No seasons need apply

There is somewhat of a seasonal disadvantage to living in the south.

While our northern counterparts are spending their Spring vacuum-packing their parka's and hosing vacation 2007 off of their flip-flops, we spend our 'springs' counting down the days to insufferable heat.

But isn't that what people up north look forward to the most?

They want to feel the heat, the burn, the sticky overwhelming wave of fire that descends over the throng of Florida beach goers. They enjoy it, it is such a contrast to their pea-coat existence that they stand atop seaside dunes with outstretched arms bathing in the ultra-violet rays.

It's that crazy logic that cocks my head to the side when I am strolling the beaches mid-January in my lightweight jacket and jeans and trip over a sunbather from norther Massachusetts. It can be 62 degrees outside and there she is in her bikined glory, remarking on our beautiful weather while sizing up the earmuffs on my head.

I do think we have beautiful weather. However, we are not always thrilled with our balmy atmosphere and dare I say, most of us even dread the summer months and their mid-afternoons.

Which is the reason we are at such a disadvantage. What to look forward to if not a reprieve from tedious Winter chill?!




Perhaps there is something to look forward to after all.





Sometimes I forget how much fun summer can be.

Brief.

Yesterday was a teachers job fair at my local high school.

I went.
I participated.
I am about 75% sure I sucked at the interview.
Sarcasm is not interview appropriate.
Why did I not realize this.
Mouth always two steps ahead of my brain.

Difficult times call for insane levels of over-compensating

Brae has had a rough year.

Okay. So. I've had a rough year. Working through the wreckage of a divorce and trying to navigate a path through single parenthood-land has not been fun.

My parents have had a rough year. Accommodating your adult daughter and her toddler son during the years in which you should be swimming in the boredom caused by an empty nest has not been fun.

But, Brae? He has had the worst of it all.

It's like 'losing-a-father-to-his-less-desirable-than-a-disease-infested-streetwalker-girlfriend bad.'*
Or, 'having-to-cope-with-an-emotional-basketcase-of-a-mom-who-can't-be-bothered-to-get-up-and-blow-her-nose-uses-her-shirt-sleeve-as-a-tissue' bad.
Or, 'abandoning-all-that-he-knows-and-has-been-taught-for-the-last-four-years-of-his-life' bad.

So. I've over-compensated. Or so it seems.

Brae has been granted some leniency since the split.
I attributed his anger and frustration to the vacancy in his life that was opened when his father split, so I made excuses for him. I tried to allocate all of the blame for his behavior to myself and his father and pamper his emotions with soft words of encouragement and gentle reassurances.

Sometimes he hit, kicked, screamed.
Sometimes he got wild with uncontrollable emotion.

Sometimes became all the time before I realized it.

NOW we are having trouble in school. He is hitting his friends, screaming when he gets mad and last week an unlucky teacher received a kick in the shin.

We are working on the level of his anger. He gets frustrated and acts out with aggression. It's not something I can reason away anymore. It's effecting other children. It's effecting teachers. I know, it's effecting him. He needs the structure, the discipline, the punishment. He needs an outlet for his anger and to learn that things wont always go the way you want, people wont respond in ways you want them to and that's okay.

We count now, '1, 2, 3, 4, 5' and breathe. We lose our monster trucks when we act out aggressively and we get a sad little face on our 'choice chart'. We have immediate time outs, because there is no warnings when you hurt someone. And we cry. A LOT. Because it's been a difficult year. And we are just realizing, that life isn't fair.

A tough lesson at any age.



* I am exaggerating here. Of course his girlfriend is not THAT un-desirable. To him. Or else he wouldn't date her. I, however, will call her whatever I want. Like a toddler. Because I can. Nana, nana. Boo. Boo.

D-Day.

Yesterday I sat down posed and ready to regale you with tales of the lingerie party I attended last weekend. I typed sentence over sentence and paused to examine the blank page before me. I was stumped. Not because I had nothing to say: booby tassels, crotchless panties, mechanical bull riding and penis straws do make for good entertainment; but because I was lost in another thought.

My divorce is today.

If all goes according to plan, I will be legally single again in less than 5 hours.

I have butterflies the size and weight of watermelons in my stomach. My adrenaline has been pulsating through my body since 4:44 am, when I woke up from a sound sleep with one thought in my head: today is the end of the end.

I don't know how to describe my emotions at this point. I feel vulnerable and depressed, but also positive and committed at the same time. I feel compelled to beat the ever-loving shit out of him outside the court room for all the pain he has caused his son, yet I know that the truth is- I will never be able to hate him for what has transpired in the past year.

It's a day of contradictions, so it seems. Today will we stand in court a broken couple and receive our blessing to travel alone, two people who wanted to make it work- but failed to prioritize the other in their life.

I don't know my opinion on marriage anymore. It will probably change in the next few years, so I try not to let my negative feelings contaminate me. I am trying very hard to change the way I regard my surroundings and not let myself be swept away in this bitter sea I have created around me.

I may not be ready for tomorrow, or prepared for my future. But I am ready for today.

And I think that is all that matters.

No tears here.

Well, we made it through our first [not really having a] Father's Day.

I was worried. I mean, how could I not be?
Father's Day. There you have it- an entire day dedicated to someone whose presence is no longer in your life. I didn't know what to expect.

Would he ask for his father?
Would he make him something in school to take to him?
Would he feel left out in conversations amongst his tiny friends?

So I fretted. Because if there is something I am excellent at, It's fretting. I could worry your face off, and then obsess over that. Then obsess that I was obsessing. And fret over that obsession that I may be obsessing too much. I know you understand.

WELL. I shouldn't have worried.
Because my son is a bold 35 lbs. of solidarity and transitioned through the hallmark holiday without so much a discontented peep, the slight angel.

In fact, I was shocked on Friday when he brought home his 'Father's day' gift that he had made in school. Because you see, I had debated on whether to inform his new summer teacher of the divorce and his father's absence. I had wanted to suggest that perhaps she go extra-easy on him this week and allow him to create a gift for his 'Pappy' rather than his father.
But then I fretted.
Because I didn't want him to feel different than any of his friends or be embarrassed that he was making a gift for someone other than his father. So I let it slide, convincing myself that Brae could handle this.

When I saw what he had made, I smiled. It was a story, 'All about my ________', and where the word 'Dad' should have been, it was replaced with 'Pappy'. He made the decision. He chose to make a gift for the most important man in his life, his grandfather.

My son has it together, does he not? Its amazing what a toddler can pick up on and re-adjust to accommodate.

Education of the devious parent.

Florida likes to educate me, indeed.

I was her student in public school.
She sent me to college on scholarships.
Pays for me to attend seminars to become a better manager.
and now is educating me on the best way to parent the child of a divorced couple.

FOUR HOURS of education in a state mandated class.
Led by an instructor who had burgundy colored dyke-spikes and leered at me from behind her wooden podium while she proclaimed her distaste in abusive behavior, including, but not limited to- the evils of Co-Sleeping.

'Co-sleeping is devastating to a child! DEV-A-STA-TING. Am I clear?'

'Co-sleeping is as bad as incest. It is an EMOTIONAL INCEST'

'Co-sleeping with your child is setting them up for failure in future relationships.'

'Co-sleeping will cause your children to get kicked out of kindergarten for snorting lines of pixie-stick dust on their Kindermat during nap time! Co-sleeping will turn your children into thugs, as they join a notorious gang and snatch kittens in their sleep! Co-sleeping is conditioning your children to become serial killers! Bundy, Manson, Gacy- ALL CO-SLEEPEEEEEEEEERRRRS!'

Ok, so that last part may have been an embellishment. But I will have you know, the first three statements- verbatim. Words that spewed forth from her lips that were met with horrible reception at my ears. The purple dye had seeped into her brain.

I CO-SLEEP, whatchagonnadoboutit?

I haven't always allowed my son to sleep with me. In fact, before his father and I separated, he never slept with me- or us. He was just a good sleeper. Slept well in his crib. Slept well in his toddler bed. Even slept well in a room that was across the house from us.

And then...... we moved out of the house that we shared with his father. We moved into a house that was already occupied- my parents house. We begrudgingly re-located all of our furniture, our toys, books and knick-knacks into a room that we shared. My bed was there, so was his. But as time passed and he began to realize that we weren't going 'home', that THIS was our new home, the comfort that had allowed him to sleep in his own bed, shattered.

He wanted to sleep with me in the middle of the night.
He would crawl from his bed, up into mine and bury himself under my duvet. Then he wanted to fall asleep in my bed. Then he wanted it to be 'our' bed. And I allowed it.

He needed that extra dose of security. He needs to feel like he is protected. I need him to feel safe as well.

I digress, I know that there are rotten people out there- who make such broad statements without any regard to the situation. At the risk of sounding cliche- she really doesn't know me. Or Brae. Or what we are going through. No two divorces are the same. Not all parents chose to parent their children. Not all children chose to love their parents.

The class was an incredible waste of time and my emotions. I forfeited an entire day with my son as I went straight from work to the class and returned home after he was asleep. I had to endure the class with my soon to be ex-husband and while I was angry upset furious at him, I was secretly pleased with some of the information that was being hurled his way. We sat silent for four hours and I left him on the side-walk outside of the school it was being held. He wanted to make idle chit-chat, I just wanted to move on. So I did. He climbed into his girlfriends car that was outside waiting for him and moved on as well.
Then it hit me.

It's almost over.
I cried.
Its been a helluva year.

Last nights bathtub conversation.

'GRRRRR I am a MONSTER and I EAT defiant children who wont take a bath!'

'Oh mamma, you're so silly'

'NO, I am far from silly. I am a CRAZY monster and if you don't get in the bathtub, I WILL EAT YOU.'

'Noooooo. You wont eat me. You don't eat babies'

'Oh yes I do. I am a VERY HUNGRY monster that eats babies.'

'Nu-uh, you don't eat babies, momma. YOU eat daddies'



Damn it, I knew there had to be cause for his absence. Apparently, I forgot how hungry I was last year!

Spot the difference.

Why there isn't much of one is there?

Both sloppy half-assed hair cuts most likely performed by a blind mole or cross-eyed buffoon.

Only, in the first picture I was the buffoon! Me, that was MY doing. Someone who had never attended any hair school or the like, who manically waved the pair of moustache scissors in her hand and warned her son that the result would not be pretty, but effective in keeping the stray hairs from his eyes.

Someone who was prepared to witness the follicle carnage and admitted that it was going to be nasty, yet it was free and temporary until she could get her son into the chair of a professional.

Someone who overestimated the skills possessed by the 'stylists' at Supercuts.

It's Supercuts, I KNOW. End bitching now.

But good lord, could we just explore how difficult it is to TRIM the hair of a 3 year old who sits completely still in his seat for fear of the scissors slicing his forehead? Who doesn't move an inch unless instructed? Who is every child hairdresser's wet dream?!

It's not hard. Not at all. And if I said I didn't die a little inside when that first swipe hit his forehead and immediately transformed my little boy into a chipped-tooth over exaggerating dumb ass, I would be lying to you. And I don't want to lie to you.

She must have had an invisible filter cupped over her ear, because when I said, 'I really want to keep it at that length, he just needs it to be even'- she heard, 'what I would really like, is my son's hair to be shaped like a penis, think you could handle that?'

And handle it she did. Obviously, look at that dick head. Grr.

Violet

My great-grandmother passed away two weeks ago.
Today would have been her 88th birthday, so I am dedicating this post to her.

It isn't as though I have been waiting for this day to write about her death as a remembrance or any tribute to her life. Honestly, until now I had no words for this. I had to take time to heal, to shed my anger and shake off the depression that was weighing me down. So it is time that I let this pass and steady myself once again in the current of life, something I have a difficult time doing.

Violet was a soft person. Her sharp features always seemed contradictory to her delicate nature. She was quite and reserved, yet well spoken and pleasant to have conversation with. Her mind was as sharp as a whip and she could regale company with tales of the great Oklahoma dust bowl and the Depression. She was always clear in her mind.

I used to joke that I was grateful for her genes in my family. She was so thin, she was always thin. Never did I see a picture of her where I didn't want to offer her a hamburger. You would want to believe that she was very health conscious and exercised regularly to maintain her toothpick appearance, but that was not the lifestyle she led. Not even close. A typical breakfast for her was an Oatmeal Cream Pie and a bowl of ice cream. She LOVED sweets. I can remember going to her house before elementary school in the morning. At that time she lived next door to us and I would spend the mornings with her and Inspector Gadget before she would walk me to the bus stop. She had a candy jar that was always stocked and kept in my reach on the kitchen counter. I would eat my breakfast and chase it with a heaping handful of Sixlets.

We would then retire to the kitchen table for a game of Chinese checkers or Domino's. Sometimes I would look through old photo albums or scour the living room shelves inquiring as to the relatives unknown to me.

When I was 10 my family moved away from my great-grandma. We moved into the suburbs, less than 5 minutes down the street. We still saw her often.

While I was living in Washington, she moved into my grandparents house. It was time she was taken care of and she was tired of living in a house by herself. We visited very often. She had a chair in the living room that was only hers. She was always sitting in it and if she wasn't sitting in it, she was at the kitchen table, eating her Oatmeal Cream Pie.

She was my great-grandmother, but I always identified her as 'Grandma', she was as much of a grandmother to me as my other grandmothers were. I loved her and her tissue soft skin. I loved her and her over sized sweaters in the heat. I loved her and the wheelchair she led Brae careen around the living room in. I love her still.

I don't know if she was happy. I can't assume that she was enjoying her life, or if she ever had. I want to believe that she was ready to go when her ticket was punched and she left life with a sense of completion. I choose to believe that she is in a good place where she can sit down for a game of Domino's with her husband, who preceded her in death while I was still a young child. I choose to believe that she is at a place that she has all the Oatmeal Cream Pie's she can eat and has enough to share with her parents and friends who left before her.

She was an amazing woman, she remains an amazing memory in my life.

I'll issue his retraction.

I've tried at times to forgive him.

When my blood is cooled and I am complacent, feet propped on a pillow on the couch and tissues shoved up my nose during a sappy chick flick, I wonder what the hell happened.......

I know all the obvious answers: we were too young, too immature, the pregnancy was unplanned, hell the MARRIAGE was unplanned. I was too controlling, he was too lazy. I was too forward thinking, he reveled in the moment. I wanted a life I could be proud of, he wanted only to exist.

But then there are the subtle reasons why we were good together. He was dedicated to me, to us. I was happiest when I was with him. I sacrificed my family, friends, education - my life, to be with him and I still don't regret that. It was a transition that played a large part in my decision to move on with my life. It was then that I realized the dynamics between us were complicated and static and we were not going to change. I returned to Florida, my home, after living together for 8 months in Washington. I returned home to resume my education and to raise our son with the support of my family and friends. I returned home aware that the ship we had built was rapidly sinking in unsteady waters.

And then there were the separations following our separation. From state to state we fought. Him moving about the country enjoying his life with his military friends. My commiserating self bound with the responsibilities of new motherhood. He fought hard, I wanted to throw in the towel. We separated. Then I would miss the phone calls, the emotional support, the emails sympathizing with the hardships I was facing. We would resume the interaction. I would visit. He would visit. We were far from a conventional marriage, but safe.

And then there was the other woman. And she came and left in her wake a flurry of irreconcilable damage. There are really no sentiments that could express the emotions I had at that time. I was everything and nothing at once. But it forever changed how I looked at him. He was sorry, I was unforgiving. He wanted to work it out, I wanted him to somehow be different. It was a mistake to try and let us move on. However, I did.

He was discharged from the Navy after 4 years of service and returned to Florida. We had a house, a baby and a cat. We struggled financial, we only struggled. I tried to pull it together but there was not much left. I was out of the relationship long before he was committed to making it work.

So I left.

I moved back in with my parents, tried to pick up the pieces of what I had left. Braeden and I were safe. I struggled, we only struggled. He stopped coming by to pick Brae up. He stopped writing the checks to pay for his school. Brae stopped asking about him and I stopped making unrealistic excuses. I cried.

I've cried a lot these past 11 months. I've wept into the shoulders of my friends and bawled as my mother spoke about her day. I've pushed back tears during weddings and engagements. I've even let one or two slip in a sad movie. And now I've stopped crying.

He will continue to make excuses, something he has had years to perfect. The rumors will continue to spread and grow ugly until I am confronted and the truth will issue forth. People can pick a side or remain neutral. Because I've lived it, I continue to live it. I've held a weeping toddler when he wanted to see his father but couldn't, I've fielded the inquiries from a baby's mouth and watch as he rejected the man he believed to be his father. I've watched as his tiny reality was re-shaped and his family reformed into something new.

People will continue to talk and I am okay with that. I am finally growing uninterested with people's opinions of me, or him or us. The truth is- he was never there. He doesn't know. He couldn't know. I have never denied him access to his son and yet he claims this to be true. It's not, It couldn't be farther from the truth. There were times I drove to his work on my lunch break to plead with him to visit, but was slapped with an excuse. So, I stopped trying and apparently he continued with the excuses.

Truth? There is NO custody battle, there was never a custody battle.
I have NOT denied him access to his son, I never have.

Truth? He has not spent a day with his son in over 6 months.
The last time he called his son he was interested only in reconciliation. When he realized that was impossible he stopped calling.
He has no money for child support, yet parties with mutual friends on the weekend.
He has no time for his son, yet is dating the third girl in 11 months and sees her frequently.

The truth is not as pretty as the rumors. I'm sorry, you can jazz it up mentally, but really the truth is an ugly reality.

Yet, the only reality.

All in his time.

My son has always been of the self-educating variety. He learned to walk un-assisted at 13 months, which I know is no great feat. I realize that it is quite average for a baby to walk at that age. However, Braeden did not just walk. He damn near RAN me and my camera over during his first few steps. It was if all those months of cruising around furniture and giving me dirty looks when I tried to coerce him into open space were just preparation for this great moment. His first few steps evolved until my son was transformed into a mobile maniac. He tore through the house with the greatest of ease, earning himself the nickname, 'The Braenado'. He was incredible.

He started speaking in much the same manner as he started to walk. He was a mute. As a baby he refused to even humor me with cute babbles or incoherent mumbling. I tried pleading with him, 'Baby, I know you can say Mama. Now say, mama. Please? Can you try? Try to say, 'Mama'? No? Here let me help you, 'Maaaaaa maaaaaa.' It didn't work. Nothing worked. He didn't WANT to speak. Until one morning I came into his room to find him perched on the side of the crib reciting excerpts from 'Leaves of Grass'. Well, it may have been less extreme. He could have just spoke a full sentence. But, the point is, HE SPOKE and he spoke well.

When it came time to try to potty train he stubbornly re-buffed all of his father and my attempts. We purchased a potty, 'just! for! you!' But he kicked it. We purchased a 'tushie-cushy' for the top of the toilet seat, 'just! for! you!' But he jumped off it the moment his tush felt the cush. We gnashed our parental teeth and pulled our parental hair. What would get this kid to cave in to our attempts? And then an epiphany: treats! Because who doesn't like a little reward every now and then? And you know what? It worked. 'Potty Treats' were all the rage around the house and I bought stickers, books and candy to fill the basket on the back of the toilet. Suddenly my kid was peeing, IN THE POTTY and not just peeing mind you, but doing the other as well (and lets face it, that was the greater of the two evils). He even wore his 'big boy undies' at night and as night after night passed I realized that maybe there would be no accidents. Could that even be possible? It was as if he was laying low and waiting out our attempts at negotiating, prepared to jump on the best offer. And there it was: M&M's and Arthur books.

So rather than attempt at guiding him through these milestones of life, I have resigned myself to sitting bench side and watch as he masters such tasks on his own, in his own time and in his own way. My son is a perfectionist, something that is extremely apparent in his almost 4 year old personality and looking back I can see that he always was. He needs to be really ready for something before he commits to it. Then he takes off with his new found skill and impresses the pants off of all those around him.

The waiting is getting harder and harder. Brae still cannot swim.

I know he is only (almost) four and many children don't master the aquatics until older. However, we live in FLORIDA. And we own a POOL. A pool in which he wants to go in EVERY DAY. And I love taking him in. His love of the water pleases me so. But every attempt I make at showing him, 'hey Brae, try to kick like this' and 'reach your arms like this' is hurled back with a piercing wail as he screams 'I CAN'T DO IT!'
Heaven forbid his head goes under water. Somewhere in his past he must have been tricked into believing that the pressure under the water was so great it would make his head implode on contact.

I have signed him up for swim lessons through his daycare's summer program. I was so reluctant to do so because A) Swim lessons are not cheap my friends and B) This is what I used to DO for heavens sake. I was a swim instructor. Red cross certified and I even still have the books and lesson plans. It feels like such a waste for me to hire someone for skills I most certainly possess.

It's not a sure thing, the swim lessons. I was so conflicted over signing him up for them I ended up signing late and we are on the waiting list now. Which is good in a way, it gives me time to work with him some more and help him get over his underwater fear.

I can only hope that like everything else, this skill will be mastered when he is ready. And his performance will be so amazing, he will match off against the Thorpedo.

Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta

Oh, so this is the luxury afforded by middle management?

Meetings. Oooh the meetings, they don't stop. Throngs of professionals sitting around a conference table mulling over successful procedures and congratulating each other on the new implementation of grand ideas. It's one big corporate circle jerk up in here. And there I sit, fish out of water, fascinated with the piece of lint that has slipped off our vice presidents power suit and is now careening around the room. As you can see, there is much I have to offer.

Questions. Ha! What? Oh, you want me to answer that for you? Oh well, see...erm, I kind of have NO FUCKING CLUE what I am doing. Kindly step aside, I have a meeting to attend.

Salary. Ahhhh! Two minutes 'till lunch is over.....wait. wait for it........ NO MORE TIME CLOCK. Resume mindless meandering on the internets on company time.

Subordinates. Repeat after me, ' I am delegating this task to you. Please don't hesitate to contact me with any questions!' Resume mindless meandering on the internets on company time.

Meetings. Damn it! Again?!

Approvals. 'ooh, your daughters birthday is the day after Christmas? And you want the day off? I feel for you, really I do, only I HAVE to have that day off as well because.....well, it's the day after Christmas and what if I need to dispose of all that wrapping paper? I mean, WHO IS GOING TO TRANSPORT THE BOXES TO THE CURB?! It's a responsibility I just have to take on. I'm sure you're daughter will understand. No, no. Don't cry, I'll be able to handle the boxes. I really appreciate your concern though. Oh, you're weeping. You're so sweet. Here, I'm delegating this to you.'

Calenders. I'm watching you. Yes, YOU. I know your every move.

They love me around here, they really love me.

And its good to be loved.

Pull up a cloud.

Things are really looking up around here.

Remember me telling you about a potential promotion coming my way?

I went through the inter-office application process for that position. I interviewed with our HR department, spoke personally to the supervisor and was elated to be potentially taking on a position with such a drastic salary increase. Immediately, I started planning for my new riches and envisioned the weight of debt lifted from my shoulders. It was a happy time.

But times were changing and positions shifting at my company and suddenly I found myself staring back at the face of our vice president seated in an icy conference room, having been coerced into meeting with her to interview for a different position. A larger position. A supervisory position.

She materialized at my desk one afternoon and asked to speak with me.

'SHIT' I thought, ' I knew I shouldn't have googled 'shemale' yesterday. I just wanted non-nudity picture for a joke.'

But for the grace of God, it was not my extra-curricular google activities that she wished to discuss. It was a request- that I interview with her for a manager's position. The one that was vacated by MY past supervisor.

I was shocked and I am pretty certain my face reflected such. I mean, I was prepared to switch positions, however the one I was planning on switching to was not nearly as..........dramatic a change. I have never supervised anyone, anywhere. Unless of course you want to include my time spent wrangling a child, something I often wish I could include on my resume.

July 18, 2004- current
Child wrangler

Duties include but are not limited to; incubating life, reducing noise pollution, dietary consultation, janitorial work, anger-management instruction, etc.

Because I kick ass at THAT and although I appreciate myself for it, I don't really feel as though potential employers recognize those inherent strengths, which is a shame.

Oh well. Apparently, I don't need this additional affirmation because she did come to me with the interview request. And so I did. I interviewed last week for the position and I came out of the interview with a new found confidence in myself and a swollen ego.

A few days past and I heard nothing. The supervisor of the other position, the one I had originally interviewed for caught wind of my second interview and let me know that if I decided not to take the supervisory position, he would be glad to have me on his team.

This made me safe. Even if I was not offered the supervisory position there was still my original plan, to start working in that department. However, I was more than prepared to take whichever position was to offer the most mullah.

Because that's what people wallowing in their own destitution do.

Yesterday I was extended the invitation to the supervisory position and immediately following that reception my head popped right of my shoulders and floated away.......

It's a big raise, a big position, big authority and a big(ger) desk. I'm hopped up like the mediocre cubicle farmer that I am to be moving up this company ladder and I could not be more grateful for everything.

Oh- and my court date was bumped. To June 18th. There is a chance by noon on the eighteenth, I will officially be single again.

(are you mentally hooting and hollering at that possibility?! Because I am!)

Now, I'm off to go find that head of mine.

He kicks balls.

Sometimes I feel like I need to spend a little more time encouraging my son to participate in more visceral male activities.

Usually this realization will hit at a time at which I am putting on my make-up and Brae is standing beside me braiding my hair, or while we are watching Sex and the City and laughing our asses off while panting our toenails and commiserating on the single life.

But I will look at him and realize that while I may be grooming my son to be the world's most compassionate, understanding and sympathetic man that this world has ever seen I also may be excluding a huge chunk of life from him. A chunk that has been missing for quite some time now. So it is time that I stop whining about the lack of male influence on my son's life and start providing some of that influence myself. I may not know all of the tricks, or things to say. I'm probably going to pick him up and hold him a few minutes longer when he gets that first bloody knee. But I can be good for this because I want to. And I CAN set up that soccer net in the front yard and let him whack the shit out of my calves.

And so I did.
(Disclaimer: my parents are in this video. I am not married to a 60 year old man. My mother is. And he is not really 60, although he make look it. Bad genes on that side of the family.)


Brae kicks balls from casey on Vimeo.