was dazed and couldn’t quite comprehend what she was saying because she was talking so fast. I jumped out of bed and questioned what had transpired in our absence.

Kara informed us that her dad, Charles Fredrick Hamilton, made her lie to his girlfriend, Rosie Granados, on the telephone the previous night by saying they were at Charlie’s buddies house taking care of his baby, Jared. Her dad, Charles Fredrick Hamilton, told her that some people don’t understand the dynamics of our family, that it’s confusing to explain the details, and that’s why she must back him up and confirm his lie to his girlfriend. Kara explained that, at first, she told her dad no. But, he gave her a “mean look” and told her if she would do it, he would take her shopping. So, she complied.

Immediately, I called him. Of course, I was told that I should know how Kara is with her wild imagination and how she likes to make up stories. He not only denied forcing and bribing Kara to lie for him, he called her the liar.

I assured Kara I believed her. I also expressed my disappointment, though, and explained to her the policy we have about not lying. She understood that, she said, but ended the conversation with, “I did it because I didn’t want to get in trouble. I’m telling the truth now, mom!”

And, I believe that is what Charlie fears. The minute the girls are out of his sight and feel safe, he knows that no amount of hovering, threats, evil stares, or emotional distress he has bestowed upon them will matter. They will produce every detail they’ve been warned to keep secret. They will talk without thinking and it will all come out. That is, after all, how I learned that he lied about buying them a big house with a pool. They were disappointed. They felt gypped. And their sadness, their pain, is distressful to me. To go from seeing the excitement and gleam in their eyes to witnessing a glazed-over defeated look is incredibly disheartening.

No matter what happens, I cannot, and will not, be erased from their lives. I am their mother – and that is a love that doesn’t end or waver. Despite Charlie’s best intentions to alienate me from the lives of Kara and Carley, I refuse to play his games or allow him to stomp on their hearts.

I know he’s in contempt of court. He knows he’s in contempt of court.

I have refused any further verbal contact with him and told him he needs to communicate in writing. I want proof, in black and white, of each and every occurrence in which he denies me, and our girls, the opportunity to spend time together.

I figure he will eventually dig his own grave.

And I’ll be the one to spit on it!

Wordless Wednesday: What Not to Wear

While Jim and I were out Saturday night I couldn’t help but wonder if I was in the middle of a freak parade. Seriously, women with industrial-size bras hanging out; men with tube socks pulled to the knee caps, and mature women wearing tops pulled from their granddaughter’s closets.

I’m not Stacy London but even I know a crime of fashion when I see one.

It’s all about dressing your size; not the size you want to be or think you are. And bright colors on voluptuous women only accentuate the curves.

And, for cryin' out loud, ladies: invest in a strapless bra!

The Emancipation of Jon Gosselin

In August 2008, Jon and Kate Gosselin renewed their vows in Hawaii, declaring their love for one another in front of their eight kids, Jon’s extended family, and America, promising they would be together forever.

And less than a year later, People Magazine announced yesterday that Kate Gosselin filed divorce papers Monday afternoon after ten years of marriage, as TLC hyped a ‘big announcement’ all weekend.

"Over the course of this weekend, Jon's activities have left me no choice but to file legal procedures in order to protect myself and our children," Kate said in a statement released Monday night.

Jon has a lot of anger and refuses to communicate, according to Kate, who appeared remarkably saddened and solemn as she discussed the stomach-churning anxiety she’s been experiencing in recent months, which make for strained interactions between she and Jon.

Jon appeared more joyful than distressed as he interviewed, again separate from Kate, sporting new ear piercings, and announced his excitement, at 32-years-old and with eight kids, for the new chapter in his life to begin. Yes, excitement. Un-freakin-believable!

Speculation of infidelity coupled with hearsay that Jon has been living separate from the family in the garage apartment on their million-dollar property left little to the imagination for viewers, like myself, who aren’t shocked about their impending divorce, but dejected nonetheless.

For at least seven or eight months they have - well, at least Kate has - suffered silently as their marriage was crumbling publicly. It’s been a stressful environment with constant arguing in front of their kids, with each experiencing a roller coaster of emotions leading to huge blow-ups and lack of communication.

Personally, I believe lack of communication is what found them in this tumultuous mess.

They both contributed toxicity, no question, but Jon took a backseat for nine years. NINE! And now he wants to blame Kate for his passive demeanor? Jon claims he let Kate ‘rule the roost’, and then finally stood up to her. I suppose, if you consider boozing it up with co-eds while your wife is out of town working, buying a car without so much as a discussion, inviting your paramour over to sun-bathe in the front lawn of the marital home you share with your kids when you know damn well paparazzi will snap photos, purchasing a custom motorcycle, piercing your ears, and sneaking away to Utah with your lover girl – if that is standing up for yourself, then I say congratulations, Jon! You win the most passive-aggressive-pansy-assed-bitch award!

Seriously, he’s going to walk away from his family, saying this is what’s best for him and his kids, without exhausting every possible effort to salvage his marriage, without so much as a visit to a counselor? How can anyone make a life-changing decision when emotions are so out of whack? And how can it be best for the kids if, as rumor has it, he’s moving to New York City for a ‘job’?

I tend to agree with Kate as she expressed her confusion over Jon’s flippant attitude. There will come a day he will be sorry for throwing his family away. He’s been riding on his kids’ coattails far too long and I don’t see him making it on his own without Kate to direct him. And I can’t believe I just said that because like many of you, I found her emasculation of Jon Gosselin downright contemptible. I actually felt sorry for the guy. Not anymore though.

I have a feeling this is far from over. Kate is distraught right now, and rightfully so. But, you know what they say about a woman scorned.

I’m sure we’ll be seeing Kate Unleashed before too long.

Spanking Mad

Unless you’ve been living under a rock or backpacking through Europe, you’ve undoubtedly heard about the most recent scandal plaguing Kate Gosselin; the one in which she was caught by paparazzi spanking five-year-old Leah.

Details released last week by In Touch Weekly show an agitated Kate assuming the position - grabbing a hold of wiry and teary-eyed Leah, and spanking her for blowing a whistle after she was asked repeatedly to stop.

People are pissed! Pi-assed!

And while Kate may consider the spanking-for-blowing-a-whistle proper punishment, I, quite frankly, have a difficult time viewing the photos of the incident. Maybe my hormones are running high right now, but it’s troubling. Especially when you see the two older girls looking on in horror, and hear of how they ran to comfort their little sister after the fact. I don’t understand why Kate didn’t confiscate the freakin’ whistle and toss it in the trash. Problem solved.

I can’t say I have never spanked. I have, on occasion, swatted my kids’ rears in a fearful moment, of say, running into the street or attempting to touch a hot grill or stove. It was done without a moment of contemplation when I was terrified for their safety. But, spanking is not customary punishment in my house. It never has been. It never will be. And nothing enrages me more than being in public and witnessing a parent cursing at, spanking, pulling, and/or yanking on their kid. It repulses me.

I know every parent does what works best for his or her kids. I choose not to spank, and if you do, fine.

But, I find myself coming back to the argument that it’s considered assault if one adult hits another. Why then, are the laws different where innocent children are concerned?

Madea is my Hero

The notion of bedtime was a tormenting presence last night. Again.

As you know, I haven’t been sleeping very well lately.

But I inched my way up the stairs, tired and emotionally depleted, and settled in to my inviting bed to watch Showbiz Tonight. A.J. Hammer was discussing Lindsay Lohan’s scandalous topless photo circulating on Twitter.

My eyes felt heavy and I eventually dozed off.

I was startled awake at 2:00 a.m., and remembered quite vividly fantasizing about Madea.

Yes, that Madea, the one and only. And no, not in the way you’re thinking.

I visualized Madea pacing around her kitchen hot-boxing a Doral Menthol 100. She was dressed in a unique purple pantsuit ensemble with a red vest and matching red ballet flats.

“Aw hell naw!” She said to me shaking her head. “What do ya mean that man ain’t gonna letchu have your kids?” Smoke escaped her nose and mouth simultaneously as she snarled. “HmmmMmmm…We’ll just see ‘bout that. C’mon, girl!”

Madea grabbed her oversized gray pocketbook, clutching it in the crease of her left arm. “Less go!”

“Go?” I wondered aloud. “Go where?”

“I done tole you, honey. We goin’ to get your kids!” She answered mischievously nodding her head as she motioned me out the front door, her handbag swaying from the gesture.

“Ride or die, honey. Ride or die! C’mon now.” She uttered to me as she stormed toward her 1978 gold Cadillac, taking her notorious place in the drivers seat while I rode shotgun.

Madea whipped her Cadillac into Charlie Hamilton’s Dyer, IN driveway barely missing the garage.

With the car idling in park she stormed through the unlocked front door stopping only for a second to look around when she spotted Charlie lying on the sofa watching a movie, a stack of Miller Light cans toppling the antique trunk coffee table.

“Helleerrr!” She exclaimed loudly as she brushed his legs aside and plopped down next to him. “Damn, Charlie… you be lookin’ all casket sharp today! How you doin’?” She flashed him a big bright sarcastic smile.

Startled, Charlie sat up to face the large feisty woman who sat in front of him “I don’t know who the hell you think you are!” he said in his infamous cocky tone of voice, “But you better get the hell outta my house!”

She turned toward him and said, "I'm Madea! MA to the damn D-E-A! You unnerstand that? And what I want, I get!"

Charlie stood up and tried to grab Madea by the arm to usher her out the front door. “What the hell is it that you want?” He asked her as she pulled away from him.

“Uh huh…you betta back the hell up!” Madea said as she hopped to her feet towering over him. “I say these here chilren belongs to her and we ain't leavin till she get ‘em!”

“Where those kids be at?” Madea brushed past him and began to search the house. Just then, the girls appeared at the top of the stairs. “You two go pack yo bags. You goin’ home with yo mama. Go on, now!” And they scampered quickly back to their bedroom and gathered some of their favorite things, loading up Madea’s Cadillac with suitcases and backpacks and a box of My Little Ponies.

“Over my dead body!” Charlie arrogantly laughed. “Kara! Carley!” He hollered. “Get back in this house now!”

“That can be arranged!” Madea stated as she pulled two Glocks out of her handbag and aggressively stared Charlie down. He attempted to lunge at her and she fired a warning shot shattering his big screen TV. “Boy, I done tole you…” she warned. “Sit down and shut the hell up!” She ordered. “Put the shut, to the up. Okay? Shut to the up. Shut up!"

“I’m calling the police!” Charlie whined.
.
“I ain’t scared a no po po. Call da damn po po!”

And she wasn’t playin’, Dude. That ole woman woulda busted a cap in his ass just as fast as she can bust a move and break it down like it’s hawt.

And then I was startled awake by a big thump.

Hallelu-yer!

Charles Fredrick Hamilton: There's A Special Place In Hell For You

I have so many extreme emotions swimming around inside me right now.

I’m so furious I could spit nails. I’m so unbelievably sad I could curl up into a ball and weep for days. Right now though, most of all, I feel deflated. Empty. Overwhelmed with gut-wrenching grief.

I have been unable to keep anything down for two days, and as I rest in bed at night attempting to sleep, I toss and turn, and I’m up and down, as all the conversations and actions – or lack thereof, and the what-ifs, wreak havoc in my mind and torment my soul.

I feel as though I have sacrificed a tremendous amount for what I believed would be my girls’ happiness. But, at the same time, I feel deep sorrow and agonizing regret for the manner in which I feel I’ve failed them.

I failed to protect them from a man who doesn’t have their best interests at heart. I failed to stand up for them and be their voice when everything inside of me was screaming PROVE IT as Charles Fredrick Hamilton excitedly told his daughters of the big new house he bought in Dyer, Indiana in a five-star school district; a house, he promised, with a pool and a large park directly off their fenced in backyard with huge curving trees and jungle gyms and plenty of room to run and bike ride where they would all live and have their own bedrooms.

Only he didn’t. He lied. Charlie Hamilton manipulated my daughters into believing, into trusting, that they were leaving behind what he considered a life of mediocrity and exchanging it for one of magnificence. What little girl wouldn’t want all he promised? Only he failed to deliver. He failed to make good on his word. He lied.

I feel like I failed them by allowing them to make a life changing decision without the intellect to fully comprehend what they were doing, or rather, what was being done to them, by a man who claims to love them and only want what’s best for them.

I feel like I failed them by allowing them to express their desires. I feel like I failed them by listening to their voices. It’s my fault. I encouraged them from the time they were old enough to talk - to speak out and speak up and be honest. There was never any fear of repercussions or punishment if they did so respectfully…and honestly. I encouraged my daughters to be assertive. I told them they had the power within to go after anything they wanted – always. I taught them to be self-sufficient. And, I failed them.

Charlie Hamilton, my ex-husband, and I have been volleying the summer schedule back and forth for days. Days!

Technically, the girls are supposed to be home, with me, in Ohio, one week after school is out until one week before school resumes.

Technically, the girls are supposed to be home, with me, in Ohio, during half of their spring break, Thanksgiving break and Christmas vacation.

Technicalities don’t seem to matter when you live in two entirely different states, and I’m not just referring to geographical locales.

It’s not the first time Charlie Hamilton has lacked integrity. I divorced him for a reason.

Charles Fredrick Hamilton has mastered the art of embellishment. He is nothing more than a highly skilled manipulator who plays anyone and everyone in his path like puppets on a string. And he doesn’t care who he hurts in the process.

When Charlie left in the U-Haul with my girls and all their belongings that he retrieved from MY house June 13, 2008, it was with the understanding they were to be returned to me in Ohio the following Saturday, June 21. Only they weren’t. He lied.

On June 21, 2008 at 8:50 a.m., I received a phone call from Charlie stating the girls weren’t able to return to Ohio until the following week. That wasn’t our agreement when he left. But, I rolled with it.

On June 27, 2008 at 6:02 p.m. Charlie called to inform me that if I wanted to see my girls the next day I would have to meet him half way. That wasn’t our agreement when he left, either. He had previously agreed to provide transportation. But, I rolled with that as well and drove two-and-a-half hours to meet him in Angola, Indiana for the exchange.

My time with Kara and Carley was cut short when Charlie called me on July 16, 2008 and informed me he was on vacation the following week and wanted to take the girls to Florida. Assuring me he would have them back July 26, as we had a family reunion to attend on Sunday, July 27th, I quickly helped them pack up and met him in Angola the next morning. Only he didn’t take the girls to Florida. He lied. Again.

Jim and I drove to Angola on Saturday, July 26 for the exchange per the arrangement with Charlie. We waited. And waited. I called Charlie’s cell phone nearly twenty times. I left message after message. He never showed up with my girls. With frustration and tears, Jim and I left Angola after waiting over an hour and headed back to Ohio, and all the while I was still attempting to make contact with Charlie. No answer. No return phone call. No explanation.

I finally broke down and called his mother. And, guess what? My kids were there and she knew nothing about any agreement…and then immediately proceeded to put Charlie on the phone. He was hiding out at his mother’s house in Michigan with my kids. He hung up on me, but not before telling me he wasn’t meeting me to exchange the girls because he was “done with all the chaotic summer exchanges.”

Kara and Carley weren’t allowed to come home Labor Day weekend either. Instead, Charlie said, they could come home the weekend of September 19. But, September 19 came and went without my seeing them because, Charlie said, Dyer was flooded and he couldn’t make it to the toll road. Maybe next weekend, he said. I tried unsuccessfully all week to get in touch with him to solidify the exchange for the weekend of September 26. Cowardly, he refused to answer his phone.

Finally, the weekend of October 10, 2008 I was allowed to see my girls. We met in Angola at 8:30 p.m., and returned to Ohio around 1:00 a.m. We were all up early the next morning to prepare for Carley’s 8th birthday party. Charlie insisted I meet him at noon on Sunday because “they had a concert to go to later that afternoon.” I had less than 48 hours with my kids.

That was the last time I saw my girls. I haven’t been able to hug them, to kiss them, to see their smiles or hear them laugh since last October. I haven’t been able to hold their hands, look into their eyes, wipe away a tear, or snuggle and watch a movie and inhale their hair. I miss smelling that fruity concoction they sprayed in their hair.

Do you know how I spent last Christmas with them? On the telephone Christmas Eve for ten minutes while they ripped through their gifts and gave a half-hearted thank you because they were being rushed off the phone to get ready for Charlie’s gathering.

So, you can imagine the exhilaration I felt anticipating their homecoming this Saturday.

Only Saturday isn’t going to work out after all because Charlie put Carley in softball and she has one more week. Funny that wasn’t mentioned in any previous conversations.

Fine. “Let’s do it next weekend then,” I said.

“That should be fine. I’ll double check the schedule and get back with you.” He responded.

But when he finally progressed to calling me back to configure times and such, another monkey wrench was thrown in for good measure. Just to stick the knife in a little deeper and alienate me a little more. “Well,” he says in his infamous cocky tone of voice “I’m going to be taking the girls to Wisconsin Dells around the middle of July!”

“Uh, excuse me? Are you fucking kidding me? You’re not seriously going to pull this bullshit again this summer. I’ve had enough!” I yelled into the phone while trying to feed Corbin dinner.

I could feel a hard knot forming in my throat as tears started rolling down my face. And in that instant I felt like he took a needle and punctured my lungs and all the air was escaping me. I shook my head in disbelief and through my cries screamed and cursed him up one side and down the other, composing myself long enough to inform the son-of-a-bitch that I will be taking this issue back to family court.

His response was a plain, “Do what you have to do, Carrie. You either see them on my schedule or not at all!”

First thing this morning I acquired the paperwork I need to file a petition for contempt of court and modification of our current arrangement. I also started composing a letter to the judge in charge of our case outlining every single instance in which I have been alienated from my girls including dates and times.

I’m not going to hold my breath, though. I highly doubt Huron County will expedite my petition to ensure visitation before summers end.

I believe Charlie’s arrogance is due, in part, to the fact that no one seems to know who is responsible for enforcing visitation since we live in different states. He’s fairly confident in the fact that the State of Ohio will not show up at his door in Dyer, IN to make him give me my kids. Nor will the State of Indiana get involved in a case not derived there.

Charlie Hamilton’s careless disregard for a court order is evidenced in the manner by which he blatantly refuses to ensure his children’s best interest a priority by his continual denial to encourage the girls’ relationship with me, their mother. And because he does not have them illegally, he cannot be arrested. However, he is in strict violation of a court order in which my kids and I have a right to see one another on a regular basis and without his constant obstruction.

Parental alienation is one of the worst forms of child abuse as it not only robs my kids from loving and nurturing interactions with me, but it also deprives them from thinking and acting on their own behalf. What I once encouraged in them is now considered disrespectful and they are punished for expressing their desires freely. They aren’t even allowed to go in a separate room to have a phone conversation with me.

My goal now is discovering who is going to enforce visitation. I will make as much noise as I have to in order to secure my place in the lives of my girls. I trusted him to do right by them and he has failed them time and time again.

I refuse to sit back and settle for what little time he dishes out at his leisure. My kids do not deserve to be demoralized. Period.

Wordless on Wednesday: My Girls

Above: Kara (right) and Carley in 2003

Kara (left) and Carley in 2008

I'm Down with O.C.D.

I have a staggering case of OCD.

I’m serious.

I have a severe need for order. I’ve been this way since I had my very first apartment. Everything has its own place in my house, and although my home may appear to be unorganized to you, at times, I know where everything is and I can tell when someone has moved something out of its place.

I don’t like things being out of place.

I have a severe need for order.

Like plates and bowls have a special place on the bottom rack of the dishwasher and glasses and cups have a reservation on the top rack. And the basket has dividers for a reason. Forks are not supposed to dwell with the knives, and the spoons should not hang out with the forks. Knives should be placed point-up, in the cubby closest to the back. That way they clean better, the tip doesn't get bent, and I won’t cut my wrist when reaching in for a fork. I don't know why no one else pays attention to these things.

In no other realm does the anxiety become more evident than when all the kids are about to come home, or are home. The kids vary in age so much so that all routine and order ceases to exist.

Let me explain...

My eighteen-year-old son has been home since last Wednesday. And he brought his sixteen-year-old girlfriend to meet us for the first time.

Yeah, the anxiety has kicked in to overdrive.

Intense distress is probably more accurate.

Simply put, these two teenagers are nocturnal. They stay up till the wee hours of the morning watching scary movies and playing on the computer when the rest of the household is asleep, or at least attempting to sleep. While they are awake, they get hungry. They want to eat. And eat. And eat. All. Night. Long. I’m up and down constantly because I’m afraid they will set fire to my house.

They then decide to go outside and smoke cigarettes at three in the morning. Yeah, a nice little added bonus for me. Surprise! I smoke now cuz I’m cool like that… ugh! I’m up and down constantly - checking and rechecking the doors to make sure they’re locked.

And then, when they wake up at one o’clock in the afternoon, just as I’m getting ready to put Corbin down for his afternoon nap, they want to eat. Again. And shower. We have one bathroom. ONE. And it’s upstairs. Directly across the hall from Corbin’s bedroom. Shower? Ain’t happening until Corbin wakes up. Sorry!

I also find myself constantly rearranging moved items and putting them back in their original place because somebody wanted to eat spaghettios in the middle of the night and then changed their mind and the can of spaghettios wound up being housed with the soups. So not cool!

In addition, I’m washing and cleaning every dish and surface like a nutcase because no one else seems to know how to load the damn dishwasher. Or clean up a mess.

And, last night, I was up every hour on the hour, because after the two of them consumed a six-pack of twenty-four-ounce bottles of Pepsi, they needed to pee every thirty minutes. UNTIL FOUR-THIRTY A.M.

Did I mention we have ONE bathroom? Yeah, and it’s upstairs next to my bedroom.

I have a severe need for order.

Ribbed For Your Pleasure

This is what happens when mommy is hustling to retrieve baby Goldfish from the carpet, which took approximately thirty seconds.

Prior to this, Corbin was munching on his snack at his little table during his Chinese lesson with Ni Hao, Kai-Lan, and then decided he’d rather have a Spanish lesson with Dora. He got mad and hurled the bowl when I couldn’t find Dora.

Now don't get your granny panties in a twist and start calling CPS on us. Jim's Camo (ick!) was unopened when Corbin ran to the refrigerator to quench his thirst.

Ha! At least he comes by it honestly.

Not Lady Madonna

“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.” Ralph Waldo Emerson

I’m not a well-behaved woman. Just in case the name didn’t provide you that clue.

My husband was posed the question, “she talks about her kids like she has them or something…” after my blog was discovered, referencing my girls and the fact they no longer reside with me, or maybe it was meant as a statement, I don’t know, and frankly, I don’t care.

I will not be stifled, suffocated, or verbally restrained; monitor me at your own emotional peril, because I refuse to hang my head in shame. I have no problem whatsoever airing my dirty laundry…do you?

I’m a nonconformist. I always have been. I’m at a place in life where I’m comfortable and confident enough to express my viewpoint and articulate my experiences publicly. I’m a complex woman, for sure, but I prefer to consider it being well rounded (and I’m not referring to my muffin top) and open-minded.

Other people have their own definitions, which is fine. I don’t need validation from self-righteous hypocrites who have more than enough on their own plates to worry about.

I’m the one who pushes the envelope, goes against the grain, breaks the rules, and lives life on my own terms…and it pisses people off.

Yeah, I’m good at that, apparently.

And you know what? I. Don’t. Care. At least I own it. I make no apologies for being me. I don’t have any problem whatsoever discussing struggles I’ve gone through in my life and putting my vulnerabilities out there. It’s liberating to be exposed and I embrace it fully, because it sure beats the hell out of the alternative. Being dull. Ordinary. Fake. Or worse yet, living a lie.

When we live in a society where women have the right to choose between abortion, adoption, or birthing a baby and parenting a child herself; or single women can get pregnant with six babies through IVF; then there is something fundamentally wrong in our society when women choose alternative parenting methods such as assuming the role of non-residential parent instead of primary caregiver, and are then hounded by lynch mobs and labeled as unfit, emotionally unstable, reckless, selfish, etc.

The judgment is outrageous. Especially when you have people pointing the finger at you that you know have absolutely no case whatsoever to act all sanctimonious and point fingers in the first place. But point they do, justifying in their own minds why choices YOU make are so wrong when it doesn’t directly influence their life one way or the other.

It reminds me of a bunch of drug addicts sitting around in a group session justifying their own bad behavior as if one isn’t just as bad as the other. You have the pothead saying to the coke whore, “well, I just smoked a little weed. It’s not like I was snorting coke.” And the coke whore justifies to the crack head, “oh, well, I just snorted a little coke. I wasn’t smoking the shit!” And the crack head justifies himself to the heroine addict, “yeah, okay…so I smoked crack, but at least I didn’t shoot up!”

It’s ludicrous!

We all have our own issues and carry mass amounts of personal baggage before we ever become parents.

So, are you parenting for yourself and your kids, or for other people?

I have embraced who I am – idiosyncrasies and all, because the only people who benefit from my parenting, the only people it really matter to are MY KIDS, and in their minds, I’m already mother-of-the-year whether I deserve it in your eyes – or not!

Disclaimer

Please take note that Maneuvering Motherhood deals with adult themes, and may contain explicit materials some may find objectionable. Text may be too intense for some viewers, and therefore you should not read unless you are over the age of eighteen (18), possess the mental capacity to comprehend said materials contained herein, and have a sense of humor.

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Exposed

I started this blog in 2007 (under a different name) as a place to share about myself and my interests, and, of course my life with kids. I shared many photos and stories: like when Corbin turned four months old and started gobbling up green beans, or when Kara decided to curl her hair for the first time by herself and scorched her forehead with the curling iron, or how sweet and laid back Carley usually was until one day Kara had badgered her so badly that she lost it and told Kara off with such conviction that I was literally speechless, yet so proud of her for standing up for herself.

But then life became chaotic at the beginning of last summer, and I stopped posting. Because life as I knew it had changed. And I was having an incredibly difficult time adjusting.

I will never forget the day.

It was a sunny Friday morning when the U-Haul backed up in my driveway just after breakfast on June 13, 2008. The Ex (Charles Fredrick Hamilton) came inside and collected the girls’ beds, dressers, clothes, toys, photo albums, boots, shoes, coats, Christmas stockings, bedding, bikes, and all the girly stuff, like the curling iron Kara used when she burnt her forehead.

Their whole lives in boxes and bags were being transported five hours away. To Dyer, Indiana. In a U-Haul.

And I wasn’t going with them.

Months prior to that dreadful day, the girls had mentioned Charlie's (Charlie Hamilton) impending move to Dyer, Indiana, and although he didn’t confirm this to me until months later, I shrugged it off as another attempt on his part to stir the pot.

Until the day I no longer could.

The girls informed me they wanted to move with Charlie to Dyer, Indiana and live in a big house with a big pool where they would each have their own bedroom and unlimited shopping trips to Limited Too, which is, of course, what he had told them would happen should they decide to live with him.

I wouldn’t hear of it at first. I wouldn’t even discuss it. There was no way in hell I was going to allow my kids to live two states away from me. And I was in such disbelief that Charlie would even consider such an asinine idea. I initially screamed and yelled at him for even putting those crazy thoughts in the girls’ head. I cursed him and told him, “over my dead body!” and he was all up in my face screaming back, “Yeah, well, that can be arranged!” But, after several highly emotional confrontations, we finally sat down with the girls and discussed it like mature adults, and agreed to let them make their own choice, because that’s the way we normally co-parented, which wasn’t without conflict, but it worked better for us when we allowed the girls the freedom to go back and forth at will.

Carley wanted to stay with us, in Ohio. Kara wouldn’t budge. True to form (and just like her dad in that regard) she was unyielding. She wanted to move to Indiana. And it wasn’t so much to be with her dad, as I believe it was all the goodies she was promised should she go.

Carley approached me and asked my opinion. I held her tight and told her I wanted them both to stay with me, but that it was their decision to make. She questioned whether I would still love her if she decided to go.

Breakdown ensued.

A couple weeks later they helped me clean out their shared bedroom, packing everything into boxes and 39-gallon Hefty bags. We separated all their belongings to make for easier unpacking once they arrived at their new home in their very own, highly anticipated, separate bedrooms.

I tried to be strong for the girls, but my heart was breaking as we cleared out their room. I questioned myself over and over again as to whether I was doing the right thing in allowing these two young girls the freedom to make such a life altering decision. I teetered back and forth between trying to remain strong and sinking into a state of indescribable paralyzing fear. In the end, I felt that if I held them back they would grow to resent me for it. But I also felt that if it didn’t work out the way they envisioned, they would resent me for letting them make the decision in the first place. I was caught in a catch twenty-two.

As that U-Haul pulled out of the driveway with my girls waving goodbye, I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. I was emotionally shattered, utterly devastated, and I couldn’t move. I just stood there, frozen, at the end of the driveway, for what felt like an eternity, until the U-Haul disappeared.

I was in a daze when I finally retreated to my bedroom, where I stayed all weekend, crying so much my eyes were almost swollen shut. I completely shut down.

But I couldn’t wallow in self-pity or guilt, nor could I spend time thinking about the coulda-shoulda-wouldas, because I still had a baby who needed me to be present for him, as Jim so lovingly pointed out during my emotional breakdown.

Their bedroom, which had housed tears and laughter and sleepovers and pillow talk, was now vacant and I couldn’t bear to walk past it because every time I did my heart just sank and I felt as though I couldn’t breathe.

It’s been almost a year since they moved to Dyer, Indiana (and no, Charlie didn't get the big house with the big pool, nor did they get their own bedrooms) and without the resources to permanently bridge the distance between us, I have to rely on phone conversations and letters and cards to fulfill the many limitations that come with parenting from afar, until I can change it. I can’t physically be there for them on a daily basis, and that is the most difficult for all of us. Sure, we get to see each other a few times a year, and they are scheduled to come home in two weeks for the summer, but that can’t, and doesn’t, take the place of our previous daily interactions of sharing an after school snack while doing homework at the dining room table or my sitting on the floor next to the bathtub chatting them up as they washed their hair or them helping me prepare dinner by chopping veggies with a butter knife.

But how much I love my girls doesn’t seem to matter to people who are quick to point fingers, pass judgment, and make rude comments and outrageous assumptions.

Let me be perfectly clear: I never abused my kids, I never neglected my kids, I did not desert my kids, nor were my kids forcibly removed from me kicking and screaming – yet, the stigma remains. I am labeled. I am shoved into a category because it makes people feel uncomfortable about something they cannot possibly comprehend.

When I decided to start writing again over the winter I gave my blog a new look and a new name.

Maneuvering Motherhood was conceived, and is quite fitting, for me, because I was not handed the one-size-fits-all instruction manual which explains in depth how to handle these excruciatingly painful periods during motherhood when I’ve had to make important decisions with and for my children. It’s not always fun. It’s fucking hard! And part of being a mother has been, and is, examining my own motives and selfishness when it’s time to make those gut-wrenching decisions.

Maneuvering Motherhood is about riding the tide when it’s high and taking cover when necessary, it’s learning to bob and weave when times get tough, it’s holding on tight and knowing when to let go, it’s talking and learning how to listen, it’s learning to go with the flow and roll with the punches, it’s changing the course when required and every other fucked up cliché that seems so very fitting.

Maneuvering Motherhood is…

…the story of MY life.

Bringin' Sexy Back

Ask any woman who’s ever gone through a divorce and she will tell you it was absolutely devastating. Even if the idea to split was hers. It’s especially difficult when you’ve had a cheating spouse and you know that the woman he’s cheated with was not all that physically attractive.

It can be a lingering sting to our self-esteem.

But after the cycle of anger and fear, and feelings of betrayal pass, and after we’ve cut his man parts clean off with a butcher knife and thrown them into her mailbox, a woman starts working toward building a new life. On her own terms. And one of the first things we generally do is rediscover who we are as women.

We may start by doing little things that make us happy that have been put on the back burner during the marriage, like going back to school or rearranging the furniture or reconnecting with friends over wine after work.

We also find ways to increase our self-confidence as we go out into the world and mingle with other single folks.

Sometimes it’s only a matter of making a few minor changes: a new haircut, style, or color, perhaps purchasing the latest trendy make-up. Other times this requires a complete overhaul: clothes, manicures, pedicures, or investing in our physical appearance by tanning, teeth whitening, exercising, waxing, and if we can afford it maybe even some new boobies or Botox.

It’s bye-bye granny panties and baggy sweatpants and faded old tees and worn out pajama bottoms and beat up sneakers, and hello sexy new wardrobe of thongs and matching bras, tailored trousers, short skirts, sexy, fitted tops, bikinis (if we’re lucky), stilettos, and a new signature scent.

Take Kate Gosselin.

She has been working on her transformation for quite some time, but just in the past six months her personal style has changed dramatically – and now she’s rockin’ that bikini-clad body like a pro, which, by the way, looks fabulous and better than before kids, and I can’t help but think - Girl. Is. On. The. Prowl.

I know how Stella got her groove back.

How did you get yours?

Get Over Yourself

A phrase little pussies use when they can't win an argument with a real counterpoint.

A Whole Lotta WTF?!

You can thank my husband for this post. And his friends. They all have a warped sense of humor and thought this would be interesting viewing for my readers.