girlfiend

F is currently reading about 6 different books. Some for the 2nd or 3rd time. Today, after exclaiming, “King Arthur!” when I was baking some instantly rejected breakfast cookies, he told me that the Magic Treehouse book Earthquake in the Morning is where he learned about King Arthur from Camelot. I thought for sure he just wasn’t getting it. He has Christmas in Camelot from the same series in his current rotation. I pressed for more details and he told me that Jack and Annie meet him in Morgan’s library. I chalked it up to his technical reading skills being greater than his 5 year old comprehension, especially since these are books he is reading solely by himself. I’m not reading any of them aloud, sticking mostly to the occasional chapter of the Beverly Cleary books he’s devouring. Later I flipped through the prologue of one of the other Magic Treehouse books. Sure enough, Morgan, who is a character in the books, works in Camelot’s library and time travels. In the Earthquake book the characters did meet King Arthur for the first time. As usual, I’m underestimating one of my kids.

T started preschool today. Loved it. It’s at the Jesus-y place up the street. I fear for the religious indoctrination, but they are really nice and he’s already pushing to eat lunch and nap there. He is pretty awesome these days, other than the fact that he is three. I am not a fan of three year olds, but he is nowhere near as bad as F was at the same age.

Miss N is walking, talking, charming, and oddly obsessed with shoes. I don’t know where she gets that. She also insists on sitting on the potty several times a day. She does not actually use the potty, and as she’s not yet 16 months I don’t expect her to, but she seems to want to. Today she said twice while reading and rereading an Elmer book that her favorite color is yellow.

Our basement is flooded, I am kind of itching to go back to work, I cut my hair short again so I’m wearing earrings more often, and F told me my belly is getting a little fat. That’s about all for now.

My comma usage is atrocious these days. I apologize.

Yesterday at the Fun Fest at Journey’s End (no, that’s not really the name, but it’s close), the neighborhood senior center, F wanted to get his face painted. He ended up getting both arms painted instead. A rainbow with matching cloud ends on one arm and a butterfly on the other. Right now he is watching the Care Bears. I’ll reserve judgment for later.

T has been wearing underwear for 3 months now, all of his own volition. I did not suggest the move out of diapers, he insisted upon it. He is awesome at peeing in the toilet and has hardly had any accidents. He’s even been sleeping in underwear for the past several nights and waking up dry. Unfortunately he hasn’t yet made the decision to shit in the toilet. It’s a good thing we use cloth diapers or I’d be throwing out a lot of underwear.

Miss N, is now 1 and it was the most emotional of all of the first birthdays. She is delightful. Sunny, happy, sweet, cuddly, everything you want in a baby. She is still not walking, which is kind of a pain in the ass, but it keeps her firmly planted in the baby stage. I’m not emotionally prepared for a toddler.

My girl cousin, did I have a name for her on this blog? Whatever, girl cousin- damaged, called a few weeks ago to get me back together with my mother. When I last posted I wrote that I was tempted to talk to her about everything, but I feared she’d side with my mother. I was sort of right. She does think I should let my mother back in to our lives and that I’m being cruel by not allowing her to see the kids. But she gets where I’m coming from and understands why I won’t. I don’t really understand her loyalty to my mother since my mother has never had anything but shit to say about her, but I didn’t tell girl cousin that. I passed on a few links to her, figuring that her mother was just as bad, if not worse than my mother. She was enthusiastic about the links, even ordering a book from Amazon. So, there’s that. I don’t know if we’ll talk again. I don’t really see the point. She’s 15 years older than I am, so we’ve never been close.

She thinks I’m doing the kids a disservice by keeping my mother away. I disagree. But at the same time I wonder. Am I?

My cousin called yesterday. He started off by asking about the children, which I knew was complete bullshit, but my in-laws were over and my kids were running around and he barreled right into a discussion about my mother and keeping our small family together and I said I’d call him back. When I called a few hours later I was not in good shape. I’d written down my talking points, but I was so annoyed that he was calling me about letting things go and starting over with my mother that I got completely off topic. I didn’t know what parts of the story he knew and which parts of the story he didn’t. I was flustered. He brought up his sister a few times, my cousin who I once thought didn’t come to family dinners because she was immature. I am tempted to call her, to talk through this, but in the past she has been loyal to my mother, so I probably won’t. I upset when I got off the phone and wrote this email to finish the conversation with him. I don’t think I’ll send it.

It is difficult for me to speak on the phone because my emotions run high and I get off topic. I jump from hurt to hurt and I raise my voice and I realize afterward that I probably sounded like a lunatic. It is not anger. I am not angry with my mother. I take none of this lightly. The decision not to speak to my mother is not a reaction to anything she has done. It is not to punish her or hurt her. I’m staying away to protect myself and my family. She treats me badly. She has treated me badly for years. No matter how low my expectations were she hurt me again and again. For years I tried to keep our relationship in tact because I didn’t want to seem like a grudge holder. I come from a family of excellent grudge holders and that is not what I want to be. But this is not about a grudge. I’m not angry with her. I’m heartbroken.

As for the painting, I need to stress that the money is not an issue for me. I don’t care how much money she got for the painting. I care that she sold it. The painting should have gone to my children, not to me. It shouldn’t have been sold. I don’t care about the money. She didn’t offer it, but if she had I would have refused it. I don’t want any money from her. I want the other sketch, not because of what it’s worth, but because it should eventually go to my children.

I appreciate that you’re not taking sides. But I can’t help but ask, where were you 9 months ago when my baby was born? Where were you in September when your mother turned me away from Rosh Hashanah dinner? Where were you when I was not invited to Thanksgiving? Why is my father, who has been divorced from my mother for more than 15 years invited to your mother’s home when I am not? Why didn’t you respond to my emails?

Again, I apologize if I was rude, flippant, or sarcastic to you. I don’t want to hurt or alienate you. I appreciate that you took the time to call. I hate that our family is estranged. But this family is broken. There was a time when I hoped to keep it together but I can’t keep trying at my own expense and at the expense of my husband and children. I can’t maintain contact with my mother. It is in my own best interest not to.

Remember how just a few days ago I was done with this? I can’t keep this to myself.

Years ago I used to pose for an artist. A talented artist. Looking back, I probably should have received commission, not just an hourly rate, but I was young and didn’t know the difference. The artist gave me a few sketches, one for each of the major paintings I sat for. Because I was close to the family my mother was invited to a friends and family yard sale he had and bought an oil painting of me at a very reasonable rate. I don’t know what she paid for it, but she got a deal. It was a yard sale, not a gallery purchase. She bought a sketch of me at the same time.

A while back, probably even before disaster struck after Miss N’s birth, my mother asked if it was okay for her to give some of his artwork to my aunt. I told her no, do not give away the artwork because my aunt will sell it. She said okay, she wouldn’t.

Yesterday my mother invited us over to celebrate her birthday. Remember, I am not interested in pursuing a relationship with this woman. However, I feel guilty cutting her off. As a goodwill gesture I brought the three kids over. It was the first time I’ve been to her place since she first rented it. I looked around and noted the sketches displayed but not the oil painting. She fed my children cake and gave them crappy gifts. There was an awkward visit with my aunt (the woman who uninvited me to Rosh Hashanah and didn’t even bother to invite me to Thanksgiving. She is a cold, unloving bitch). Then she took us downstairs to see the “consignment boutique” she opened in her building. The boutique is essentially the contents of her shore house, the pieces she didn’t sell. Art, furniture, tchotchkes, and clothes. I looked around. No oil painting. I didn’t want to, but I asked, and yes, she sold it. At auction. Initially I feared she’d just given it to my aunt. But no, she sold the painting through a proper auction house and made a ton of money off of it.

She sold it. She fucking sold it. I asked her why she sold it, reminding her of our previous conversation about giving the artwork to her sister. She said, “I was talking about the sketches.” Well, if I didn’t want her to give away the sketches to her sister, does she really think I’m giving her the green light to sell the oil painting? Further conversation got us to the point where she said, “it was mine to sell.” Of course it was fucking hers to sell, but who the fuck cares? Who does that? What MOTHER sells an oil painting of their child? It was an original piece by a successful artist. Something my children, her grandchildren, might have wanted some day. An heirloom. Something worth keeping in the family. She sold it.

I called my dad to ask for his help in getting my sketches back, the sketches that were clearly given to me, with my name on them. I didn’t want to go over there with the kids and her schedule does not allow me to pick up the sketches when it is convenient for me. I told my father that she SOLD the fucking oil painting and he was as incredulous as my clueless father can be. He told me that he doesn’t understand why she would do such a thing and that I shouldn’t take it personally (!) and that I should just forget about it because thinking about it will just upset me. He makes a valid point, but I think after everything that this is just the big fuck you of a cherry on top of a banana split of bullshit.

(As an aside, my father did not remember any of this conversation later. It’s like it didn’t happen. He has no recollection. None. WTF? Denial or senility?)

She is not good for me. She hurts me. She makes me angry and upset. She doesn’t care about my children, other than the Fiendling and she only likes him because he is amused by her which won’t last forever. She is a narcissist and I think she actually hates me. Why else would she sell the painting? She hates me. And I hate her too. She has been a shitty mother who has lied and cheated and manipulated and twisted and made me feel like I’m the one who has done something wrong. She has fucked me over again and again and again. B, who has always been the one to insist I maintain relationships with my fucked up family, has been done with her since May and I keep getting sucked back into it. I want to be done, I should be done. I should just cut her off. It’s over, right?

I picked up the sketches today. She wasn’t where she said she would be. I called to find out where she was and told her I wanted the third sketch. She said no, she paid for it, it was hers. I offered to buy it from her. She said no, it’s hers and she’s not selling it to me. Then she had the nerve to ask if I still wanted the other two sketches. I snapped, “Of course I want the fucking sketches,” and she brought them down and put them in my car without a word.

I hate her. I do. I hate what she does to me, I hate the way she makes me feel, I hate the way I act when I am near her. She is not good for me. She is not good for my family. I am done. I won’t do this anymore. She can’t be a part of my family any more. This is beyond me feeling guilty about being a grudge holder like them. This is about my health and my sanity. I am heartbroken right now. I need to heal and I can’t have her near us.

I spent so much time writing about F as a baby that I feel guilty about not writing about T and Miss N. But I don’t want to be a mommy blogger. I fucking hate mommy bloggers and their stupid marketing and google ads and blogher ads and bullshit posts soliciting comments. That loser mommy blogger I wrote about a while back actually tells people on facebook to copy and paste their comments on her blog. I hate her even more for that. And to all of those people with public blogs about their kids who say it’s just a record: I call bullshit. You started the blog because you want people to read what you write. If it’s for family and friends it would be password protected for family friends because there are a lot of freaks out there. I used to write a blog because I like writing and I liked the community of online journalers. But online journals became blogs and it now everyone and their grandmother blogs and you can’t be a part of the community unless you’re tweeting what you ate for breakfast and retweeting everything you and the 1789 people you follow write and I think twitter sucks. I was a blogger before I was a mother and now I’ve got nothing to say in this space that doesn’t feel forced or disjointed.

I think I’m done with this for now. Until I have more stories that are mine, not my kids’, I’m going to stop updating the site. I don’t have an angle, i don’t have a theme. I don’t want to post pretty pictures of my kids climbing trees for strangers to admire- that’s what facebook is for. I am not a mommy blogger or a food blogger or a breastfeeding blogger or a design blogger or an advice blogger and I don’t want to be any of those things. I don’t want to be just another fill in the blank blogger. I’ve got this public space and I don’t know how to fill it in a way that feels real. Maybe I’ll write lists. Maybe I’ll write letters or rants. Maybe I’ll write nothing.

I know that you weren’t on the edge of your seats or anything, but the mystery gift from my aunt was a waffle iron. Not just any waffle iron, mind you. A circus theme waffle iron, in a ripped Christmas gift bag. I am guessing by the gift bag that the waffle iron was an extremely generous re-gift. A re-gift that was promptly returned. Thank goodness for Macy’s return labels.

Other than the depressing visit with my mother, the week off was lovely. There were gifts and snow, baked goods, Wii Fit, and copious amounts of alcohol. Getting back into the routine is already proving difficult. Poor F was panicked at the thought of returning to school after days of too much television. I had to push him to school in the double stroller because he was too tired and cold and his belly hurt. I am sluggish and overtired and I’m just now getting to my coffee, hours after waking. I told B I needed to detox after the week of excess and he asked if that meant I needed an enema. No. No, I do not. Perhaps a few whiskey free days of vegetable based meals and a few gym visits will improve my general health and demeanor.

My mother is coming over this afternoon to visit with the children (not me, of course) and to drop off a present from my aunt. My aunt, who does not have it in her to invite me to two holiday dinners in a row, bought me (or the kids?) a gift. My mother and her sister are not kind, thoughtful, or generous in spirit, but they have wallets. There is so much wrong with this. I can’t wait to see what she bought. Is it a gift card? Childrens clothing in all the wrong sizes? A vase? Oh, the anticipation. I am already drafting a thank you card.

I blink and it’s been a month and I haven’t posted anything, which is ridiculous because there are so many stories I want to tell and things I have to complain about.

Let’s start with my super awesome family. My lovely aunt, who has been a guest in my home for Thanksgiving for the last 5 years (scratch that. 4 years. she didn’t come the year she was fighting with my mother) did not invite me to her Thanksgiving dinner. She did invite my father. If my mother wasn’t the one who instructed her to leave us out she should have been the one to tell her to invite us. Outraged, as I’m always outraged when those assholes are involved, I told my father no, he was not going to her dinner he was going to B’s parents’ house with me. I specifically told him that he needed to back me up. I was not invited and he should support me. He was happy to go to Thanksgiving dinner with me but got a phone call that day telling him he was needed at my aunt’s for dessert. Boyfiend told him that the only reason they wanted him there was so he could give my (piece of shit, pussy) cousin and his wife a ride to the train station. My father said, no, he never gives them a ride to the station. Sure enough, he got there and probably didn’t even eat dessert before it was time to get them to the station. What a bunch of assholes.

Then my mother wants to come here to give my kids Hanukkah presents. My kids, because they are part of a package deal that includes me and my husband, are not welcome at her sister’s Thanksgiving dinner but she gets to waltz into my house any time she wants to see them. And then I’m in the position where it’s either yes, please shit all over me, or no, I am forbidding you from seeing your grandchildren. So she came and I hate her the end.

Only it’s not the end, because rather than rent a storage space to accommodate all of her things that can’t fit in her studio apartment now that she’s sold her house at the shore she’s decided to open a consignment shop. Who knows if she got permits, a business license, whatever. I know she got insurance in case of a slip and fall. She said she didn’t need to insure th inventory because people were giving her things they didn’t want anyway. I’m sure this is going to end badly for her. Anyway, she wanted me to bring the kids to the “grand opening” but she didn’t remind me and the day and I forgot about it. Then we get a fucking Kindle in the mail from her,a kindle for all of us,and I called to thank her and she hasn’t called back, probably mad that I missed her big day.

And what am I going to do with a Kindle? I can’t use it for library downloads and I’m way too cheap to buy digital books. Will Kindle ever be compatible with the Philadelphia Library? Is there are workaround? Can I mail it back and get Amazon credit without her knowing? Or do I just mail it back and be done with it? If I even wanted a reader I’d get a Nook because of the library thing. Or an Ipad. I could get behind an Ipad. But now I’ve got a Kindle that I don’t know what to do with and I still hate my mother, and I feel guilty for not making her a photo calendar this year, but not guilty enough to make her one now. She never appreciates our gifts anyway because we don’t have money to purchase her the expensive things she wants. The one year she wanted a $250 pants press so I bought her the fucking pants press and now it’s in my basement because she doesn’t need it. And then the Fiendling planted flowers in a pot he decorated for her for Mother’s Day and she left here twice. With the card unopened. He didn’t know why she didn’t take her present. I should have told him it was because she is a selfish, materialistic narcissist.

Then my dad called and told me that he saw my mother’s store and there is a lot of stuff in it and she wants to go to his place to get some of his things to sell. I said no, over my cold dead body, will I let her rifle through his things so she can sell them in her fucking store. I said under no circumstances is he to allow her to go through his home so she can sell off his stuff. He would probably let her sell the clothes off his back. I hate her.

So that’s that. The rest of my family, my dad, B, the kids, my in-laws, are good and kind and loving and I am grateful for them and lucky. There are good people in this world and people who just suck and I am happy that most of my interactions are with the good ones. It’s just hard when your mother is one of the losers and you want her to be a part of your life but all she knows how to do is buy shit for people.

F goes to our local, neighborhood, public school. The pre-k program is run by the school district, but it is separate from the rest of the school, in that every school doesn’t have a pre-k and admission to the program is not based upon geography, it is based upon date of application and household income. It is a short walk from our house to the school which is your typical, Philadelphia K-8 public school, in an old (late 1800s) building with beautiful gothic arched doorways, marble hallways, and big heavy metal doors with bars over the windows. (Because of the way the district was gerrymandered after a fire many years ago, this school that we can walk to is not actually the school he will attend for K-8. That school is about a mile past the school he attends now.) The school is small. I believe there is only one class for each grade. Test scores are lousy compared to the two other schools in the neighborhood and the parent organization is a little dysfunctional and sparsely attended. But it’s fine at the school. I’ve been at events in the auditorium and the student body seems nice enough. I’ve walked through the school yard at recess and the kids play nicely together. I’m glad we’re lucky enough to live in the boundaries of the other school, but if we did not, I would consider keeping F at this one.

Anyway, to further prove that the Fiendling is only a complete pain in the ass for his loving parents, F was chosen to be the student of the month in his class for October. His teacher had lovely things to say about him. He never has a harsh word for anyone, he reads, spells and adds, he helps others learn how to do things, he is able to adjust his learning style when asked to. The list went on. I was thrilled for him. Unfortunately, as there is always an unfortunately, my proud parent moment was sullied by the wackjob principal at F’s school.This principal is not the school’s actual principal, she is the acting principal. The real principal is very sick. I believe he is currently in hospice care. The acting principal, who I’ll call Megan O’Sullivan, is not the Irish woman one would expect. She is an short, unprofessionally dressed, African American woman who, rumor has it, was relieved of her previous position when it was learned that she was getting her hair done during the school day. Ms. O’Sullivan, did not have the courtesy to return my call, when I called a few weeks ago to ask a question about a school wide motivational program called College Bound. Instead she had her secretary call and tell me I needed to ask someone else. This did not please me.

The Student of the Month Award recipients are invited with their parents to a special breakfast, an event instituted by the real principal. Ms. O’Sullivan sent a letter home inviting us to breakfast at 8.45 in the library. Rather than bring the small children to distract my focus from F, I had my dad come to the house to babysit. We got to the library a little late, around 8.55. A parent sat reading the newspaper. Another parent sat with her child. A third parent sat staring while her child sat at another table reading. No breakfast. No principal. F and I looked at books for a little bit, but at 9.05 I took F to his classroom to ask his teacher if I’d gotten the wrong time or day. She said, “This is embarrassing,” looked at the calendar, confirmed it was the right place and time, and called the office to see what was going on. The office informed her that Ms. O’Sullivan was now in the library, we must have just missed her. So I dragged poor F, who just wanted to stay and play with his classmates, back to the library. Guess what. No principal, No breakfast. The other parents were starting to mutter about how Mr. D, the real principal never kept people waiting, and how they didn’t take off from work to sit and wait, and blah, blah, blah. Morale in the student of the month breakfast was low.

A few minutes later Ms. O’Sullivan made an announcement over the school’s loudspeaker. She changed her mind and decided that instead of honoring the students of the month in the library she wanted going to honor them in the auditorium. She told all teachers to stop what they are doing and bring their classes to the auditorium. She said that she knows it’s a disruption, but it will only take 20 minutes. At this point I was seething. I brought F to the auditorium as the rest of the student body filed in. It is an old, loud, space, and poor F who doesn’t like noise to begin with and just wanted to be with his classmates, was sitting in a ball holding his ears.

After 10 minutes the half- assed, last-minute, “program” started with Ms. O’Sullivan saying, “Good Morning,” waiting for a response, then demanding the response be repeated in unison. Then she said, “The pre-kindergarten is still eating breakfast, so let’s start our program with the kindergarten.” Very loudly I said, “No. He’s right here. Start with the pre-k.” And she did. She read the lovely comments about my F and gave him his certificate, bookmark, and coupon for a free school t-shirt. I quickly ushered him out of the auditorium and back to class.

1.It’s no wonder schools are failing when principals can’t get it together to actually schedule an awards program instead of pulling the entire school out of their classrooms

2, How disrespectful of the parents, students, and teachers in the building. Especially the teachers. I would have been furious to have been called out of my classroom to an impromptu assembly when there was another awards ceremony, the College Bound (I won’t even get into that) for high achieving students the following week. Did I mention that? The “breakfast” was on a Thursday. The College Bound assembly, where F was also receiving an award, was the following Tuesday. Both events were on the calendar. If she wanted to honor the student of the month kids in front of the whole school why couldn’t she wait 3 more school days?

3, I noticed the breakfast coming in to the school as we were heading to the auditorium. Clearly she forgot about the stupid breakfast and tried to make up for it with the assembly. An assembly that disrupted parents, students and teachers.

4. I had a babysitter but other parents were going in to work late for the breakfast. They were taking time off from work for a breakfast honoring their child. A breakfast that did not materialize for 45 minutes after it was scheduled to begin. Parents want to participate, they want to be at school for their child. But how can they when the principal isn’t prepared for a scheduled event? This was the second school event that she screwed up. The first was October’s College Bound assembly where she started the assembly by saying she wouldn’t be able to give out all of the awards because she scheduled something else for the same time. She scheduled something else for the same time as the College Bound assembly, a program that is supposed to motivate students to achieve. She told the students that their success wasn’t as important as the other thing she scheduled, which, as rumor has it, may have been a hair appointment.

5. I was all set to have F go to our public school as planned. (not this one) But now I’m scrambling to fill out private school applications and schedule private school visits and testing etc. because I’m so disappointed by his public education so far.